The Shipping Forecast

Plymouth Part 1, the third

1710, mid-channel

There are thoughts for these kinds of situations, and Killin's went something like: This is so unfair!

If anything could underline just how unfair things could get, he was holding in his hand a sheet of paper, on which he had written down the latest shipping forecast transmitted on Radio 4 a few minutes earlier for sea area Plymouth into which they were about to enter:

Southerly force 3, slight sea, fair weather, good visibility.

He contrasted this with the view from the bridge windows, which told him that either the BBC were lying, or he was having some kind of breakdown. Because outside, the sky was grey and lowering with scudding cloud and rain, the wind was blowing hard from the north-west, and the sea was high and bloody tempestuous. The Zeeland gave a sickening lurch and ponderous roll as if to underline the fact that it was a bit grim out there. Killin turned his head just enough to allow him to see Captain Brindley out of the corner of his eye, arms crossed, swaying to the pitch and roll five paces behind him. Killin could practically feel the heat of fury given off by Brindley as he stared, wide eyed, at the back of his head. Lightning flashed in the distance. The starboard lookout farted. Killin closed his eyes and sighed.

"Another five hours on watch, I think," declared Brindley with a malicious sneer, before stalking off the bridge to converse with a bottle of gin in his cabin.

If Killin had thought the day could not get any worse, he was about to be royally disabused. Three hours passed with very little actually happening, other than the last of the daylight evaporating to be replaced by pitch black nothingness, interspersed with thunder and lightning and rain and spray and absolute bloody awfulness. Why was this happening to him?

Killin decided that it was time to quit giving up smoking. "Garcia, stand me a smoke would you? Thanks." He turned, intending to go through the starboard bridge wing door but the lookout stationed there let rip another long, thunderous fart that would no doubt act as a barrier more effective than if the man himself had barred the door. Turning around, Killin headed for the port side door, shucking on his jacket as he went in preparation for the gale of wind and rain he would have to contend with on the windward side. He forced himself through the door and hunkered down behind the shelter of the bridge wing coaming, cursing the water that ran cold down his neck.

Killin fumbled for his matches. The first three all succumbed to drops or water or gusts of wind that snuffed out the flame, but on his fourth try the match flared brightly. "Ah ha!" he exclaimed, marvelling at the prodigious amount of light the match seemed to be giving off to his surroundings.

And that was the point at which Killin's luck, a fickle and flighty thing, took off for pastures new, leaving him with never a backwoods look, or even a last wave goodbye, the hussy.