CHAPTER NINE 



THE HOME RUN 



EVEN the first-class passenger as he files aboard the Queen Mary or 

 fastens his safety belt in the seat of a Constellation, knows the 

 discomfort of it. Or, rather, he is psychologically perturbed by 

 the efforts of the shipping company or BOAC to ensure his com- 

 fort. Everything seems so tidily at hand, the preparations for his 

 arrival have been so overwhelming, that he is inclined to worry 

 lest he should be expected to stay aboard for the rest of his life. 

 The trip, after all, is only a short one, several days or even hours. 

 Surely there was no need to furnish a march past of the brigade of 

 waiters and a wine cellar the size of the Great Pyramid. The 

 phlegmatic permanence of the catering arrangements seems to 

 threaten the transitory ebullience of his little escape from the 

 ordinary cares of life. It almost looks as though they really expect 

 him to live here, not just travel through. 



And that, of course, is exactly what is expected. Most people 

 live, especially when in transit, without being at all conscious of 

 what they are doing, certainly without suspicion that now is the 

 last chance they will get of living through this particular moment. 

 In seamen, who are continually in transit, this normal propensity 

 is often greatly exaggerated so that all existence is reduced to the 

 status of a holiday from normal responsibilities , The holiday may, 

 indeed, involve supernormal difficulties as it does, for example, 

 when a ship without radar is caught in a dense fog. Danger, then, 

 is even greater than in a quiet country lane where the chances are 

 that some madman on a motor bike will knock you down. But 



133 



