Ships in the Night 2

In the ward room, Speedwell Vetch (ship's carpenter) and Rolf Fulmar (Bosun) were engaged in the mind-mangling past-time of Phsycic Whist.
"My trick?" enquired the Bosun. Speedwell reached out to gather up the cards,
"Nope, mine I believe,"
"Sorry old pal, didn't realise they were trumps," said Rolf
The grin on the carpenter's face spoke volumes, "The hell you didn't, you called them."
The Bosun shrugged dismissively, "Well, it was worth a try, nothing ventured as they say. Your deal."
With practiced ease Speedwell shuffled the cards and swiftly dealt three hands, one for himself, one for Rolf and one for the dummy. He sorted the dummy hand out face up and the two players picked their cards up and held them up backs facing them.
Speedwell Vetch looked carefully at his opponents hand, nothing too threatening there he thought and turned his attention to the back of his own cards. Sweat beaded his brow as he tried to get a mental picture of his hand. He was getting a strong feeling of red; hearts maybe? A royal card; perhaps the King. The Ace was in the dummy hand therefore out of play so that should be ok. He frowned in concentration, his pinched fingers hovered over the card in question, deftly plucked it from his hand and sent it spinning down onto the green baize table. It was the three of Spades.

Life on board for the crew of the Pickled Herring was mainly routine, punctuated by moments of sheer, bowel-loosening terror. It was a glorious life when the skies were clear and the winds turning the sails into fat-faced children, with rainbows forming in the bowwave you could almost hear the ship laughing with joy at the freedom of the open ocean; then the sea was your friend and the stars your guides. Who could ask for more than the moon reflecting from the silver sea, the peaceful whisper of the wind in the rigging and a mug of hot cocoa? On the other hand, running before the wind in a force nine gale aboard a small craft is slightly less fun than cross-country running at school; it nevers seems like it is going to stop and when it eventually does it is the cold shower followed by double maths for additional humiliation. The gentle sea turns into something solid and menacing. It is still water but it bears no resemblance to the clear, wet stuff that comes out of taps; this stuff has teeth. Imagine runny granite but make it cold, add a Bartok symphony and turn the volume right up; that's right, up to eleven. Now, stand on one leg hopping around in circles, empty a bucket of cold water over your head and hold your breath. It's actually nothing like that but the effects are the same as by now you are feeling disorientated, dizzy, wet and sick as a parrot. At times like this even the most Doberman of sea dogs runs into his kennel and whimpers. But all is forgotten the next day when the wind drops to a gentle breeze, the white horses prance joyfully and the ship once more skims across the briny ocean; everyone feels alive and breathes free. There is almose certainly a concertina being played somewhere and even the seagulls sing in tune.

Captain lantern-jawed Jack Cutler stood on the bridge of his ship and surveyed his realm. Few thoughts ever went through his mind, not for him deep philosophical discussions late into the night, nor contemplation of the infinite; he was a simple man. Some people thought that explained his legendary bravery; he was just too stupid, they thought, to realize something could be dangerous. This was both unfair and inaccurate; stupidity and simplicity are not one and the same. The truth of the matter was that he had very little imagination and no space in his mind for anything beyond the immediate issues facing him; in that way he was ideally suited to his life at sea as he never got bored and never felt scared. Agreed, he would never win any prizes for his creative thought processes but he had the stamina of a tectonic plate and was about as unstoppable. His crew knew this and respected and trusted him implicitly.
"Meredith?"
"Aye Cap'n?"
"Are you sure this is the right place?"
"Give or take a couple of miles, yes Sir."
The Captain paused for a moment, "I suppose we had better drop anchor and wait then, no point in sailing around in circles."
"Do yo want me to check our position again Sir?" Meredith had the charts and instruments of navigation ready to hand.
"Not at all, I'm sure you've got it right as usual." He paused to gather himself and in a voice like a very loud thing he yelled, "All hands on deck!"

There was a frantic scrabbling from below deck as, one by one, the crew popped out of the hatch and gathered in front of their captain awaiting his orders.
"Gentlemen," he glanced at Merri, "and lady," he added "prepare to drop sea anchor." Smoothly, as only an experienced crew could, each moved to their assigned post; no one ran or rushed, just one moment they were all together and the next they weren't. The mainsail was lowered and furled, the jib trimmed. The bosun stood by the sea anchor, maul in hand, waiting for the order to lower away. As soon as Captain Jack saw everything was in order he grasped the wheel and steered into the wind."Anchor away!" he called. Rolf swung the big hammer with practiced ease and with a single blow removed the wooden chock holding the anchor in place. There was a loud clattering and a splash as the anchor chain flowed into the sea. There was a moments pause as the sea anchor filled and the Pickled Herring drifted to a stop. Captain Jack tied off the wheel and turned to his crew.
"Well done everybody, stand down, and Cedric?"
"Yes Sir?"
"Put the kettle on, there's a good chap."