“Are you a Dane?” I asked him the second day out. I hoped he would say yes, because then he could in a way remind me of Nelson.
“I bane no Dane. I am Norwegian,” he boasted. His accent was so marked that the crew used to sing when he was out of their hearing:
“Yumping Yimminy!
Yacob yumped off the Yib Boom with his
monkey yacket on. Yeesus! What a Yump!”
We sailed for weeks and June found us in the tropics. June is the hurricane season in the South Seas when freak storms, baffling winds and dangerous currents menace seafarers.
Father was on watch almost constantly at night. He would make frequent trips to his cabin to watch the barometer, only to return to the deck and pace up and down.
“Are we going to nose into a blow?” I asked Father.
“There’s more than a blow going to strike us, Joan. I got a feeling in my marrow that we’re a-headin’ for our last anchorage,” he said. Father, like all men of the deep sea, was superstitious, but, of course, when accused he denied it vigorously. The crew of a ship are guided by the Captain. If the Captain grows restless and worried the men suspect that he has gotten wind of impending disaster. What it is about the sea that whispers warnings to those who battle it I don’t know, but that there is something, I am sure.
“There’s a Jonah on this vessel.” Father spit the words out to the mate on watch. The mate cast a suspicious glance at Bulgar, who was at the helm.