“One ninety-five,” he said. “One ninety-five,” he called to the third officer in the chartroom. The officer counted out the numbers and the quartermaster left.
The second mate entered the chartroom, relieving the third officer.
Rio saw the ship was on her course and looked out where his watch partner was walking hesitatingly toward the wheelhouse. He waved him back.
Soon, the second mate came in without speaking. He looked at the compass under the binnacle light. Then he stood up and silently regarded Rio, who gave the wheel a spoke or two. The mate became exasperated. He walked up and down, staring out of the glass. Suddenly he came over and looked at the compass again.
“You’re off six degrees. Heading this way, we might make Jamaica.”
“I had a wife there once,” said Rio, his face impassive. “It’s a good island.”
“Wife! You said—‘wife’?”
“Yeah. Up in the hills. She was a good worker, too.”
The mate lit a cigarette. It was twelve-thirty and Rio struck one bell. Attentively, the officer waited for a few minutes.