Intertwining his fingers, Drummer bends them outward, cracking his knuckles. Then he brings his clasped hands to his lips, blowing through the opening created by his thumbs. The notes of the shanty “Drunken Sailor” whistle from his hand flute, and after a few measures, the fellows join in singing.

Way hay and up she rises

Way hay and up she rises

Way hay and up she rises

Early in the morning!

Shave his belly with a rusty razor

Shave his belly with a rusty razor

Shave his belly with a rusty razor

Early in the morning!

Way hay and up she rises

Way hay and up she rises

Way hay and up she rises

Early in the morning!

Put him in the back of a paddy wagon

Put him in the back of a paddy wagon

Put him in the back of a paddy wagon

Early in the morning!

Way hay and up she rises

Way hay and up she rises

Way hay and up she rises

Early in the morning!

With every new verse, the stomping and clapping grow faster, and the shovels work more quickly, becoming metal blurs before my eyes. My own heart begins to loosen. I keep up my pace, feeling a strange elation at being part of this symphony.

Drummer begins jigging, hopping from one foot to the other. Then he is off like a windup soldier, threading past the boilers and emerging out the other side, where there are more furnaces and even more cheering men. By the time they hang that drunken sailor up to dry, water is pouring down Drummer’s ears, and I swear the Titanic hums along a few knots faster than when we arrived.

Is it possible that Jamie has found peace here, a place that is anything but peaceful, especially with Drummer stirring the place up? Perhaps so much activity on the outside frees the inside to relax. It’s work of the grimiest nature, for sure, but I have to admit there’s friendship here, and family of a sort.

Somehow, descending to the bottom deck has given me a view from the top—like the lookouts in the crow’s nest. For the first time, I can truly see Jamie and the life he has built from ashes. It’s not how I’d expected it to be—dark, grim, and indifferent—but rather it’s warm, even thriving. If he were to leave, he would never see his new family again. Though I still don’t understand why he had to leave his first one behind.

Brandish, his face as shiny as a light bulb, brings a mug of water for Drummer’s thirst. Drummer drinks, but his laughing eyes flatten when he sees my grimace. He offers his cup.

Propping up a smile, I push the whirling drum back to him and say in Cantonese, “The grain sheds its husk and comes forth.”