The Crossing.

The great orange globe rising as out of the water was a fascinating sight especially for someone seeing it for the first time. For Mark Banting, who had made more than a dozen trips from Newfoundland to Oporto, it was the one thing that still captivated him. Sunrise in mid-Atlantic with no land for as far as the eye could see was a sight never to be forgotten. The other six members of the crew, including the Captain himself, were all on deck to witness the spectacle. It was a clear morning with not a cloud in the sky, making the scene all the more alluring. He knew that “the old man”, as most people referred to Captain Stan Fowlow, had been a bit uneasy about this trip. “Too many greenhorns”, he had confided to Mark before leaving, referring to the fact that four of the seven man crew had never made the trip before. Now however, they were on their way back home without a hitch, and another 48 hours should bring them in sight of land. Mark knew that the skipper was still concerned. August, was known for it’s fierce Atlantic gales which sometimes swept down abruptly, and seemingly from out of no where. Two hours later, with all signs still pointing to a perfect day, Mark surrendered the wheel to Jim Hastings, just 19 years old and one of the greenhorns the old man had worried about. Tired after the all night shift, he was soon in his bunk and asleep.

“The captain wants you Sir”. Jim was standing in the doorway as Mark opened his eyes and he knew immediately that they had struck a storm, and apparently a bad one. He saw the fear in Jim’s eyes and realized how young and inexperienced he was, no wonder the old man had worried. One look at Captain Fowlow, and Mark knew that he had more than the storm to worry about.  Sweat was coming down the skipper’s face as he grasped the wheel with both hands. “you’re in charge Mark”, he said, I’m going below.” With that the old man turned on his heels. Glancing at the clock, he saw it was 1:30 and from the looks of things, the storm was just getting up steam. There was only one other man onboard who had made the trip before, 28 year old Isaac Marlowe, known more for brawn then for brain. Seven hours later, Mark was still at the wheel, and already he had twice thought that all was over, yet somehow he had managed to keep the boat upright. Marlowe had offered to relieve him but he had refused, the skipper he knew, was counting on him. By midnight Mark was fighting tiredness as well as the storm, when he felt  a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll take over now,”  and looking up he gave the wheel to the only other man he knew that could see them safely through the storm.