  Yesterday I went to visit the maritime museum in Lelystad, Holland. The main reason for my venturing into the polder was the museum's replica of a Dutch Indiaman from 1628, the Batavia, which sunk near the Australian coast on its maiden voyage.
There are several replicas of ships from the Age of Sail around the world, but the great thing about the Batavia is that she was built exactly the way she had been originally, using only those techniques that were available to ship builders in the 17th century. It seemed to me that this ship was as authentic as they come, and I had to see her. The Batavia lies in what used to be a sea, the Zuiderzee or Southern Sea, but what is nowadays a large lake, created by the placement of a huge dam at its entrance to the North Sea about half a century ago. Where there used to be huge waves on stormy days, you now find a calm water, mirror-like in its placidity, with only the merest of ripples disturbing its surface in the breeze.
The ship was all I had hoped it would be. She was beautiful and looked exactly like her ancestor had almost four centuries before, but for the small electric lamps placed strategically in dark spots such as the lower decks and some of the cabins. Several carpenters were working on her, hammering away, which made me picture how she would have looked in her day, being refitted in port after heavy weather. The only thing that annoyed me on my visit were the throngs of tourists all about the vessel, chattering away excitedly, who were following around several tour guides telling them about life aboard the Batavia back in the days of the East India Trading Company.
On my way to the back of the ship I ran into a guide who seemed to particularly delight in describing the harsh punishment methods of the time to a crowd of visitors that appeared to eat it all up. Shrugging, I crossed the quarterdeck and went down some steps in search of a place that would allow for some more or less quiet reflection.
I found it all the way in the back: a tiny, windowless cabin, low enough to bump your head against the ceiling even if you were crouching, with a small cupboardbed on either side and a bench in between. I stepped inside and flopped down on the bench, dropping my shoulder bag at my feet, and spotted the door in front of me. Trying it, I found it could be moved, closed even. As the door fell shut, the tourist noise became a mere background annoyance, and I enjoyed the solitude of the little room immensely. Soon, the tour guide's gory descriptions vanished completely, and now all that could be heard was the incessant sound of hammering and the waves breaking on the Batavia's hull far below. The lantern above my head creaked as it swung slowly to and fro with the ship's light roll, throwing crazy shadows on the walls. Voices again, somewhere outside, laughter, shouts, fragments of a song in the distance. The existence of the lantern, and the waves, did not enter my consciousness immediately, but when I became aware of them I was instantly seized by a strong sense of anxiousness mixed with an almost frantic excitement.
I knew at that moment, with all my being and an absolute, clear certainty, that were I to open the small door in front of me now, at this very moment, everything I knew would be gone. It felt as if I was walking a tightrope between two worlds, and it was up to me to make the choice between them. But as the seconds lengthened, the decision had already been made, somewhere deep inside me: without thinking, nor considering the consequences, my hand reached for the door handle.
Then- footsteps, approaching the other side of the door. My heart skipped two beats when it opened slowly, and then disappointment washed over me full force. The moment had passed, and the guy with the camera in the low door opening nearly jumped when he saw my face. I wondered if the sense of loss I felt could be seen on it. "God, you startled me," the man cried as I got up. "Where you hiding in here? " "Yeah," I said. "I was. " 
