The Apprentice opened the notebook. Pages of dates. Wind direction. Water temperature. Bird activity. Currents. Previous catches. Places where we had found nothing. She laughed. “You wrote down where there weren't fish?” “Especially there.” “Why?” “Empty water is expensive.” That quieted her. Two hours later, we had not dropped a single line. The Apprentice was becoming restless. “We've passed miles of water.” “Yes.” “We could have been fishing.”

By Sunrise, Rome was already moving. Carts complained against stone. Dockworkers rolled barrels from ships. Shopkeepers opened shutters. Messengers slipped through crowds with scrolls tucked underneath their arms. Somewhere above all of it, a merchant stood on a balcony and admired what he believed was growth. He had recently received the most important cargo of his season. Olive oil. Dyed fabrics. Glass. Spices.

The Captain had made the crossing enough times to stop fearing the sea in the ordinary way. He knew the route well enough to speak of it with confidence and just poorly enough to still be surprised by it. By late afternoon, the North Atlantic had begun its quiet mutiny. The pressure fell first. Then the gulls, which had spent the morning following the ship like creditors, vanished into the gray. The crew said little, but every man aboard could feel the change in the water.