We must also win really sufficient and, above all, practical

Host: The harbor lay under a blanket of fog, the kind that turns ships into shadows and lights into ghosts. The water was still except for the slow sway of anchored vessels, their chains creaking like tired memories. In the distance, a single horn moaned — deep, lonely, almost human.

The dockside warehouse loomed in silhouette, its windows glowing faintly with the orange pulse of a coal heater. Inside, amid the smell of salt and oil, two figures sat at a makeshift table: Jack, coat unbuttoned, sleeves rolled, his hands rough and restless; and Jeeny, calm and composed, the steam of her tea rising like a whisper into the cold air.

Outside, the rain began — slow, deliberate, as though time itself had decided to cleanse something too long unwashed.

Jeeny: “Bernhard von Bülow once said, ‘We must also win really sufficient and, above all, practical guarantees for the freedom of the seas and for the further fulfilment of our economic and political tasks throughout the world.’”

Host: Her voice broke through the rhythmic drip of water from the rafters — soft, steady, yet filled with something sharp. Jack leaned back, one brow lifting, his grey eyes narrowing like searchlights in fog.

Jack: “A statement of power, not poetry. ‘Freedom of the seas’ — sounds noble, but it’s never about freedom. It’s about control.”

Jeeny: “You’re not wrong. But von Bülow lived in an age when power meant survival. He wasn’t talking about tyranny — he was talking about protection. Without guarantees, freedom is just a rumor.”

Jack: “And with guarantees, it becomes a leash. History’s full of nations promising liberty at the point of a cannon.”

Host: A gust of wind pushed against the old doors, making them groan. The lamp flame wavered, casting quicksilver flickers over their faces. Jeeny sipped her tea, her eyes steady.

Jeeny: “Maybe. But don’t forget — without control of the seas, empires collapse. Trade dies. People starve. You can’t feed a nation on ideals alone.”

Jack: “You sound like a minister of commerce.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I sound like someone who remembers history. The British Empire, the Roman fleets, even the Vikings — they didn’t rule through diplomacy. They ruled through sea lanes. Whoever owned the water owned the world.”

Host: Jack smiled faintly — that cold, half-amused smile of a man who finds truth and tragedy in the same sentence. He reached for his flask and took a long drink.

Jack: “And every empire that owned the world eventually drowned in it. Rome rotted. Britain fell. Germany sank. The freedom of the seas always turns into the domination of the shores.”

Jeeny: “So what’s your answer? Isolation? Let the world’s powers fight while you stand on the beach with your ideals and watch?”

Jack: “No. My answer is honesty. Admit it’s not about freedom. It’s about profit. About the machinery of need dressed in the language of virtue.”

Host: The heater popped and hissed, filling the silence with tiny bursts of sound. The fog outside pressed against the glass, turning the world beyond into a dreamscape of shadows and distant lights.

Jeeny: “You always strip things to their bones, Jack. But tell me — do you think freedom ever exists without profit? People talk about liberty, but they mean opportunity. Economic independence. That’s what von Bülow understood — freedom without sustenance is starvation.”

Jack: “And sustenance bought by dominance is theft. He spoke of ‘practical guarantees,’ but that’s just another way of saying ‘We’ll take what we need, and call it law.’”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that what every civilization has done since time began? The Athenians said it: the strong do what they can, and the weak suffer what they must. Maybe what matters is not that it happens, but how consciously it’s done — whether we recognize the cost.”

Host: The rain intensified, tapping like fingers on the roof. The air between them grew dense, as if charged by the ghosts of sailors and merchants, of empires long turned to dust.

Jack: “Recognition doesn’t absolve guilt. You can justify any act by calling it civilization.”

Jeeny: “Then tell me, Jack — would you rather we lived in chaos? Would you rather ships sail without law, without safety, without boundaries? The seas are too vast for idealism. Someone has to build the maps.”

Jack: “And someone always ends up owning them.”

Host: The lamp light caught in his eyes — grey, hard, metallic — the color of storms. Jeeny looked at him, her expression unreadable, somewhere between admiration and pity.

Jeeny: “You hate empires, but you love order. You despise ambition, but you live on the spoils of its existence. The clothes you wear, the steel in your car, the coffee you drink — all of it came from those same ‘freedom of the seas’ treaties you despise.”

Jack: “I don’t deny that. I just refuse to glorify it. Von Bülow spoke like a man who thought control was destiny. But destiny is just power rewritten by the victors.”

Jeeny: “And yet without men like him, history might never have stabilized enough for progress to exist. Order is a cruel midwife, but she delivers civilization nonetheless.”

Host: Her words hung in the cold air like smoke. Jack turned toward the window, watching a ship move through the mist — its faint lights blinking like a constellation adrift.

Jack: “Look at that vessel. Somewhere on board, men are working sixteen-hour shifts, freezing, sweating, starving — so that someone else can speak of liberty and trade in warm rooms. Is that your civilization?”

Jeeny: “It’s our reality. But that doesn’t mean it can’t evolve. Freedom doesn’t mean the absence of hierarchy — it means the presence of fairness. Maybe that’s what we keep missing.”

Jack: “Fairness is a dream people invoke when they’ve already won.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s the dream people cling to so they might win — together.”

Host: The heater’s glow deepened, throwing a golden hue across the warehouse. Outside, the fog began to lift, revealing the faint outlines of cranes and masts, the quiet empire of commerce awakening beneath dawn’s first breath.

Jack: “You talk like the world can balance itself. But history isn’t a scale. It’s a tide. It rises and consumes everything in time.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe our only task is to learn to sail — not to own the sea, not to chain it, but to move with it. Von Bülow wanted guarantees; maybe the only real guarantee is humility.”

Host: Jack looked at her — a long, steady look, the kind that strips away debate and leaves only understanding. Then, slowly, he smiled.

Jack: “You’d make a terrible politician, Jeeny. Too honest for power.”

Jeeny: “And you’d make a terrible sailor. Too afraid of the waves.”

Host: He laughed, low and genuine, the sound breaking the weight of the air. She smiled too, setting her cup down beside his flask. The rain eased, the fog began to dissolve, and through the wide window, the first light of dawn spilled across the harbor — turning the wet steel and water into silver.

For a moment, they both sat in silence, watching the ships emerge from shadow into day — a quiet metaphor for everything they’d just said.

And as the sun rose higher, painting the horizon with molten gold, the voice of history seemed to echo faintly in the distance — not of conquest, but of continuity.

Because perhaps, as Jeeny had said, the true freedom of the seas lies not in who owns them — but in who dares to keep crossing.