I spent my first afternoon on the freighter in the lounge, a cold room on the main floor with linoleum flooring and a row of plain plank tables bolted in place. Since I was the only female passenger, the captain had ordered the cook—an old woman with silver-toned eyeglasses—to monitor me. But she was busy preparing meals for the crew, vast pots of noodles to cover with thin red sauce and waxy flakes grated from bricks of hard cheese.
“Perhaps you could be trained,” she muttered. “We could use a helper around here.”
“I would help, but I feel awfully sick right now,” I replied, not mentioning the kitchen experience I’d gained at the CREIA. The churning of the freighter against the waves was unsettling. After the cook gave me a tablespoon of baking soda in warm water, I felt slightly better
