‘I thought about becoming a clearance diver, but the rules and regulations put me off.’

Kaboro’s face softened. ‘You sound like my son.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Toby.’ Kaboro pulled out his wallet and showed Nash a picture of a powerfully built young man with a high forehead and startlingly bright eyes. ‘He’s run a little wild, but he’s going to join up and complete a degree programme as part of officer training. One day I hope to see him in command of a vessel like this one.’

Saworno came up and joined them. ‘Everything AOK,’ he beamed, the wind ruffling his thin grey beard. ‘The alarm sensor on the high-pressure leak-off tank is behaving itself.’ He inhaled a few draughts of air and pretended to shiver. ‘It’s too cold up here.’

‘Saworno’s thermostat is stuck on high,’ grinned Kaboro. ‘How does your wife cope in Jakarta?’

‘No air con in bedroom.’ Saworno winked. ‘Wife sleep in living room.’

Kaboro gave Nash a turn at the helm, and the pleasure of focused concentration helped clear his head. Taking the swells head on, lightly bracing for the shocks, and adjusting when things went wrong. No point dwelling or looking back. It was a good metaphor for life.

‘Did your father teach you navigation, Mr Nash?’

‘A little.’

Kaboro indicated the chart table. ‘Why don’t you give me an estimate on how long it will take us to reach the mouth of the Sepik.’

Relinquishing the helm, Nash bent over the map of Papua New Guinea, and with ruler and brass dividers, guesstimated a likely course and distance.

‘What’s our range, Lieutenant?’

‘At this speed? 1600 nautical miles, give or take.’

Nash nodded. ‘If we were able to maintain this speed, I’d say three days. But I figure you need suitable anchorages to get some sleep.’ He examined the coastline for bays and protective islands. ‘Say, five days?’

Kaboro laughed, but not unkindly. ‘Saworno and I will take shifts in the captain’s cabin behind us. My men know how to read a compass and steer. As for your estimate, I make it three to three and half days, if the weather holds.’

On the second night, a squall off west New Britain whipped up three-metre seas, cutting their speed to eight knots. The Albany gave good account of herself, but the weight on her stern made her wallow in the deeper troughs. Kaboro remained welded to the helm, staring out through the beating rain and the foaming combers to ensure they didn’t broach from an unexpected broadside. It was miserable pitching around inside the little ship, and only Douglas avoided seasickness by scoffing meclizine, which added a green hue to his hepatic tint, giving him the waxy appearance of a three-day-old corpse.