The Storm Gull

The steersman dry-heaves into rolling scuppers, the skipper dozes fitfully in his sodden berth spew dribbling from a tossed piss pot. The deck is also heaving; for three days the rain-lashed ship has rode the high waves, shipping sea into cabins and holds, wind-torn canvas were carried away, a shattered mainmast dragging the wallowing hull, and the storm still growling in the winds teeth. The crew are battened down and sick, but sea-chests and dunnage must be stacked clews, lines, and tackle winched, cinched, or tarred, rubble and timber hacked and swept overboard. The nimble must climb gratings, grapple unhitched rigging, go aloft to knot and unravel torn nettings and flying ropes. Then from a swaying crows-nest a lookout sees a distant storm gull: “Sighting! Steer away,” comes a gusty shout. Now the quick dry throats of boson and bosons mate roar the crew to their stations. The clipper shudders, comes about, foresails backing and filling. The craft luffs and tacks to race ahead of the gale following that feathered rumor of hope and landfall. The ships log narrated all this, and more, when it surfaced to float in a plastic kiddy pool somewhere near the Jersey shore.