The sounds of retching were briefly audible as the Storm’s Herald crested a mountainous wave, but were quickly swallowed by the rush of water as the ship plummeted down the far side. Captain Brandr “One-Boot” Gunnarson grimaced and spit over the side. Salt spray splashed his face, briefly distracting him from his own roiling gut.
Crossing into the Eye had unsettled the stomachs of even leathery old salts like Habbly, but Brandr had looked forward to the eternal storm as a source of relief from his roiling guts. Days of constant drinking had left him queasy, with little chance for recovery due to the grueling pace of the Regatta. While the deck’s heaving had gotten worse of late, the respite from constant drinking had been a blessing.
It was almost impossible to determine their position in the race, as ships he thought were well behind kept being sighted. Brandr thought that the Herald was well in the lead, as they had overcome all of the obstacles handily thus far, but with captains like Harrigan, Corvus, and the Master of Gales apprentice as opponents, he took nothing for granted.
“Beacon ho! There’s a light off the port bow!” The lookout’s call prompted a flurry of activity, all hands springing to their lines. There was no reason to expect that tagging this beacon would be any easier than the last.
“One-Boot” spit again and took a firm grip on the rail. “Mr. Tragen, take us inn, if you please.”