Murray Simon was woken from a deep sleep by Lewis Loud, and for a few moments Simon did nothing but “growl like a demon” at being turned out of his hammock. He got scant sympathy from Loud, who told him it was his turn on watch, alongside the skipper. Simon and Walter Wellman made themselves snug in the lifeboat, lit up a cigarette each, and nattered. The captain of the America was old enough to be the father of the twenty-nine-year-old Englishman, but in the chilly night air they were without rank or restriction; they discussed food, weather, future attempts, and the probable whereabouts of the steamer from Bermuda. Then Wellman scanned the night sky and predicted another fine day. “As soon as the sun comes out today, the America will go up again well aloft,” he said to Simon. “We’ll have to let out some more of our gas, which will mean we’re about done by sundown.” Simon took a long, deep, satisfying drag on his cigarette, then asked, “Why not draw water and fill one of the tanks as ballast so we can keep down during the day?”
