The Deep

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It was ten o’clock in the morning when the captain noticed that the wind had begun to die.

In his cabin, leafing through a magazine brought aboard at Norfolk by one of the crew, he sensed a change in the ship’s motion, a softening of the hiss of hull moving through water, a distant slapping of luffing sails. He rolled off his bunk, stretched, and started for the door.

Mounted on the bulkhead to the left of the door was a panel of brass weather gauges. The needle on the barometer showed 29.75 inches of mercury. The captain tapped the glass, and the needle dropped quickly to 29.5.

On deck he walked aft, sniffing the sluggish breeze and searching the horizon. The sky was clear, but a dim yellow haze thickened the air. The captain squinted. Way in the distance, high thin strands of cirrus clouds crept across the sky.

The first mate, a young bearded Scot, stood at the helm, guiding the ship through the long swells.

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