I came out of a doze, pried stiff, cramped fingers loose from the wooden spokes and lurched, stumbled backward, feeling for the bench. I steered around it, crouched down on the wet floor, braced my back against the bench and my feet against the wall. A long roll swung the boat over again until I was lying almost on my back, feet high in the air. Suddenly I didn’t care a hang if the boat floated or sank. Too tired. But before I went to sleep a satisfying thought came to me. Outside the cabin nature had let loose all the violent elements in her box of tricks, all against this little boat pitching and tossing drunkenly on a sea of monstrous ridges and abysmal valleys, zigzagging crazily through a night as black as the pit, rolling and heeling to a wind that ripped up oceans; while inside the pilot house, an insignificant cell of quietness in all this riot of fury and noise, seven pigmies stared through flimsy glass windows and defied all the combined efforts of the elements of turmoil. The last words I heard were: “Now where in _hell_ is that Light?” It was a boat with an exceedingly clean deck that came chugging into Cannery Inlet about eight in the morning, a boat with a crew one third awake. We scraped four pilings and crashed through a rowboat float before docking at the fish conveyor. We heard exclamations of wonder as we threw out our lines. About us we could see traces of last night’s storm on the beach, even in this haven. “Gosh, man! You didn’t come across in _that_ storm?” Bob lit his pipe and turned a sleep-laden face to the inquirer, the cannery owner. Then he climbed into his bunk, clothes, boots, pipe and all. “_Unhuh._ Li’l bit rough.” And he dropped off to sleep in the man’s face. Back in the galley I could hear the old cook making breakfast to the tune of an exceedingly ribald old song: “Oh, were yez ever in an Irishman’s shanty, Where money was scarce and whisky waz planty----” The owner turned to the rest of the group. “But wasn’t it rough?” “Oh, it blowed some,” said Ed, making for his bunk in the fo’c’s’lehead. “Rather rough,” added Milt, which was his second statement since leaving Ketchikan the night before. Charlie, fat, bald, and German, smiled wisely and made for the kitchen, from which came the odor of fried ham. “Um,” said I, trying to straddle the fence. I would like to have enlarged on that trip. I felt it deserved grander treatment. It needed an epic strophe and sonorous epithets. But how could a blasé old sea dog of twenty-one do so without losing caste? I followed Charlie into the galley for breakfast. [Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the January 5, 1923 issue of _Sea Stories Magazine_.]