See! (I cried) she tacks no more! Hither to work us weal; Without a breeze, without a tide, She steadies with upright keel! —Samuel Taylor Coleridge The Rime of the Ancient Mariner Gripping tightly to the middle bunk, Della stared down at the sea, far, far below them. The wind still lashed the waves in fury, and the ship still rocked, but now it lay nearly on its side. Surely this was a very, very bad sign. Kent made his way up the steep-pitched floor to join her at the porthole. "I fear you may be right." His voice was remarkably calm. "I'd best go out and see if there is anything I can do." "I'm coming with you." To her relief, he didn't argue. Quickly, they pulled on their clothing, dispensing with all but the necessary items. As soon as they unlatched the door, it swung out and down to show the dining saloon in a state of chaos. Passengers were scrambling up the slope toward them, using tables and benches, bolted to the floor, to help themselves along. Clearly, most were afraid that the other side would soon be under water, though at the moment it appeared dry enough.
