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  • We are on a luxury liner equipped with every convenience a modern traveler could desire. We can climb rocks, eat haggis, call our brokers and dance under the stars. There are no Somali pirates here, no bird-killing oily froth. We are equally comforted by the churning of the sea and the groaning of the buffet tables.

    A few of us spot a glimpse of white far in the distance. We argue about what it could be. We flag down a waiter.

    “That white thing over there? What it is it? A sail?”

    “Over there? That thing? Iceberg. No big deal. No problem.”

    There is silence. According to what all the experts say, there shouldn’t be an iceberg within 500 miles of here.

    We accost a bartender, order some gin fizzes and demand that he send someone from the bridge down to talk with us.

    The man’s white uniform hurts our eyes.

    “We’re heading toward an iceberg!”

    “We’re well aware of that, ladies and gentlemen. We have an enormous amount of time to make course corrections and we will. There is no cause for worry. Go back to enjoying yourselves, please.”

    The ship continues unswervingly on its path. We feast, we nap, we make love in our snug cabins. Our laughter still comes, but it’s of the nervous variety. We know now that, no matter what we’re told, we will strike the iceberg. It is inevitable and there is nothing we can do about it. Absolutely nothing.

    Another waiter rushes by with a huge tray of drinks. We steal them.
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