Evg watched the midsummer sun through a bank of yellow-green fog that hovered over the ice, about a nautical mile out he guessed. It was almost midnight. It was warm. The onshore breeze picked up waves from the shimmering edge of the ice pack and splashed them onto the scaly gravel at his feet. Leathery leaves on a lone stick of willow trembled. Should he be naked? He decided not. Too film-school, too sixties. He still feels the tug of an art house audience hungry for abstraction and skin. It’s old skin now, he thinks, his mind rising to the surface it sees in mirrors. No no. Faded Levi’s, a white T and Converse, red ones, still a classic look.
About five in the morning the sleepless sailors got together amidships. The captain and his son, John, sotted on rationed gin, were still up whipping each other and plotting the death of their wife and mother when the second mate who used to be first mate, together with others of the cantankerous and abused crew, grabbed them and recorded their last requests.