“Thirty-two,” said Martin.
“Thirty-two,” repeated the quartermaster.
“Steering thirty-two,” called Martin to the mate on the bridge.
The officer nodded his head.
Later, on lookout, Martin leaned against the ship’s apron and watched the sky ring blue to blue. On the coastal side the bright wing faded under the hills. Seaward, the sun pressed into mist—sustained by color. He shaded his eyes against the shrill line, saw it strike the water, burn and recede. Catching the rim, it held once and fell, breathing up softer lights. Flame, gold and scarlet in procession shifted to turquoise and a rolling mauve—slowly turning the crystal till darkness caught one star.
The distant light trembled in his eyes. He crossed the deck and faced the shore. An aluminum crust broke the dark shoulder of mountain, rising higher till its bright shale covered the swing of beach with moontide. Burning from the painting ran the moonspindle, striking the ship. Martin dropped his head and stared into the blue foam.
Above him, Orion swung easily past the foremast and returned; Polaris grew in the north; and behind him, the Southern Cross lay on her side. He grabbed the mainstay, pulled himself up on the apron and lay on his back. His eyes followed the moon as she came toward him, changing softly from flesh to white, round and white like the abdomen of a woman.
Silence, dead and liquid, held the Verda from both sky and sea. A restless mist, moving downward, obscured the stars. On the land side heat-lightning followed in sheaves. A thin black cloud raised the horizon. It built higher and darker as it rushed at the ship.
Martin pulled off his skivy-shirt. The heat covered his face with perspiration and he drew his arm across his forehead. Isolated on the fo’c’sle head, away from the ship and its crew, there was no proportion. The wind dried his throat and he bent under the apron to breathe, closing his eyes against the lightning. A wave smashed on the bow and sounded through the forepeak. He ducked lower under the steel cover and rubbed the salt from his mouth. The rain struck. Falling solidly, it hammered his back and shoulders until, at last, to ease the pain, he turned his side against the pressure. When he looked aft he knew that he was blind, seeing neither mast nor running-lights. Living in this vacuum of noise, without sight, he knelt on the deck with his head in his arms and tried to breathe through the falling water. Still and bowed he waited.