A gathering of ancient bald men, one of whom sounds exactly like Michael Caine, loudly debate upgrade strategies while a bluegrey ocean surges by, rhythmically, endlessly, just an arm's length beyond a riveted, salt edged porthole. Old Speckled Hen keeps appearing in my glass. Unobtrusive lounge piano plays Gould's variations on Bach, complementing the almost subsonic thrum of the engines deep below. These things (ale, Bach, thrum) sooth me. Michael Caine's wife accuses him of being outspoken. He replies that he simply tells the truth. A Filipino in a tuxedo brings me a small bowl of spiced nuts. A silver spoon is placed in the bowl. What do I do with the spoon? Is this a futile anti-Norwalk measure, or part of an eccentric British nut eating ritual? I chose to ignore it and stare at the ocean. Captain Wills announced earlier that we were passing over the "Porcupine Abyssal Plain". In a clipped professional tone he explained that 4.8 km below us the ocean bottom is a featureless oozescape populated entirely by slowly trundling sea cucumbers. This explains "abyssal" and "plain", but leaves "porcupine" a mystery. Regardless, this bit of knowledge pleases me and makes staring out the porthole at the ocean all the more appealing.
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