“Rather rough, isn’t it?”
Evans looked around and saw the Major standing beside him. The Major was holding onto the wooden railing beneath the window.
“A little bit. We’ll make good time, though.”
“That’s important.” The Major looked old this morning, Evans thought. His sallow face showed the signs of heavy drinking. He would probably be sick and say that he had indigestion.
The Major squinted at the mountains. “How far off shore are we?” he asked.
“About two miles. That’s our usual running distance.”
“It looks closer than that.” He contemplated the shifting water and the stone hills and the steel color of the birdless sky. “It looks very close.”
“It does,” said Evans. The ship was dipping now from sea-valley to sea-mountain with monotonous regularity. Evans was exhilarated by the ship’s motion. He felt at home now. This was where he belonged. He began to whistle.
The Major laughed. “I thought that was bad luck—for old mariners to whistle in the wheelhouse.”
Evans smiled. “I’m not superstitious.”