Opening my eyes did nothing to correct it. The deafening wailing and rattling and thudding continued. It was pitch black, and I was rolling backwards and forwards among something that could have been heaps of soggy cushions. I felt dead sick. I felt dead. It was the problem of finding somewhere to be sick that made me keep my eyes open, and work out where I was. There wasn’t much trouble, once I put my mind to it. In the cockpit well of Dolly, sliding about with several unconscious people in total darkness, with no engine on, and no sail, and a storm going on around me. The thugs who had left us that way, and their ship, had all vanished. It didn’t accordingly seem to matter very much where I was sick, but I did stagger as considerately as I could to the side, and got there in time. I was aware, as the sandwiches and the paella and everything else disappeared into either the Atlantic or the Caribbean, that I was walking without twinges, which I was vaguely glad about, until I remembered how pleased my aunt would be as well.
What do You think about The Tropical Issue (2012)?
