Script quote along the ribs

The chart room smells of burnt coffee and the damp wool of the second mate's coat, and I am writing this on the back of a pilotage card because the stationery ran out somewhere south of the Azores. Mr Okafor says the weather will hold until Tuesday. He said the same thing about the Biscay swell, so I am not counting on it.

Mum's letter came in the last mail boat, the one that met us off Finisterre. You will remember she never could spell "rhubarb" and she still signs off with a row of kisses like a girl. She says the kettle at home has started whistling again, the high note that sounded like Dad calling us in from the allotment. She has put the old tin of buttons on the windowsill, which I think is her way of saying she is not sleeping. I read it twice on the stairs, then folded it into the inside of my jersey where the ship's bell can't rattle it loose.

Here is the thing I meant to tell you properly. When the Captain asked for volunteers to take the watch in the hold during the storm, I put my hand up before I had thought about it, and I thought, that's Dad in me, the one who never left a job half done. Then the water came over the rail and I stopped thinking altogether. Nothing clever happened. I just kept hauling. Afterwards, I swear I heard the kettle.

Write when you can. Tell Mum the buttons are safe with me, all of them.

Love, Tom