At length, Argyle let out the boom and allowed it to slacken the mainsail. He waited until the Moonbird had settled in the water, then stood in silence watching the sky: the birds that dipped and stabbed at the water, seeking unseen baitfish. Here the sea was a deeper blue, deeper than sapphire. Argyle hauled the sounding line out of its hold in the bow, arranged the coils near the bow and threw the plumb overboard, watching the lead weights injecting bubbles into the depths.

As the coils ran off, he took the far end of the line and secured it to another coil, then another, and let the weights bump in rhythm over the side for a minute or more. When they stopped, Argyle shook his head. He motioned to the boy and the two of them hauled it all back onto the deck and re-set the mainsail.

We travelled on for another half-hour. The seawater that had flicked onto their clothes from the plumbline dried into plumes of salt. Again, the vessel was hove to and the process repeated—the birds, the sounding—except that this time the entire length of it ran noisily overboard and was stopped only by the knot the master had tied to a small cleat above the scuppers.

‘We’ve passed the sea cliff,’ said Argyle. ‘Edge of the continent. Deep enough here.’

He walked to the head of the shrouded body and stood tall for a moment, the sun bright on his strong brown forearms. I sensed that I should do likewise. I stood at my father’s feet. Neelanjan took up a position opposite Argyle, facing the shroud.

‘All hands bury the dead,’ Argyle muttered softly.

We had no ensign to lower to half-mast, but Argyle brought the mainsail down and let it lie slack.

‘Feet first,’ he said to me. I bent down and picked up the corners of the board at my ankles. I lifted it, as did the men, until it rested at our waists. In the end there was so little of him it was no great burden.

We manoeuvred the board so that it rested on the bulwark with the wrapped feet slightly outboard. I took the head-end from them and they stepped aside. Argyle produced a small notebook and began to read from it. The wind took the phrases, and wrapped some of them back in the swirling air to find me.

…commend the soul of our brother departed…commit his body to the deep…in sure and certain hope…Lord Jesus Christ—

The tears had come now. I did not want him to go.

The sea shall give up her dead—

I looked at Argyle, tried to understand him in his deep retreat from the world. He had blurred; I could not hold back the weeping.

…the corruptible bodies of those who sleep…changed, and made like unto his glorious body—