Stumbling out of the fresher, Thumbs braced himself against the rusty wall and breathed in through his nose, out his mouth, a few times. They’d been out to sea three weeks aboard this rustbucket and he still couldn’t stop yarfing out his guts every time they hit a wave. The sea, the sky, the deck, and his wobbly self were all gently rocking back and forth, to and fro, with the overhead light fixtures swaying sickeningly in squeaky counterpoint. But he was feeling much better after giving the fish of the Atlantic Ocean a hearty meal.