Impulsively she unbuttoned the top buttons of her shirt and stuffed it down to lie cold against her belly, held up by the waistband of her shorts.
They were a good team, the men on the forecastle deserving her loyalty as unstintingly as they gave theirs. She reached up and pulled the warning line. At once Salah Malik’s head was thrust into silhouette against the darkening sky. She waved. He nodded. Vanished. A moment later she began to rise. After a few feet, she began to walk up the metal.
By the time she reached the top, the fish was no longer waving its bright tail from her cleavage—that would have been no fun—it was thrust into the waistband of her shorts at the back. As she stepped aboard it gave a wriggle and caused her to gasp as though she had been pinched, but no one seemed to notice. In an instant, the fish was out of her clothing and sailing through the air to land at their feet. There was a moment of stunned disbelief, then they all pounced except for Salah, who turned to look at her. With a howl of glee, Hajji Hassan straightened, holding the thing aloft. Robin sighed mentally. It was always the way. The one who hadn’t earned it, always got it.
The Chinese stewards had started the pot, of course, inveterate gamblers to a man; but the seamen had joined in cheerfully, half expecting their money back in Rotterdam, for who had ever heard of a flying fish jumping nearly forty feet onto a supertanker’s deck?
But here it was, a flying fish, right on the deck in front of them, and consequently worth over two hundred dollars.
Hajji was not popular, but such good fortune could not fail to lead to celebration. He and the fish were sweptinto the air and the team bore them off raucously, looking for “Twelve Toes” Ho, who was holding the purse.
Salah looked at Robin. Did she want the boatswain’s chair dismantled and stowed? Should he call them back?
She shook her head. The mate would want to check her findings. They might as well leave it up for him.
He nodded, understanding more even than she suspected, and turned to follow his men.
After a moment, Robin followed too, feeling, in the aftermath of her elation, slightly depressed. No; it was not just after the elation. It was the thought of talking to Strong. Of handling his thinly veiled hostility, his nit-picking, double-checking, sexist, petty desire for revenge. She had come across men who found themselves incapable of seeing women as their equals—plenty of them—but, she realized, there had always been some sort of a buffer before. Now there was not. At the moment it was her and the first mate, head to head.
But, to be fair, it wasn’t all simple sexism on his part: she couldn’t think of many women who would be too charmed at having every stitch of their clothing stolen in front of thirty people, either.
But only John was on the bridge. “What happened down there?” he asked cheerfully, nodding forward, his trusty briar bobbing above the purposeful jut of his chin. “They going to chuck that lazy beggar Hajji overboard at last?”
“Found a flying fish.”
“On the forecastle head? That’s not a fish, that’s Superman.” He looked at her suspiciously. “You spoil that lot.”
“They’re worth it.” She grinned, warmed by the comradely twinkle in his eye.
“Up to you. Anything wrong?”
“Everything’s fine as far as I can see. Just rust blisters. Needs a paint job at the most.”
“If you say it’s fine, then it’s fine.”
“Better check with the mate.”
“Look, Robin,” John turned to her, “don’t let him get you down. He’s a picky sod, but nice enough. He’d be giving any junior a bit of a rough ride now, and you…” He hesitated, took his pipe out of his mouth, and scratched his chin with it.
“Bring out the worst in him?”
“You said it!”
“Bring out the worst in whom?” demanded Strong, coming onto the bridge at that moment. “Number Three, why is your team running riot below when
They were a good team, the men on the forecastle deserving her loyalty as unstintingly as they gave theirs. She reached up and pulled the warning line. At once Salah Malik’s head was thrust into silhouette against the darkening sky. She waved. He nodded. Vanished. A moment later she began to rise. After a few feet, she began to walk up the metal.
By the time she reached the top, the fish was no longer waving its bright tail from her cleavage—that would have been no fun—it was thrust into the waistband of her shorts at the back. As she stepped aboard it gave a wriggle and caused her to gasp as though she had been pinched, but no one seemed to notice. In an instant, the fish was out of her clothing and sailing through the air to land at their feet. There was a moment of stunned disbelief, then they all pounced except for Salah, who turned to look at her. With a howl of glee, Hajji Hassan straightened, holding the thing aloft. Robin sighed mentally. It was always the way. The one who hadn’t earned it, always got it.
The Chinese stewards had started the pot, of course, inveterate gamblers to a man; but the seamen had joined in cheerfully, half expecting their money back in Rotterdam, for who had ever heard of a flying fish jumping nearly forty feet onto a supertanker’s deck?
But here it was, a flying fish, right on the deck in front of them, and consequently worth over two hundred dollars.
Hajji was not popular, but such good fortune could not fail to lead to celebration. He and the fish were sweptinto the air and the team bore them off raucously, looking for “Twelve Toes” Ho, who was holding the purse.
Salah looked at Robin. Did she want the boatswain’s chair dismantled and stowed? Should he call them back?
She shook her head. The mate would want to check her findings. They might as well leave it up for him.
He nodded, understanding more even than she suspected, and turned to follow his men.
After a moment, Robin followed too, feeling, in the aftermath of her elation, slightly depressed. No; it was not just after the elation. It was the thought of talking to Strong. Of handling his thinly veiled hostility, his nit-picking, double-checking, sexist, petty desire for revenge. She had come across men who found themselves incapable of seeing women as their equals—plenty of them—but, she realized, there had always been some sort of a buffer before. Now there was not. At the moment it was her and the first mate, head to head.
But, to be fair, it wasn’t all simple sexism on his part: she couldn’t think of many women who would be too charmed at having every stitch of their clothing stolen in front of thirty people, either.
But only John was on the bridge. “What happened down there?” he asked cheerfully, nodding forward, his trusty briar bobbing above the purposeful jut of his chin. “They going to chuck that lazy beggar Hajji overboard at last?”
“Found a flying fish.”
“On the forecastle head? That’s not a fish, that’s Superman.” He looked at her suspiciously. “You spoil that lot.”
“They’re worth it.” She grinned, warmed by the comradely twinkle in his eye.
“Up to you. Anything wrong?”
“Everything’s fine as far as I can see. Just rust blisters. Needs a paint job at the most.”
“If you say it’s fine, then it’s fine.”
“Better check with the mate.”
“Look, Robin,” John turned to her, “don’t let him get you down. He’s a picky sod, but nice enough. He’d be giving any junior a bit of a rough ride now, and you…” He hesitated, took his pipe out of his mouth, and scratched his chin with it.
“Bring out the worst in him?”
“You said it!”
“Bring out the worst in whom?” demanded Strong, coming onto the bridge at that moment. “Number Three, why is your team running riot below when
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