Incarceration

I’m in the galley peeling potatoes alongside the perspiring cook. Peeling potatoes. Honestly. Is this what my young life has amounted to? Apprentice missionary and potato peeler?

Note, I say cook and not chef. This is no oversight on my part. I believe I’ve made it clear on several occasions that the product of this galley is under par. These potatoes, for instance, will be transformed into a thick gloop, which will arrive tableside cold, hard and unpalatable.

He’s Portuguese, the cook. Did I mention that? Señor Batata Maudieto. Doesn’t speak a word of English. So I take great pleasure in telling him, or rather his tall off-white hat (he's a stout, vertically challenged fellow), exactly what I think of his culinary masterpieces. A list of his most recent achievements include:

1. Gruel
2. Grey paste-like matter (egg, my father informs me - with little conviction)
3. A colourless plant-like substance (cabbage, says my father - with less conviction)
4. Yellow sponge-like matter (an egg variant, I assume - with no conviction)
5. More gruel (you get the picture)

I make lists, like this one, to pass the time. I focus on everyday things: wind direction, names of fish that break the surface, birds that circle overhead, places I intend never to visit (the Kalahari for example), and people who annoy me. That sort of thing.

I can hear the unmistakable clip of boots strutting the dining hall. He’s out there – top of my list – first officer, Elliot F. Emery, or Efemmery, as I’ve taken to call him. It’s his doing I’m down here in the bowels of the schooner with the humourless cook at my side. Efemmery controls the work roster and I’ve a feeling I’m in for a rough couple of months. I'll be scrubbing the deck next. Which is a subject I intend to take up with my father at the earliest opportunity. The captain's remark about us not being paying passengers has thrown me. Am I to assume I've been duped into a working trip?

‘One cannot expect something for nothing,' declared father at the bridge (in reference to the stowaway). 'He’s just a lad, certainly, but lessons need to be learned. There’s nothing to be gained in running away.'

The stowaway's incarceration continues to stir debate. RH I. Seedat agrees with my more lenient sentiment. ‘By golly old chap, that young fellow has some gumption, no?’

I haven’t seen the kid for three days. The RH I. Seedat believes they’ve secured him in the engine room with a plan to offload him when we dock at the Canary Islands. I must find a way to see him. Seedat assures me the Canary Islands are some distance away. I glance at the harassed cook, throw an under-peeled potato into the bowl (my rebellion against forced labour) and begin to formulate a plan.