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.

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.

"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."

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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

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

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

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.