Rose George

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The view—crashing waves, a sandy beach—is spectacular. It is unexpected, because I knew nothing about and expected nothing of the port of Salalah, in the Gulf state of Oman, beyond its name. I didn't know how to pronounce that, either, until the captain told us about a girl in the office—the word office, laced with mild scorn, means ignorant shore people in this context—who pronounced Salalah like "Ooh-la-la!" (The stress, at least in English, is on the first * "la.")

The view is from the terrace of the Oasis Club, a sizable bar-restaurant on the cliffs above the port. I go there twice in 24 hours, withcrews. When it turned out to be nobody, he canceled his parish assignment and spent the next 20 years rowing out to ships, often in appalling weather—so bad he once smashed his legs and limped forever after—and being pelted with pork balls by sailors more interested in grog than God.

The Mission to Seafarers now runs 230 centers worldwide, and they are a godsend, because most are in or near ports, and seafarers lack the time or money to go farther. The missions usually provide Internet access, a bar, and souvenirs for time-strapped sailors. The popular seafarers' center at Felixstowe, Britain's largest port, carries union jack and London-themed souvenirs for sailors who can't spare five hours to get to the real capital, a two-hour train journey away. It also