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still dripping, Goddard was seated on one of the lower bunks toweling himself after the ecstasy of a freshwater shower, knowing that any minute now the reaction would hit him and he’d collapse like a dropped soufflé. Lind had just come back from somewhere, and the passageway outside was still jammed with crew members peering in.
    Word had already spread that he’d been sailing a small boat single-handed across the Pacific, and as they grinned and voiced their congratulations and the cheerful but inevitable opinion of working seamen that anybody who’d sail anything across the ——ing ocean just for the fun of it ought to have his ——ing head examined, they tossed in on the other lower bunk a barrage of spare gear including several pairs of shorts, some slides, a new toothbrush in a plastic tube, toothpaste, cigarettes, matches, and a pair of dungarees. A young Filipino in white trousers and a singlet pushed his way through the jam with a tray containing cold cuts, potato salad, bread, fruit, and a pitcher of milk. He set it on the desk.
    Goddard let the towel drop and began a shaky-fingered attack on the cellophane of one of the packs of cigarettes. Lind held the lighter for him. With the first deep and luxurious inhalation he began to float away and wasn’t sure he’d last as far as the food.
    Lind produced a pint bottle of whiskey from somewhere and twisted off the cap. “Better splice the main brace.”
    Goddard lifted the bottle in a gesture that included all his rescuers, and said, “Cheers.” He took a small drink, felt it burn its way down his throat, and returned the bottle to Lind. One might prop him up for a few minutes, but two would drop him in his tracks. He looked around. Captain Steen was regarding him with pious disapproval from the doorway.
    “You ought to be down on your knees thanking God,” he said, “instead of drinking that stuff.”
    “Believe me, Captain, I was,” Goddard said. “When I saw your flare light off, it struck me that might be an appropriate spot for a little dialogue.”
    It was obvious Steen regarded this as flippant, but he merely said, “Yes. Well, get some rest. Come up to my office tomorrow and we’ll get all the information for the log entries and reports.”
    He disappeared, leaving grins and amused winks behind him. Somebody made a remark in a language Goddard didn’t understand; provoking laughter, and another said, “Who this guy better thank is that babe with the knockers. She was the one seen him.” This called forth a chorus of whistles, universal gestures, and cries of “ Mamma mia! ” and “ Sweet Jesus! ”
    “All right, all right, that’ll do!” Lind’s voice, though good-humored, cut through the ribaldry with a parade-ground authority that brought silence.
    It all seemed to Goddard to be coming from far away through a dreamlike and winy haze compounded of total exhaustion and the euphoria of alcohol and tobacco. He drew on a pair of shorts, took one more long drag on the cigarette, and reached toward the tray of food. “There’s a woman aboard?” he asked.
    “Two,” Lind said. “It was Mrs. Brooke that sighted you. We’re a real gung-ho crowd on here; with a radar and a crew of thirty-eight, we find out from the passengers what’s going on.”
    Goddard drained the glass of milk and put it down with elaborate care. He’d never been this drunk in his life. For an instant he was back there on the raft watching the ship draw away from him in the night, and it started to come for him. Gripping the pipe railing of the bunk so they couldn’t take it away from him, he looked up at the big mate with profound solemnity.
    “Eternal vigilance,” he said, “is the watchword of the successful passenger, Mr. Lind. Suppose I’d swum over to a ship that didn’t carry any?”
    He pitched forward. Lind caught him and stretched him out on the bunk.
    He was aboard the raft in a kidney-shaped pool swinging the Jack Daniels bottle at a succession