Categories
Editorial

Stories, Spooks, AIs and More…

Art by Salvador Dali (1904-1989). From Public Domain

Humans for a long time lived in a world that was centred around them. The planets, plants, animals existed to serve them. The resultant effect was not exactly what could be called ‘pleasant’. Climate change and extinctions are proof of that. One cannot of course be held responsible for the extinction of giant dinosaurs for they were long gone before us. Would we have existed in our current form if they had not become extinct?

Perhaps, part of evolution is extinction of the old and birth of the new. However, we are the only species to have used the planet to suit our own needs. We evolved technology. Technology birthed computers and eventually, artificial intelligence. Almost a century ago, Isaac Asimov spun out science fiction about robots terraforming worlds for men. In these novels, he had instituted the laws of robotics, so that they would not harm humans. His robots were humanoids with AI.

As humanity races towards a tech savvy existence with AI taking on roles which were essentially human tasks, perhaps, we have to ask ourselves some salient questions. Ravi Varmman K Kanniapan has voiced such valid concerns over the deployment of AI in his essay. He writes: “The question should not merely be whether artificial intelligence can make institutions faster, cheaper, or more productive. The deeper question is, for whom?”  While pondering over this issue, if we take a look at Farouk Gulsara’s experiences pedalling through Kyrgystan and Kazakhstan, one wonders if AI impacts the whole world or will it deepen divides between technocrats and people who live closer to nature! Sailing through the Australian seas, Meredith Stephens takes us on an adventure to Port Hedland. Her narrative is accompanied by beautiful photographs by Alan Noble.

While Suzanne Kamata introduces us to mores on the artistic ethos of Japan, Jun A Alindogan expresses concerns over linguistic forays. Saeed Ibrahim steps into nostalgia taking us to a tiny town called Deolali and Kuldip Raj Chopra muses philosophically gazing back and forth to reflect on life lessons. In a contrary vein, Devraj Singh Kalsi splashes comic frivolity as he describes his attempts at purchasing bedsheets!

Niaz Zaman has shared a learned essay on women writers in Nazrul’s magazine, Dhumketu (Comet), in the early twentieth century, while Professor Fakrul Alam has translated the lyrics of a song by the poet from Bengal. Fazal Baloch has brought to us a powerful Balochi poem by the late Ghulam Hussain Shohaz in English. Isa Kamari has shared the third chapter of his self-translated Malay novel, The Throne, weaving in life in the newly-minted Singapore of the mid-twentieth century. Ihlwha Choi has translated his own Korean poem on how he found poetry. Winding up the translations, is a poem by Tagore called Pothik (traveller). 

Poetry brings to us different aspects of existence. Goutam Roy reflects on children’s issues through an analogy with nature while Stephen House critiques how 585 trees would be cut in his area to give way to buildings. We have more variety in verses with John Swain, George Freek, Laila Brahmbhatt, Joseph C. Ogbonna, Ajeeti S, Anne Whitehouse, Ahaduzzaman M. Ali, Jenny Middleton, Jahnavi Gogoi, John Britten and Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal. Ryan Quinn Flanagan paints a vision of merry, swaying boats parked at sea with words. Ananya S Guha gives us a glimpse of the rain and misty ambience of Shillong. Rhys Hughes as usual wafts absurdity and humour by taking on the persona of a (male) curtain in love in rather a funny poem.

AI or rather algorithms are woven into a quirky fiction by Brindley Hallam Dennis. Sayan Sarkar shares a story reflecting the need for compassion while Jonathon B Ferrini sprinkles a bit of magic between a father and daughter in a poignant tale. Naramsetti Umamaheswararao weaves a fable with traditions of rural Southern India.

We have an interesting excerpt from a ‘The Brown Hand’, a spooky story by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle from The Raj in Ghostly Light, edited by B.C.Dutt. One has to realise while reading such stories that what is seen as a controversial attitude in today’s world could well have been an accepted norm a century or two ago. We have another excerpt from a more modern non-fiction — Bhaskar Parichha’s recent translation from Odia of Janaki Ballav Patnaik: An Unfinished Memoir. Describing the art of tattooing is yet another excerpt from a story by Hannah Stevens, a writer shortlisted for the W&A Working Class Writers’ Prize, which follows her conversation with Keith Lyons.

Short stories have wound their way into our reviews section too. Somdatta Mandal has discussed Geetanjali Shree’s Once Elephants Lived Here: Stories, translated from Hindi by Daisy Rockwell. Mandal writes: “The book…presents a great challenge to the layman reader who cannot simply pick it up and start reading at leisure. One must read meticulously, ponder over the distortion of the usual short story genre, keep track of the convoluted or sometimes half-finished sentences and wonder where the narrator or the protagonist of the story is leading you – sometimes round and round and without reaching a denouement. All said and done, one must pick up this book to savour how post-modern storytelling can become an art in itself.” Rakhi Dalal has written about Teresa Rehman’s Her Hajj Story: Travel Diaries of Women Pilgrims from Assam while Farah Imam elaborates on Raina/Rituparna Khan’s Her Story: Beyond Dimension. Parichha has brought to us Reetika Khera’s Freebies or Rights: Rethinking India’s Social Policy. He writes: “Freebies or Rights presents a case for seeing social protection not as charity, but as part of the infrastructure of a democratic society. Its central message is both simple and consequential: dignity cannot be secured by economic growth alone. For millions of Indians, it also depends on whether the state can make basic rights real in everyday life.”

Though we reflect on diverse themes in this issue, the collective concern is for the welfare of our species, our planet and our very existence, occasionally drizzled with humour.  Do pause by our contents page to browse on our October issue.

We are hugely grateful to all the contributors, our team who step in to help create the content and put it before all our readers, especially Sohana Manzoor for her wonderful artwork. We remain thankful to all our readers without who our efforts would be in vain.

Have a wonderful October!

Happy reading.

Mitali Chakravarty

borderlessjournal.com

CLICK HERE TO ACCESS THE CONTENTS FOR THE OCTOBER 2026 ISSUE

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Categories
Slices from Life

Headwinds to Port Hedland

Narrative by Meredith Stephens and photographs by Alan Noble

Moonlight at anchor

The moonbeam shone at the stern and flooded the black seawater behind us. All around us for 360 degrees was water, with no land or even vessels in sight. Due to my aversion to night-sailing we decided to anchor in shallow ocean waters. It was not an official anchorage — just a patch of open water that offered partial protection and was shallow enough to drop the anchor. Parts of the passage ahead of us were unchartered and we were unwilling to risk hitting coral, especially in such a remote location with limited recourse to assistance. The anchor chain ground downwards and the anchor grasped the seafloor. Alex checked the grip of the anchor and then made his way inside the boat to cook dinner in our isolated floating restaurant.

“This anchorage isn’t ideal,” he informed me. “But it’s time to stop, since it’s pitch dark, and we have been on the go since 4am.”

It was our second night since departing from the calm anchorage of Broome, where we had ridden camels on the beach. We were out of internet range, so could not enjoy streaming a film that evening. Even my Kindle had broken down so I couldn’t read. The only paperback I had brought was finished. We decided on an early night and headed into the cabin. Only the cabin was rocking much more than usual, and it would be impossible to sleep.

“I think we need to sleep in the saloon where the boat is most stable. Can you turn the lounge area into a bed?” I asked.

“I’ll give it a go.”

After twisting bolts with a wrench, lowering the dinette table, and realigning the sofa cushions, we had a bed. The only problem was the penetrating moonlight behind us and the loud sloshing noises produced by the rocking boat. I put a scarf over my eyes to shield myself from the radiance.

The rocking got worse. The tides and wind were pushing the boat around, but the anchor held. My head kept getting slapped by the motion. I decided to brace myself in the cold and retrieve an extra sofa cushion from the cabin to place under my head. I asked Alex if we wanted to share the cushion, but incredulously, he was fast asleep and I decided not to rouse him. Instead, I envied his ability to fall asleep so quickly in challenging conditions. I decided to give up on sleep and instead lay awake and tried to relax now that my head was cushioned from the slapping of the boat. My deepest sleep is usually from four am, so I looked forward to that precious slumber that I had been craving for hours. Alex, however, is sensitive to the wind direction, and shortly after four am discerned favourable winds. I could hear him raising the anchor and hoisting the mainsail, and soon I enjoyed the whooshing of the water as we picked up speed. Now that we were moving there was no more slapping by the tides. I continued to enjoy that delicious state of semi-slumber while Alex busied himself taking advantage of the winds.

I got up at sunrise around seven am.

Sunrise at sea

“Would you like coffee?” Alex asked.

“Absolutely!”

Alex is a morning person. “Nothing beats sailing before sunrise with a full moon to guide you,” he said in his typically cheery fashion. All I could think was how hard it had been for me to sleep with that bright moon blazing and how much I needed that coffee.

He then proceeded to give me a technical explanation of the progress of our sources of power: wind, solar, battery, hydro, and the petrol genset when everything else failed. I was flattered that he thought I was capable of understanding the concepts that electrical engineers typically discuss and did my best to follow him. It was a relief to enter the space of a technical discussion rather than the ruminations my mind would typically sink to. Now that we were again in range, he was able to look up the weather conditions for that day and plan accordingly.

That morning we headed into Port Hedland, the largest bulk carrier port in the world, and suddenly we were surrounded by huge freighters taking iron ore to Asia. After three weeks of mostly anchoring in desolate and isolated seas, we were in the centre of industry on a scale we had never seen before. Alex took care to avoid the shipping lane as we entered the marina, although a pilot ship approached us just to make sure. The container ships entering the port dwarfed our sailboat, and it would be impossible for them to stop if we inadvertently got in their way.

We entered the marina berth safely with help from neighbouring boaties, as is the custom. They helped us tie the lines to the cleats. Being in a marina meant we did not have to anchor and take the dinghy to shore but could step off the boat onto the dock. The only problem was my short stature, so getting off the boat required precision so that I wouldn’t slip into the water.

We were longing for some comfort after the trials of living at sea, so we walked along the foreshore to the tavern as the sun set over the sea. It was a four kilometre walk along a wide footpath, lined with rocks for landscaping, set well away from the road. Joggers passed us in each direction. It was exhilarating to walk after the confinement of the boat. We passed a sign of a well-known mining company which processes and exports iron ore, in this town which is covered with a fine red-brown iron-ore dust.

Empty road to the tavern

As usual, the workers at the tavern were European working-holiday makers. The fellow diners were a young crowd of workers that may have been FIFO (fly-in fly-out). Some were wearing fluorescent working vests. We sat facing the horizon as the sun slipped beneath it and sipped our Guinesses.

We even luxuriated in the four kilometre walk in the dark to the marina. The freedom of unrestricted movement, the luxury of being served dinner, and the sight of the sunset, were enhanced by the sense of having left the hardships of sailing in unfamiliar waters.

Despite the presence of the working-holiday makers, Port Hedland is a working town and an uncommon place to find tourists. Even so, it is the closest town to Karijini National Park, which lies 300km inland, so we rented a car for a few days and went exploring.

We would be leaving Port Hedland for a month, in order to return home to attend to work and family in Adelaide. As unglamorous as Port Hedland had seemed on approach, it had given us the break we needed from our upwind sailing. Refreshed, we would fly back here, and resume our sail south to cooler waters, sighting whales at Ningaloo Reef, and stopping at townships on the coast en route to our next destination, Geraldton.

Meredith Stephens is an applied linguist from South Australia. Her recent work has appeared in Syncopation Literary Journal, Continue the Voice, Micking Owl Roost blog, The Font – A Literary Journal for Language Teachers, and Mind, Brain & Education Think Tank. In 2024, her story Safari was chosen as the Editor’s Choice for the June edition of All Your Stories.

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access Wild Winds: The Borderless Anthology of Poems

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Categories
Slices from Life

Salvaging the Furling Line in the Joseph Bonaparte Gulf

Narrative by Meredith Stephens & photographs by Alan Noble

I donned my fluffy hooded jacket on a wintery June morning in Adelaide, desperately trying to insulate myself against the cold. Today, Alex and I were due to fly four hours north to Darwin in order to complete the first leg of sailing his new boat back to Adelaide along the northern and western coasts of Australia. Darwin was in the same country, so I couldn’t conceive of it being much warmer than Adelaide. It was just over 2600 kilometres away.

What I was most looking forward to was dropping into the airport lounge before the flight. Later, there would be all sorts of deprivations and challenges, but in the lounge, I could put these thoughts out of my mind. For thirty minutes or so, I could savour being pampered. I could drink as much chai latte as I wanted and help myself to thinly sliced watermelon and cantaloupe. When I was in the lounge the prospect of being the only vessel on rough and unpredictable seas was unimaginable. But eventually, I was summoned from my indulgences when our flight to Darwin was called. Alex and I made our way to our economy seats, and relaxed in-flight for the next four hours. When we exited the airport in Darwin, the heat was tropical and the sunshine seared. Instead of using my fluffy jacket for warmth I held it over my head for sun protection. Was I really still in the same country?

I had declined the offer of sailing previous blue water passages. When Alex crossed the Great Australian Bight, over the Southern Ocean, I had insisted he be accompanied by a qualified sailor. How could I rescue him if something untoward happened? He had been accompanied by a much younger sailor, Sven, whose ancestry could be traced back to the Vikings. One day when they were twenty nautical miles offshore in the Blight, Alex had noticed that one of the lines had become tangled in the propeller. He tied one end of a rope around his middle and handed the other end to Sven, instructing him to hold it. Then he dived under the boat to untangle the rope from the propeller.

Sven was flabbergasted to have been asked to do this, but relieved when Alex emerged having untied the line. Hearing this anecdote, I felt vindicated in having insisted that Alex sail with a qualified sailor instead of me. Surely, I would never be put in the same position as Sven. But this time in the north of Australia it was just the two of us.

Alex is a qualified sailor, but I am not. I had thought I could manage because the seas would be calmer in the dry season of northern Australia than the Southern Ocean.

We made our way from the airport to the marina and spent the next morning provisioning the boat for the next three weeks. We didn’t make time for swimming because we were afraid of encountering crocodiles, Box jellyfish and Irukandji jellyfish. The following morning, we departed. The first step was exiting the marina through the lock. We booked our passage through the lock at 11 am and cautiously motored past the other boats to get there. The passage through the lock was narrow, so Alex reduced the width of the boat by folding the starboard hull. “Stand on the port bow so you can make sure we don’t scrape against the side of the lock,” he urged me.

I carefully walked along the narrow hull, so I could hold the lockside rope in order to create distance between the boat and the lock. I worried about losing balance. What if I fell into the gap between the lock and the boat and got crushed? I gave it my full concentration and maintained my balance. The attendant opened the barriers of the locks one by one, and the water in the lock levelled with the ocean. We called out our thanks to the attendant, as he heartily wished us a good day. I carefully turned around and retraced my steps back to the middle of the boat.

The sail to the Berkeley River across the Joseph Bonaparte Gulf took us three days. There would be no marinas and no shops along this long coastline until Port Hedland, over 2,000 km away, so every stop would be at anchor. The first two days of sailing and anchoring were uneventful.

Banks of the Berkley River

The third day, aiming for the Berkeley River, was to be a very long day. Alex rose at three am and departed. The waters were rough, although not as rough as the Southern Ocean. In my case, seasickness takes the form of extreme drowsiness and minor nausea. I spent most of the day sleeping and relieved the nausea with dry ginger. Every now and then I would try to walk around the boat, steadying myself as I grasped furniture.

Then, as the sun was low in the sky I heard Alex gasp. “Oh no! The furling line has gone overboard! I can’t furl the reacher without it.”

Then he looked under the netting of the trampoline to the water below. “There it is! It’s twisted around the port propeller.”

“Excellent!” I replied. At least we hadn’t lost it.

“Not excellent,” he countered. “I have to dive in and get it.”

“No! Don’t put me through this. You know I can’t rescue you.”

“It’ll be fine.”

He had already tied one end of the rope around his waist. The other end was tied to a pole. Then it was twisted several times around a winch for extra safety.

“You just have to pay out the rope from the winch. You don’t have to hold it,” he explained.

After all my protestations, I was being placed in the same position as Sven. Only I wasn’t of Viking stock, and I was quite a bit older. I could feel my heart pounding. I couldn’t meet Alex’s eyes. This was the predicament I most wanted to avoid, being responsible for the physical safety of my irrepressible husband. But he wasn’t entering into discussion. Dismissing my objections, he slid into the water. I wasn’t even sure when to pull in the line, or when to pay it out. I was too scared to look over the edge of the boat. What if I fell into the water? But within a couple of minutes, I heard Alex’s triumphant voice.

“Success!”  he shouted, clutching the line. Then he quickly pulled himself onto the boat.

“At least you weren’t eaten by a crocodile.”

‘We are too far away from the coast for that,” he explained.

“What about the Irukandji jellyfish?”

“That’s more of a possibility, but I was only in for a couple of minutes.”

Finally, Alex accepted the beach towel I proffered him. He was too exhilarated by the success of his mission to be sensitive to the cold you would normally feel after emerging from the ocean. The sun was setting.

“I would have been unable to do this in the dark,” he added cheerily.

There were five hours of sailing left to get to the Berkeley River. Night sailing is anathema to me, but there was nowhere to anchor at such depths. Alex used his chart plotter and radar to guide him into the bay. The moon was yet to rise. As we glanced upwards, we saw the Milky Way with a clarity we had never seen before. The level of the tides varied by about six metres every day, so he had to ensure the tide was right not just for when we anchored but also the next morning. Eventually the instruments told us we were in 3.9 metres and Alex decided to anchor, just after midnight. We celebrated with a gin and tonic and Toblerone. The waters were choppy, so that night it was not unlike lying in a sleeper car of an overnight train.

The next morning, we rose to the sight of waves crashing over a nearby beach.

“If I had known we were this close to the beach I wouldn’t have anchored here!” exclaimed Alex.

We had survived the first two hundred nautical miles of our voyage. Now only eleven hundred more lay between us and our destination on the west coast, Port Hedland.

Sunrise over the Timor Sea. Port Hedland is located on the Timor Sea.

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Meredith Stephens is an applied linguist from South Australia. Her recent work has appeared in Syncopation Literary Journal, Continue the Voice, Micking Owl Roost blog, The Font – A Literary Journal for Language Teachers, and Mind, Brain & Education Think Tank. In 2024, her story Safari was chosen as the Editor’s Choice for the June edition of All Your Stories.

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access Wild Winds: The Borderless Anthology of Poems

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles