30: Brice
Brice
It was raining, a fine spray that coated Brice’s face and hair. The horizon disappeared into grey clouds, and the waves peaked high.
Watching the waves settled his stomach, though, and he clung to the railing, hands cooling on the metal. Now and then a wave would hit the boat broadsides—was that the term?—and salty water would spray over Brice, warm and cold at the same time, stinging his eyes. Then the rain would hit him, washing the salt off. It almost felt calming.
But what wasn’t calming was the cacophony. Most of the crew, as Joy had said, were out on deck, doing all kinds of things—scrubbing, fixing, banging, and moaning. They worked in pairs, and muttered to their partners—joking, complaining, wishing for anything better than this miserable work detail.
