Doctor at Sea

sea-water. It’s an old sailor’s cure. When I was an apprentice it was the only thing that stopped me on my first voyage. If we were sick we got kicked down the bridge ladder and given a pint glass just out of the sea-bucket by the Mate. Shall I get you some?’
    I raised my hand.
    ‘I think I’d rather not have anything at all at the moment, thank you.’
    ‘As you like, Doc. I’m only making a suggestion. Have you tried covering one eye?’
    ‘It wasn’t much good.’
    ‘No, I don’t believe it is. Damn! Can I have another match? My pipe’s gone out again.’
    ‘Would you mind lighting it outside? It’s a bit - a bit strong at the moment.’
    ‘Oh, sorry! I didn’t think of that.’
    I called weakly after him at the door.
    ‘How long is this likely to go on ipr?’
    He calculated for a few seconds.
    ‘Not very long. I should say we’d be in pretty calm water in five or six days.’
    ‘Five or six days!’
    I groaned.
    I lay and tried to analyse my condition, like the dying surgeon, John Hunter. It was, of course, a ridiculously simple malady when one looked at it with scientific detachment. The endolymph in my semicircular canals was stimulating the endings of my cochlear nerve, which transmitted influences to the brain and initiated the reflex arc of vomiting. It should be easy for a little will-power to inhibit the reflex. After all, the brain was the master...I exercised the will-power.
    ‘Morning!’ Trail said from the doorway.’ When you’ve got your head out of that bowl I’ll tell you a sure-fire cure for seasickness.’
    I fell back on the pillow. I had given up. When the angel of death arrived I would shake him cordially by the hand.
    Trail came over to the bunk. He put his hands in his trouser pockets and pulled out two bottles of stout.
    ‘Guinness,’ he said proudly.’ Drink these and you’ll be fine by lunch-time. Works like magic.’
    ‘Oh God!’ I said. ‘Oh God, oh God!’
    Trail looked puzzled.
    ‘What’s the matter? Don’t you like stout? Here, take it easy! That one nearly went over my uniform.’
    He left me wondering submissively how long it would be before Easter came back and started talking about lunch. And it was bound to be Irish stew.

    *

    After three days the sea and I achieved a compromise. The sun came out, the wind dropped and lost its malice, the water was tidied up like a room after a wild party. For myself, I learned to lean against the sway of the ship, and I felt well enough to risk lunch in the saloon.
    It was my first meal at sea. I sat with the Captain, the Chief Engineer, Hornbeam and Archer, and the Chief Steward, a thin little mouse-faced man called Whimble. As soon as the bell rang we converged on the dining saloon with the briskness of seaside boarders: Captain Hogg disliked anyone to be late.
    I was on the Captain’s right hand, the Mate on his left. The Chief Engineer faced the Captain, and the other two sat themselves between.
    ‘Ah, Doctor!’ Captain Hogg said, jovially enough.
    ‘Decided to join us at last, have you?’
    ‘Yes, sir.’
    He unfolded his napkin and tucked it under his chin with deliberation.
    ‘Seasickness,’ he said slowly,’ is entirely mental. You imagine it.’
    I shrugged my shoulders.
    ‘Well,’ I said, in my professional tone,’ there are more complicated reasons than that. I admit there may be a psychological element. But there is obviously some fault with the balancing apparatus in the ears, and probably with the gastric nerves.’
    The Captain broke a roll.
    ‘No.’ He said it decisively.’ It is entirely mental.’
    He started drinking soup loudly.
    No one spoke until he had finished.
    ‘Mr McDougall,’ he said, slipping half a roll into his mouth,’ have you got that book you were going to lend me at supper last night?’
    The Chief looked up. He was a thin, wrinkled Scot with a face dominated by a thick strip of sandy eyebrow, from which his eyes looked out like a couple of Highland gamekeepers inspecting poachers through the undergrowth.
    ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘You mean The Squeaker ?’
    The Captain nodded.
    ‘That’s it. I like a bit of Peter Cheyney.’
    ‘But surely,’ I said immediately.’ The Squeaker was by Edgar Wallace? It was written over twenty years ago.’
    ‘No,’ the Captain said. ‘It was Peter Cheyney.’
    ‘You know, sir, I’m perfectly...’
    ‘Peter Cheyney,’ he said, with the emphasis of a full stop. He then fell upon a plate of mutton chops, which