The orange glow reflecting off the window could easily have been mistaken for the lights of a distant ship. With an exhale of smoke, he visibly relaxed, the tough muscles in his neck and shoulders sinking down as the tension was blown away in a puff of tobacco. There were three places a sailor could smoke on board: your own cabin, on the poop deck, and the officers’ mess. Etiquette from an older generation had prevented Captain Warden smoking in the mess in the company of his guests. He appreciated that it could put others off their food, but now that he was back on his bridge the need for a post repast draw was overwhelming. Taking a second long draw, Warden knew none of the bridge crew were paying the least attention to his smoking. The privilege of being the captain meant that he never broke the rules because he could just amend them. He had occasionally smoked on the bridge before, but only in times of stress. It struck him that now was one of those times. He and his crew had weathered storms more ferocious than the approaching hurricane Emily.
