The Galley

The galley was the warmest room on the ship. Polly had been there before, watching from the edges, but never on a working morning. Today she went in deliberately.

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The cook was a small, square man with a quiet voice and octopuses tattooed on his forearms. His name was Esteban. He had cooked on this ship for nine months. Before that, he had cooked on a tuna boat. He did not seem to mind Polly perching on his counter.

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"There is no market out here," he said. "We get our supplies in Guam. Fresh food for the first three days. Then frozen food. Then cans."

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He showed her the freezer room. It was the size of a phone box. Inside: vacuum-sealed pork, frozen broccoli, bricks of butter, a whole tuna with glassy eyes.

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Past the freezer were the dry stores: rice in large plastic bins, lentils, pasta, sacks of flour for the bread he made every morning.

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The crew was twenty-seven people. Each one was working hard, sleeping little, tense in their own way. Esteban said his job was not just to feed them. It was to anchor them.

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"Three meals a day, at the same time every day, in any weather," he said. "If everything else is uncertain, the food is certain."

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Polly watched him work. He was making arroz con coco: rice cooked in coconut milk. He toasted the rice in the dry pot first, until the grains turned a faint amber colour. Then he poured in coconut milk and water. He covered the pot and set a timer for twenty-five minutes.

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Then he watched the timer for a few seconds, as if he did not quite trust himself to wait.

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"And tomorrow's deep dive?" Polly asked. "What does the pilot eat at the bottom?"

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Esteban smiled. "Sandwich. Cheese and ham. An apple. A bottle of water. Six hours each way. Nothing fancy."

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The rice timer ticked on. A pan of oil began to heat for eggs. The fresh bread Esteban had baked at four in the morning sat under a clean cloth on the windowsill. He noticed Polly had not eaten breakfast. He cut a slice of mango and set it beside her. She ate it. He went back to the rice.

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