He secured the last cabinet and, on all fours, returned to his bunk, where he lay, longing for his room on Marlborough Street, longing to sleep for eight unbroken hours on a bed that did not rock, pound, and cant. He could hear the sea rushing past the hull with a fierce growl that made him acutely aware of how fragile the vessel was; all that stood between him and drowning were planks only an inch and a half thick, a few brass nails, a little tar and oakum. It occurred to him that the color of his and his shipmates’ oilers—yellow—was appropriate; they were like chicks in a brittle egg that the sea could smash to bits any time it felt like. And yet, she held, she held, a tough little ship built by stern Yankees who knew a thing or two about heavy weather.

Before Nathaniel and Eliot could set the sea anchor—a long canvas cone with fifty fathoms of rode attached—they had to douse the staysail. In their rubber seaboots, walking the drenched decks was like walking on a skating rink that happened to be tilting violently side to side. Clutching at lifelines, at shrouds, at whatever they could grab to save themselves, they moved forward.