For the first time in 5 weeks, I put on my shoes during the day. Not because it’s too cold to walk barefoot, but to brace myself. It’s like climbing a mountain when I want to go from one side of my cabin to the other. A distance of 80 centimeters. Waiting for the right wave, I venture across.
The salon is usually quiet, but today cups are bouncing across the floor, dishes are rattling in the sink, and books are flying out of the library. It’s absolute chaos. Aeolus is doing his best, blowing from the northeast at a strong 30 knots (7 Bft). Neptune is not to be outdone by his companion, throwing up towering seas. We are the playthings of the two, tossed from starboard to port.
After scrambling from my cabin forward to the cockpit, I take the helm from mate Peter. The sky is clear blue. The sun is pleasantly warm. The waves are relentless. Another one rolls in from diagonally behind, at least as high as our pilothouse. Just as it’s about to crash over the railing, the ship rises. The wave rushes beneath us and resurfaces, roaring, on the port side. Water sloshes through the gangway.
The captain comes out and tries his best to stay seated on the bench next to me. “What a wonderful day,” he says. And it truly is.
