82 ALBACORA 



know or even suspect it at the moment, but from that 

 time forward I was always fated to be more at home in 

 jeans on a wildly tossing boat than at the finest party in 

 the smoothest silks. Clad in the jeans and one of Lou's 

 most battered shirts, I hopped into one of the bunks. As 

 I considered from my balcony chair years later in 

 Iquique, what happened next seemed to be symbolic, 

 too. The boat pitched and I fell out of the bunk. I got 

 up, climbed back into the bunk and fell out of it again. 

 But the third time I stayed put. I took the belt that was 

 holding up Lou's dungarees and used it as a safety belt. 

 Strapped to the porthole cleat, I remained in my bunk. 

 From that night on, I was to find a way of making do 

 with whatever happened to be at hand. 



Sleep in the angry Atlantic Ocean was out of the 

 question and when we anchored, I was wide awake, even 

 though it was well past four o'clock. 



"Hey, Genie," Lou shouted. "Come on up on deck." 



"What for?" 



"Chumming," Lou shouted. 



I don't imagine it would be difficult to trace the origin 

 of the word "chumming." It must have been invented by 

 a man and for a situation identical with the one that 

 faced Lou. To a bright-eyed young girl, what can sound 

 more stimulating than "chumming" with a man at night 

 and alone on the ocean? Frankly, though, I cannot 

 think of anything that could be less romantic. "Chum- 

 ming" that night meant what it means every night at 



