Up on the docking bridge, the same crewman with the sharp beret as yesterday stands with his legs and elbows in triangles, looking out to sea. “Do they ever let passengers up there?” The platform’s elevated position could provide a perfect stage for the upper-class passengers, who could see us clearly from across the well deck.

Olly glances at where I’m looking and stiffens. “No. That’s the quartermaster’s turf.”

“The QM bites,” adds Wink.

May we steer clear of him, then.

We descend back to the well deck with its lower profile—out of view of the docking bridge, in case juggling goes against regulations. At least it’s closer to the superstructure, where three tiers of first- and second-class passengers move about, ready for the shaking.

The sun bouncing off the water plays a cruel game of daggers with my eyes. Passersby give us a wide berth, as if they’re expecting trouble. A shot of nerves pours through me despite my earlier confidence. What if this crowd is not in the mood for entertainment? Unlike in St. James’s Park, space here is limited. Folks could sour on those who take up more than their fair share.

Well, there’s no turning back now.

“Ready, lads?”

Wink and Olly snap to attention, positioning themselves a few paces in front of me, one on either side. In the crowd milling about, eyes narrowed in suspicion begin to round, watching as I remove the pineapple from my slipper bag.

I exhale and roll back my shoulders. Then I hold up the pineapple.

“Afternoon, folks! I am Valor, the, er, Valorous.” My voice quavers, but I force myself to continue. “Today, I’m going to entertain you”—I pass the ungainly fruit from one hand to the other—“by juggling.”

A few people glare at me, as if to scold me for intruding on their afternoon, and I wilt a little. At least some from the upper decks peer down with curiosity. After everyone has gotten a good look-see at the pineapple, I toss it smartly from one hand to the other, back and forth, back and forth. “When it comes to juggling, I personally feel quality is more important than quantity.”

That gets a laugh, and I feel my limbs loosen. As the laughter dies down, I place the pineapple on my head, holding it there with two hands. “My father, God rest his soul, said life is a balancing act, and the better you get at juggling, the better you get at living.” Slowly, I let go with one hand, then the other. The boat sways, but I move with it, not letting the pineapple fall. “Of course, he never tried juggling on an ocean before.”