Several members of the crew were playing cards at the galley table. They were taking the storm casually. They pretended not to be interested in what was happening outside.
The ship rocked violently. Heavy coffee mugs slid back and forth on the galley table. Smitty sat in a corner of the galley, his chin on his knees. From time to time he would groan. The fat cook, in salt-soaked clothes, opened cans.
Duval took a can of hash out of the locker. The ship rolled suddenly, slanting the deck. He stumbled across the galley and sat down on the bench with the others.
“Lousy, isn’t it?” commented one of them.
“Just a little blow, that’s all. You’ve never seen nothing till you’ve seen a tropical hurricane. This stuff up here is nothing like that. This is a breeze.”
“Sure, we heard that one before, Chief.”
“That’s the truth.” The Chief put food into his mouth. He had not realized how hungry he was. The fat cook poured him coffee.
The men talked about the Big Harbor and other things. They did not speak of the storm which was beginning. They spoke of the Indian who had died at the Big Harbor. Everyone told the story differently and Duval was bored to hear the story again. He had never liked Aleuts anyway. He looked at Smitty in the corner.
“What’s the matter with you?” he asked.
“This water.” Smitty cursed for several moments. “This the last trip I ever make. I seen everything now. I’m getting off this boat, I’m going back fast. We ain’t never getting out of this.” His dirt-colored hands gestured limply. The others laughed.