a swim

A Swim
On the morning of the third day, the sea calmed. Even the most
delicate passengers — those who had not been seen around the
ship since sailing time — came out of their rooms and made their
way slowly onto the sundeck and sat there, with their faces
turned to the pale January sun.
It had been fairly rough for the first two days, and this sudden
calm, and the sense of comfort that came with it, made the whole
ship seem much friendlier. By the time evening came, the
passengers, with twelve hours of good weather behind them,
were beginning to feel more courageous. At eight o'clock that
night, the main dining room was filled with people eating and
drinking with the confident appearance of experienced sailors.
The meal was not half over when the passengers realized, by
the slight movement of their bodies on the seats of their chairs,
that the big ship had actually started rolling again. It was very
gentle at first, just a slow, lazy leaning to one side, then to the
other, but it was enough to cause a slight but immediate loss of
good humour around the room. A few of the passengers looked
up from their food, waiting, almost listening for the next roll,
smiling nervously, with little secret looks of fear in their eyes.
Some were completely calm; others were openly pleased with
themselves and made jokes about the food and the weather in
order to annoy the few who were beginning to suffer. The
movement of the ship then became rapidly more and more
violent, and only five or six minutes after the first roll had been
noticed, the ship was swinging heavily from side to side.
At last, a really bad roll came, and Mr William Botibol, sitting
at the purser's table, saw his plate of fish sliding suddenly away
from under his fork. Everybody, now, was reaching for plates and
wine glasses. Mrs Renshaw, seated at the purser's right, gave a
little scream and held onto that gentleman's arm.
'It's going to be a rough night,' the purser said, looking at Mrs
Renshaw. ' I think there's a storm coming that will give us a very
rough night.' There was just the faintest suggestion of pleasure in
the way he said it.
Most of the passengers continued with their meal. A small
number, including Mrs Renshaw, got carefully to their feet and
made their way between the tables and through the doorway,
trying to hide the urgency they felt.
'Well,' the purser said, 'there she goes.' He looked round with
approval at the remaining passengers who were sitting quietly,
with their faces showing openly that pride that travellers seem to
take in being recognized as 'good sailors'.
When the eating was finished and the coffee had been served,
Mr Botibol, who had been unusually serious and thoughtful since
the rolling started, suddenly stood up and carried his cup of
coffee around to Mrs Renshaw's empty place, next to the purser.
He seated himself in her chair, then immediately leaned over and
began to whisper urgently in the purser's ear. 'Excuse me,' he said,
'but could you tell me something, please?'
The purser, small and fat and red, bent forward to listen.
'What's the trouble, Mr Botibol?'
'What I want to know is this. 'The man's face was anxious and
the purser was watching it. 'What I want to know is: will the
captain already have made his guess at the day's run - you know,
for the competition? I mean, will he have done so before it began
to get rough like this?'
The purser lowered his voice, as one does when answering a
whisperer. '