August 10.
Thanks to a huge low pressure system over Newfoundland, the wind whips up to 40 knots. It’s a Force 9 gale on the Beaufort scale, which ranks winds from 0 (“calm”) to 12 (“oh my fucking god”). A Force 9 is characterized as a “severe gale,” which is one click less than a “storm.”
I head up to the bridge to determine if I should be preparing to abandon ship or something. The wind coming from the starboard is so strong that the whole ship lists sideways to port. I ask the first mate if he’s worried about the freight containers toppling overboard. He shrugs. Meanwhile, the ocean is all riled up: a mob scene of waves and foam, which is the ocean’s version of torches and pitchforks. The first mate points to the wispy white stripes on the waves, like a million invisible fingers combing the surface of the water.
“That’s what a Force 9 looks like,” he says. Way too calmly, if you ask me. As if this is some classroom demonstration of maritime weather conditions and not what are obviously our last moments left on earth.
At lunch, Lina the Swiss passenger asks me if I heard the commotion last night.
“You mean the gale?” I ask.
“No, the second engineer,” she says. “He got drunk. Really drunk. He ran out on deck screaming. The captain ran down from the bridge because he thought someone had fallen overboard.”
Ship gossip doesn’t make it to the passengers, so we never learn all the details. But it’s another reminder that working on a freight ship is no cakewalk. Meanwhile, between the bad weather, the drunken sailors, and the sketchy chief engineer, I’m beginning to question the likelihood that the Independent Pursuit will ever make it to Philly.
The gale lasts all day. When it finally dies down, I fall asleep. At 2AM, I’m awake again. The ship is quiet. Too quiet. The engine has stalled. I look out my window, but I can’t see anything out there. The sea is a smooth black mirror with a million stars twinkling overhead. I wonder if it’s not engine trouble this time. Maybe this time it’s a mutiny. The crew has finally had enough and they’re at this very moment tossing the ship’s officers overboard one by one. Who could blame them? In fact, I’m surprised it took this long.
A couple minutes later, the engine shudders back to life. A mechanical shiver that starts somewhere way down below, then shivers up through seven decks and ripples through the water in the glass sitting next to my bed.
I love this! Writing is so good.