From above there came a loud splintering and a crash. He wondered what had happened. He wondered if he should go up on deck, but his knee was bothering him. He might not be able to get back.
The Chief held tightly to the engine as the ship rocked in the wind. He and his assistants waited. That was all they could do.
Bervick had gone into the focs’le to get the fat cook.
Smitty had complained that he could not take care of lunch alone with the ship pitching.
Several men were in the focs’le. The fat cook was asleep in his bunk. Bervick shook him. “Come on and get up. You got to help out in the galley.”
The fat cook yawned and swore. Slowly he hoisted himself out of the bunk. Bervick played with the dog.
“Hey, Bervick,” said one of the men, “anything new going on? We’re jumping around quite a bit. I thought the Skipper said there wasn’t going to be no more storm.”
“Looks like he’s wrong. The sea’s a lot bigger.”
“You’re telling me.”