The weather has worsened; the crew has closed the hatches to prevent the seas that slosh across the upper deck from flooding our space below. It makes the dark space even darker. And smellier. Most people sit on the bunks that line both walls—five to a bunk. The passengers sit holding their heads, or retching into buckets. The exceptions are the fishermen, who are used to this kind of motion. They’re trying to catch a barrel that’s come loose from the ropes that are supposed to lash it to the wall. The thing rolls back and forth across the floor, banging into bunks while people leap out of its way and the fishermen give chase. Days go by. And nights, although it’s not always easy to tell one from the other. It’s so dark and the stench is so bad that the crew won’t come down here. After several days, the first mate pokes a long, flaming, tar-covered stick down the hatch. This seems to tamp down the smell somewhat. Adequate privies would do a lot more to control the smell than his tar stick.
