Kennedy moving majestically through the thirty-foot waves less than a mile offshore, rolling and pitching certainly, but less than would have been expected with a conventionally designed ship. Her rounded deck, almost flush with the water, gave the appearance of a half-submerged submarine as she slipped through the waves. Her deep wing-back bridge, canted aft, seemed to flow smoothly into the rear deck and thence into the sea, with no perceptible change in structure. Above, the leaden sky glowered down on equally leaden seas. Larkin, standing on the narrow catwalk from which hours before he had fought to turn the ship from the rampaging sea, raised his face to feel the thick, wet flakes filtering down and grimaced as they melted on his upturned face. Both he and Folsom had come out onto the catwalk for a few moments of privacy while they discussed various means to reach the downed pilot. "I have never seen the temperature rise so quickly after an Arctic storm," he said. "If this keeps up, we'll have rain in another hour." Folsom's face was clouded with worry as he surveyed the sky, the seas, and the dimly seen cliffs to port.
