Tartan Liberty

downtown Glasgow Our spirits rose when we saw the oil slicks. The psychedelic colors swirled on the water's surface like a flea market kaleidoscope. The petroleum stench seduced us like a siren song. Further down the ship canal, looming out of the mist, Glasgow's abandoned shipyards. Rotting cranes rose from the mounds of scrap metal like steel sequoias. The cool, foggy air reeked of diesel exhaust and fish. We were getting close. For 34 days the Knorr had sailed in pristine isolation above the Arctic Circle. We had worked for weeks blinded by fog, and for weeks our fog horn had tormented our sensibilities. Now, with the green-slimed butresses of the King George V Docks in sight, anticipation of our release built like a fever. Glasgow had pubs brimming with beer and single malt whiskeys. It had restaurants, nightclubs and women. It had theatres, green parks and highways that dissapeared over the horizon. We were close, so close.
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