The rolling of the Fogwalker grew more violent as we left the shelter of Blackwood Bay and ventured into the open waters of the North Atlantic. In the pitch-black hold, I completely lost track of time. It could have been two hours or ten.
The cold seeped through the wool blanket, but what was truly breaking me wasn't the temperature, but the relentless combination of the sea's movement and my own rebelling body.
The morning sickness, which I had managed to control until now with ginger tea and deep breaths, mingled with a dreadful seasickness brought on by the waves. The strong smell of diesel and rancid fish that permeated the ship's woodwork became poison to my senses.
I hugged my knees, gritted my teeth, and squeezed my eyes shut, trying to convince my stomach to hold onto the little
