Leisurely Traveler with Check-in System

The wooden dining table was worn to the point of being somewhat shiny. On the table was a bowl of plain noodles, which had congealed into a lump, and the cold soup had a sheen of oil.

Chen Tiefeng picked up a bite with his chopsticks, swallowed it after barely chewing, but it tasted very bland. He sighed softly.

At this time, his son was happily playing on his phone in the room, occasionally letting out a few silly laughs, which made Chen Tiefeng feel a bit irritable, as if his heart was stuffed with a water-soaked cotton ball.

His gaze shifted to a model ship placed on the TV cabinet—it was the ”Explorer 3,” made to a scale of 1:100.

He took a few more bites, stood up, and silently walked to the TV cabinet, picking up the model ship.

A small piece of the white paint on the hull had flaked off, a mishap from the last time he was looking for information. He had tried to touch it up with nail polish, but the color never matched.

This model ship was something he moved from the crew dormitory to the family quarters, and it still occupied the most prominent place in the home.

Beside the TV cabinet was a wooden cupboard. He opened it, revealing a stack of yellowing blueprints and a report boldly titled ”Hull Material Inspection Report.”

On top of the cabinet was a photo taken after the last major overhaul of the ”Explorer 3.” Chen Tiefeng was wearing sailor’s uniform, standing on its deck.

At that time, he was still serving as the chief engineer, holding the steering wheel with an irrepressible smile.

Who could have thought that the ”Explorer 3” was soon to be scrapped for iron?

Right then, his phone’s screen lit up—it was a message from an old colleague.

He picked it up and saw the message: ”The scrap yard has asked again, offering an additional 300,000. It seems that the institute is tempted.”

Chen Tiefeng sighed softly, opened the message and read it several times. After a moment of hesitation, he made a call, but no one answered after a long wait. He knew it was because the people at the institute didn’t want to hear his ramblings.

At this moment, the sound of his son watching short videos grew increasingly loud and bothersome. Feeling agitated, Tiefeng walked to the door, and saw his twenty-something son lying lazily on the bed, a carefree grin on his face, with music blaring ”Curry Curry” from the phone.

With a heavy snort, Tiefeng couldn’t be bothered to scold the brat.

He went to the balcony and opened the window. The May wind carried a hint of humid heat.

Chen Tiefeng fished out a cigarette pack, shook it for a while but didn’t get a single stick, then remembered the doctor had advised him to quit smoking.

Back in the day, when on duty on the ship, he relied on smoking to stay alert. The engine room of the ”Explorer 3” always had a smell of oil mixed with smoke; he got scolded countless times for it. Now when he recalls it, that smell oddly brings a sense of security.

Regarding the institute’s decision, he really understood it. It’s just that he felt somewhat reluctant and regretful.

Without a cigarette to smoke, he felt for a mint from another pocket, popped it in his mouth, returned to the dining table, finished the bowl of noodles, and then rummaged through the cupboard for the inspection report again.

The terms on the report—”CCSAH36 high-strength steel,” ”no structural damage,” ”weld seam flaw detection qualified”—were all remarkably clear.

To him, this ship held extraordinary significance.

The ship had been in operation for 20 years. The double bottom never leaked, and the main engine ran more powerfully than many newer ships, even when it struck a hidden reef in the South Sea back then, only a bit of paint was scraped off. During maintenance, the veteran craftsmen at the shipyard praised the steel for its durability.

But now, this ship couldn’t keep up with the times.

Their unit was a provincial-level marine research institute. To align with the policy for intelligent scientific research, they procured a 61-meter new-model intelligent research vessel.

Because the ”Explorer 3” lacked smart modules such as automated navigation and remote control, it was slated for retirement.

Currently, this decommissioned ship had entered the disposal process, listed on the provincial property exchange platform with a starting price of 4 million, without any ownership disputes or outstanding fees.

But regardless of the ship’s ultimate fate, it had nothing to do with Old Chen.

Feeling very downcast, Chen Tiefeng languidly sauntered over to the sofa and sat down.

At that moment, the brat in the room finally wandered out, wearing a pair of flip-flops, meandering to the fridge, grabbing two cans of beer, and plopping down casually in front of Chen Tiefeng: ”Hey Dad, are you still sentimental over that scrap metal ship? You old folks are all like this—it’s just a ship, yet you conjure up all these feelings over it.”

Chen Tiefeng smacked his son’s head with a slap: ”What do you know? Your generation is heartless, spoiled by a life that’s too comfortable.”

”Yeah yeah yeah, whatever you say is right,” the son said, opening a beer, but before he could drink, Chen Tiefeng snatched it away.

The son wasn’t angry; he leisurely opened the other bottle: ”Dad, should I get you some marinated snacks?”

Chen Tiefeng didn’t respond.

Only then did his son grinningly get up and head to the kitchen to busy himself.

Leaning on the sofa, Old Chen couldn’t help but reminisce about his seafaring days from an ordinary crewman to the head engineer.

At 18, he graduated from a technical secondary school majoring in marine engineering, boarded a 3,800-ton coastal bulk carrier, driven by a naive longing for the ocean. Starting as the lowest rank of an apprentice engineer, he embarked on his more than twenty-year-long voyage life.

Back then, he was dark-skinned and nimble, learning from experienced technicians how to inspect oil circuits, clean filters, and record equipment parameters, and so on.