The next day, the five of us set sail on a multi-masted wooden vessel.
The boat belonged to a local fisherman who, after recently selling his catch at the Babilus seaport, was now giving us a ride to Fish Island.
I sat on a wooden plank on the deck with Lucy beside me. The cold wind whipped from north to south, filling the three prominent, large, cream-colored sails.
Less than a hundred meters from shore, multiple boats similar to ours were docked along a wooden bridge that stretched into the Red Sea.
The manual propulsion and absence of steam engines on all the boats starkly highlighted the divide between wealthy cities and poor villages.
The surrounding water's red hue felt eerie, especially with fish swimming alongside our boat. Yet, the wine-like quality of the water and the soft waves washing ashore created the impression of a strangely beautiful, almost enchanted dream.
