With the cook’s head turned, I stuff hot sausages into my pockets. The grease soaks the lining, searing my skin as I slalom through the rust-run container stacks to find them. Clambering, I hoist the tarp and make my offering. It appears that the stowaways are displeased. Others have already brought sausages this morning. I vow to do better at lunch.
It seems the pair, domiciled in the starboard lifeboat, are now the shared secret of all. Over weeks, they grow corpulent, and their salt-ravaged rags dissolve round plump bellies and pie crusts. Given spare uniforms, lest they catch cold, they start to patrol the decks during daylight hours, pointing at slicks requiring a mopping. As the junior rating onboard, I slosh the grey head where I am told.
Now openly eating in the mess and, having no duties to attend, they tarry all evening, winning money at cards. Their victories include the allocation of a cabin, swindled ingeniously from the drunken purser. In their new quarters, the skipper and his circle gather each night to smoke cigars and gulp port. They become central to the floating social scene with their wit and winning manner. From our hot bunks, their bold gurgles of joy stretch into our uneasy dreams.
With the headcount discrepancy realised, we hear that all will be righted at the next port. I watch agog as they descend the gangplank, carrying the duffle bags belonging to Cristanto and myself. They say it is the least that they can do.
Leaning over the salted rails, Second Officers Nitin and Moksh wave blissfully as the ship bellows and departs the dockside. Crisanto and I watch, blinking in shock, before slinking into the souks of Marrakech. Perhaps tomorrow’s ship will take us, or maybe we will hide in its lifeboat.