I spent the following day doing the usual housekeeping—laundry, errands,
wandering the boardwalk. The Black Sea stretched endlessly, its surface calm,
its depths mysterious. I learned that beneath its placid exterior lies an anoxic
layer saturated with hydrogen sulphide. Ninety percent of the sea is oxygen-
depleted, a perfect preservative for organic material. Ancient ships sleep in its
depths, untouched by time. In 2018, scientists discovered the world’s oldest
sunken ship here, dating back 2,400 years.
The Black Sea was once a freshwater lake. Then, around 7,600 years ago, a
catastrophic flood poured saltwater in from the Mediterranean, transforming it
forever. I stood at the edge of that history, toes in the water, mind adrift.
But not everything was poetic. My financial lifeline—Wise—had failed me. It had
worked flawlessly in Asia, but now I was stranded, unable to transfer money
from my South African bank to my Thai account. Vulnerability crept in. I felt
exposed, floating without a safety net. In a moment of desperation, I messaged
my sister, hoping she could help. I crossed my fingers, willing the funds to
appear.
I wasn’t in a rush, but I needed resolution. The road to Turkey loomed, and with
it, the need for a sleeping bag—something I’d discarded long ago in the heat of
Asia. Camping was my only affordable option now, and I had to prepare.
Batumi became a pause. A place to problem-solve, to breathe. The sea
whispered reassurance. The hostel offered warmth. And I, once again, found my
footing.