The night ferry to Southampton was a case in point. Probably because of the strike the ferry was surprisingly crowded and there were no empty settees to stretch out upon. But poking around through the bowels of the vessel, I spotted a bulkhead lined with shelves of luggage racks and climbed to the uppermost with my panniers, stacked them up to prevent myself from rolling out, and fell into a deep sleep. True to form, the English Channel was rough that night and we began pitching and rolling and diving into frothy valleys of water as soon as we cleared the shelter of land. At one point we took a dive that was steep enough to dislodge me from my nest and send me skidding forward on my rack, toward a steely gray bulkhead, my pannier barricade racing forward with me. I gave up on sleep and went out on deck to look at the sea. There were sheets of rain and spray washing the decks, and the waters were black and Stygian and mixed with white toothy breakers that charged toward the vessel as if they were attempting to bite it.
