Safe from the Sea

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The officer stood the midnight watch, his hand easy on the wooden wheel. He was steering the ore boat Ragnarøk, five hours outside Duluth harbor and downbound for the Superior Steel Works in Detroit.

“Jacobsen,” he called.

“Sir?” The wheelsman stepped to the helm.

“Bear northeast, Jacobsen. And never mind this.” He tapped the binnacle dome. “Steer for Polaris.” He pointed up at the firmament. “The top of the dipper.” Their load of taconite had sent the compass dithering.

“Yes, sir.”

The officer stepped to the chart. He withdrew his tobacco and papers from the inside pocket of his coat and rolled a cigarette. In the weary light of a twenty-watt bulb he studied their course. They were some twenty nautical miles north of the Keweenaw Peninsula in water a hundred and fifty fathoms deep. He marked their position. It was a passage plotted ages ago, one he knew by rote. He stood there because he was a prudent man, strict in his habits and in his discipline. An upholder of protocol. Consulting the charts was written into his duties.

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