Tristan had to grip his typewriter with force as the ship lurched rapidly against the storm powered waves. He cursed quietly as readjusted the position of the typewriter on his room’s desk. He would be quiet cross if the expensive machine were to be damaged. While the expedition’s benefactor Mr. Whitmore had quite enough money to easily replace it, Tristan would still feel bad if such a nice piece of machinery was ruined by the jostling of the sea. Plus, Mr. Whitmore had said that Tristan could keep the new typewriter once the expedition was completed.

Tristan had just finished a draft of his account of the expedition so far. Normally Tristan would have went through several drafts already, wanting to tell the story in the best way. However, there wasn’t much to tell. They were only on their third day at sea with very little to report. While the splendour of the ship had initially been very interesting to Tristan, giving him ideas about writing a nautical adventure, the whole thing had become humdrum fast as everyone fell into the monotony of their duties. Hell, this was the first time there had even been a storm, which was something of note.

Tristan placed the typewriter and his report into the large suitcase next to him, one designed to store a typewriter, and placed the luggage under the bottom bunk he had claimed. As he did so, his stomach growled reminding him that he had skipped lunch to read a book and write his report. Tristan hoped that there was still some food left, as lunch was over two hours ago. Tristan threw on a brown overcoat, as it was chilly today, and left his room. In the hall outside, several of the military types were gathered and laughing. It gave Tristan pause to try and figure out what about this expedition would be so dangerous that it would require a small army. In fact, Tristan still had many more questions about this whole endeavour. If they were looking for ruins at the bottom of the ocean, then why did they need demolition experts? It was a little bit sketchy to Tristan, but he had placed his faith in Preston Whitmore, who he was still greatly appreciative of being offered this job.

Tristan made his way out of the hallway and onto the exposed part of the ship. Bursts of sea spray greeted him, darkening his overcoat as he was dampened. Tristan hurried down toward the mess hall, wanting to get away from the storm as fast as possible. As he turned the corner that led to the mess hall, Tristan slipped on the wet floor, sliding forward. At the same time a sailor also turned the corner, colliding with Tristan. The two were both knocked off their feet, the sailor dropping a bag of potatoes, while Tristan’s journal fell out of his coat pocket.

“The hell is your problem?” spat the sailor as he tried to pick the potatoes of the floor.

Tristan froze up. He was not good with confrontation. So, he quickly gathered the potatoes and handed them to the sailor, before grabbing his journal and fleeing the scene, leaving the sailor with a confused expression. Tristan’s hunger left his mind as he rushed out of the area. What a klutz, he thought. Once he found a secluded part of the ship Tristan stopped and breathed in the ocean air. The salty mist calmed him down, grounding him, and quieting his mind. Tristan then took out his personal journal and made note of this situation so that he may learn from it.