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As Geary coordinates with one of the watch officers for a ship-wide announcement, Elishani’s eyes turn to you and Sloan. As one, you stiffen to attention as the captain rises from out of his chair, and works his way to your workstation. “How good’s your meteorology?”
Sloan answers nervously, “Uh…good, sir. Passed with distinction during the last watch exam.”
Then, you reply dryly, “Not my strongest suit, sir. Weather wasn’t exactly taught at the PUEXO program.”
Elishani merely nods. “The course you charted for the <span class="mu-i">Calypso</span> is westward, away from the storm blowing from the north-east. I’m going to need a new bearing for our escape, and a predicted path of the storm.”
“Yes, sir!”
Sloan ends up pulling most of the legwork, but defaults to your math and revisions when you point out mistakes or margins of error. All the while, you pull up booklets and journals, cartographic notes regarding the trade winds, oceanographic hazards, pirate attacks, among other points of data. Between you and Sloan, it takes only around ten minutes to chart the storm’s course, and a handful more to plot a hazard-free course.
“Well done,” commends Elishani. “Now, I suggest that you buckle up and grab hold of something…”
Even with the storm dozens of kilometers out, the squall it produces is enough to rock both the nearby seas and three-thousand-ton salvage trawler. Your stomach lurches as the ship rolls and pitches with the swell of rolling waves. Hundreds of pounds of water slam and splash across the deck, and the spray reaches as high as the bridge windows.
“Oh, God…” groans the cadet. He’s certainly looking green at the gills, struggling to concentrate on his map and math. At one point, Sloan looks like he’s about to puke, but manages to hold it in at the last possible second. “…oh, fuck…”
<span class="mu-i">“When I grow up, I wanna be a sailor! There’s gotta be more islands than what’s on the map, right uncle?”</span>
“…shouldn’t have gone twice for fish sticks, huh?” you dryly observe.
“Sir, with all due respect…please shut up…”
Your lip twitches in the ghost of a smile. “First squall?”
Green as he is, an embarrassed flush stains his cheeks a ruddy red. “…yeah.”
And probably his first outing to sea out of the naval academy. You reach out to pat him on the shoulder. “Hang in there. It gets easier, you know. Bulkhead’s closed for fresh air, but I’ll go ask the steward for some ginger ale.”
“I’d greatly…appreciate that, sir,” Sloan wheezes.
“And if you’re going to puke, don’t puke on me or the table.”
“…will do, sir…”
The squall lasts for a good two hours, thirty-seven minutes. And in that time, the cadet only pukes once, and into a hastily fetched wastebasket. But Sloan seems to faire better, even as he sheepishly takes a mop from an unimpressed Geary to clean up what didn’t get into the bucket.
(cont.)
