At night, in the bunk, oil lamp swinging, I imagined the uncharted waters beneath us, porpoise and whale, creatures that pursued us as we floated across a valley, across a hill where coral studded the top: I saw monsters pass and re-pass, dark blue, grey, orange, fins fluted like fans close to our keel. Streamers of kelp and seaweed tangled crab and shark and I fell asleep, my play forgotten, the lamp burning, burning, burning...
Screaming, a seaman plunged from our topgallant, to die on deck while we were outrunning a storm.
Raleigh had his body wrapped in canvas and tossed overboard. No ceremony. Giant, wind-wracked combers.
“Do you know his name? Is there any record?” I asked.
“Timothy Parkes.”
“Where was he from?”
“Dover. He was wanted there for murdering two women.”
“Was he a good seaman?”
“No. And he was eaten up with scurvy.”