I went on a school trip aged 13 around the Mediterranean on a

Host: The evening light stretched long and golden across the pier, wrapping the harbor in a tender warmth that shimmered over the slow-moving water. The air smelled of salt and distant citrus — a mix of sea and memory. Faint music from a nearby tavern drifted through the wind, the sound of laughter melting into the waves.

Host: Jack leaned against a weathered railing, a half-empty bottle of beer dangling from his hand, the sunset flickering in his grey eyes. Jeeny sat cross-legged on the wooden planks, sketchbook open, her hair swept wild by the sea breeze, her gaze lost somewhere on the horizon.

Host: The scene felt like a painting from another time — two souls caught between the past and the tide, suspended in that soft hour before darkness begins.

Jeeny: “Tony Hadley once said,” she murmured, brushing a strand of hair from her face, “‘I went on a school trip aged thirteen around the Mediterranean on a Second World War ship. Seeing lemon trees and orange groves at that age was amazing.’”

Jack: “Hmm,” he said, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. “Sounds quaint. A kid sees some fruit trees, feels wonder. That’s what childhood’s for, isn’t it?”

Jeeny: “No,” she said softly, almost wistfully. “It’s not about fruit trees. It’s about first wonder. About the moment the world opens its hands to you and says, ‘Look. This is what living feels like.’”

Host: The waves lapped gently below, carrying the reflection of the sinking sun in small trembling shards. Jack’s expression shifted — half amusement, half ache.

Jack: “You romanticize everything, Jeeny. Wonder fades. It’s biology. You grow up, you adjust, you stop gasping at lemon trees and start worrying about taxes.”

Jeeny: “That’s the tragedy, Jack,” she said, looking up at him, her eyes wide with quiet conviction. “We call it growing up when it’s really forgetting how to see. That boy on the ship wasn’t amazed by lemons — he was amazed that beauty existed at all.”

Host: A gust of wind caught the pages of her sketchbook, flipping them like the turning of time. Jack reached down, steadied them with his hand — the momentary touch lingering longer than either admitted.

Jack: “Maybe,” he said finally, his voice low, thoughtful. “But that kind of wonder doesn’t pay the bills. It doesn’t keep you warm at night or fix what’s broken. It’s just… a memory. Sweet, but useless.”

Jeeny: “You really think that?” she asked. “That wonder’s useless? Then why do you keep coming back here, to this pier, watching sunsets like some man waiting for something he lost?”

Host: Jack didn’t answer right away. The silence pressed between them like a soft, invisible wall. He took a slow sip of beer, his eyes tracing the edge of the sea, where the horizon trembled between day and night.

Jack: “Because I remember,” he said finally. “Just a little. I remember what it was like before life started counting everything — time, money, chances. Maybe I come here to forget all that counting.”

Jeeny: “That’s wonder, Jack,” she whispered. “You just won’t call it by its name.”

Host: The sun slipped lower, touching the water in one last molten shimmer. Somewhere in the distance, a ship’s horn echoed — low, nostalgic — like the ghost of Hadley’s wartime vessel.

Jeeny: “When he saw those lemon trees,” she continued, “he wasn’t just looking at color. He was seeing survival. A world rebuilt from ashes, blooming again. Imagine — a child on a warship, surrounded by memories of destruction, suddenly seeing life bursting from the soil.”

Jack: “You’re saying the trees were redemption?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Isn’t that what beauty always is? Redemption disguised as color.”

Host: Jack turned to her, his eyes softening, his smile fading into something quieter. The breeze picked up, carrying the faint scent of salt and oranges — as if the world itself had conspired with her words.

Jack: “You know,” he said, “my father used to tell me about the war. How he’d stand on the deck of a destroyer, staring at the same sea we’re looking at now. He said the horizon looked endless — but the world felt small. He never talked about the beauty. Only the silence after the guns.”

Jeeny: “Maybe he couldn’t,” she said gently. “Maybe some people see too much of the dark, and it blinds them to the light.”

Jack: “Or maybe some people cling to the light so hard, they forget the dark’s what makes it visible.”

Host: The words hung between them like the balance between dusk and dawn — two truths that could not cancel each other, only coexist.

Jeeny: “So that’s it then? You believe wonder is just the sugar we sprinkle on pain?”

Jack: “No,” he said after a long pause. “I think it’s the reaction. The body’s way of surviving meaninglessness. You stare at a lemon grove or a sunrise, and for a second, you feel like the universe has purpose. But that’s just your mind trying to cope.”

Jeeny: “Maybe purpose is the coping,” she said. “Maybe that feeling isn’t an illusion — maybe it’s the closest thing to truth we ever get.”

Host: A boat passed far out in the water, its faint lights flickering like stars adrift. Jack watched it silently, his hands gripping the railing, the metal cool beneath his fingers.

Jack: “You know, when I was sixteen, I went to Naples on a cheap ferry. We docked near an old port. I remember the smell — diesel, salt, fruit. I saw an old woman selling oranges by the sea. She smiled at me. I didn’t understand why. I was just a kid with a backpack. But… I never forgot that smile.”

Jeeny: “Because it reminded you of life,” she said softly. “Of the part of you that was still human.”

Jack: “Maybe,” he murmured. “Or maybe it reminded me that not everything needed to be understood to be real.”

Host: The sky deepened now — that last shade of blue before darkness turns black. The waves glowed faintly, the way light sometimes lingers just to say goodbye.

Jeeny: “That’s all wonder really is, Jack. The part of life that refuses to make sense — and still makes you breathe deeper for no reason.”

Jack: “And you think we should hold on to that?”

Jeeny: “No,” she said with a small smile. “We shouldn’t hold it. We should just notice it. That’s enough. Like a lemon tree on a warship — it’s not supposed to exist. But it does. And that’s the miracle.”

Host: Jack smiled — not his usual wry smirk, but something rare, fragile, human. The last light faded from the sky, leaving only the shimmer of the sea and the sound of distant waves brushing against the shore.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right,” he said quietly. “Maybe the world doesn’t need to make sense to be amazing.”

Jeeny: “No,” she said, closing her sketchbook, her voice barely a whisper. “It just needs to keep growing — even after the war.”

Host: The wind carried her words out over the water, where they mingled with the sound of the sea — that eternal rhythm that has witnessed every ship, every war, every child discovering color for the first time.

Host: And as night finally took the sky, the harbor glowed faintly in the distance, dotted with the soft lights of fishing boats and bars. The air was cool, but alive — filled with salt, memory, and the ghost of lemon blossoms.

Host: Between the fading hum of the world and the whisper of the sea, Jack and Jeeny sat in silence — both knowing that in the vast theatre of time, wonder isn’t something we outgrow. It’s the one thing that keeps us from forgetting that we were once children on a ship, marveling at the impossible beauty of oranges growing under the same sun that lights every war and every peace.