Cut to June: I’m tracking ships like a part-time harbor pilot and a full-time worrywart. “It’s probably fine,” I say, refreshing a vessel map like it’s a stock ticker. “It’s probably fine,” I repeat, as if repetition could stop weather, gremlins, or maritime plot twists.
Then the reminder of my worries happens in September, the headlines: Dozens of containers tumble into the water at the Port of Long Beach. Sixty-plus boxes splash down in dramatic fashion. As in: video, cranes, the whole domino thing. And yes, my brain immediately yells, “THAT WAS MY FOUR MONTHS OF SLEEPLESS NIGHTS BEFORE OUR CONTAINER ARRIVED?!” (Luckily it wasn’t. But tell that to my heart rate.) Here’s a solid report on the incident if you missed it: AP News: More than 60 containers fall off ship in Long Beach.
Meanwhile, our actual container—blissfully unaware of my melodrama—had already made its odd, scenic layover near Beijing, then slid through the Med and reached Marseille in July. French customs did their très professionnel thing, and that was that. Four months of anxious refreshes, for nought. The only thing that fell apart was my sleep hygiene.
There’s a lesson in here somewhere about control, patience, and not naming your container “Wilson.” Or maybe it’s just this: international moves are a team sport—logisticians, dockworkers, customs officers, and your humble nail-biting narrator. When it all finally arrives, you don’t just open boxes; you exhale. And when the forks clink in their new drawer in Aix, the whole journey suddenly makes sense—even the Beijing cameo.
If you’re shipping your life across the planet: track the container (sure), but also plan a small “it’ll be fine” ritual—walk the Cours Mirabeau, practice your bonjour, and save the doom-scrolling for something harmless, like cheese knives. Mine arrived in July. My sanity followed in August.