The ship rocked on the waves, sea breeze and spray covering the deck. The captain walked toward the mast, his peg-leg clacking on the ridged wood floor.
“The winds, they’re changing. I think we’re in for some bastard westerlies!” The captain called out to one of the deckhands, the boatswain in tow.
The mast creaked loudly in the changing wind direction, the sail twisting and groaning against the force. They were barely moving forward, the sail unable to catch any tailwinds. Chatter and busy work electrified the air, as the boatswain commanded the deckhands to furl the sail, ready for the coming headwinds.
“We’ll be caught out here ‘til the seas favour us once more,” the captain took a swig from his round bottle of wine. “Lay anchor, we don’t want to lose any distance. We’re to make it to land within the next month. I can’t be having any further delays.”
The boatswain followed orders, directing other deckhands to drop the anchor.
“Captain, we’ve only rations for the month. If we’re stuck in these westerlies for more than a day or two at most, we’ll be struggling for food,” explained the boatswain.
“Then the crew will have to make do with half rations,” replied the captain.
“We’ve already had to half ‘em, captain. Quarter’s the best we can do but the crew will be nought more than bones when we reach land.”
“Aye, well it’s either that or starve. Quarter the rations.” The captain spat some of his wine off the side of the ship. “Shit’s gone to vinegar. Just my luck that a journey that takes no more than two months has taken us damn near four. Woe betide me to complain, but what have we done to deserve this, Poseidon?”
Today's prompt: westerlies
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