Six weeks into the voyage, as Will readied himself for another dull day, all six members of the off-duty starboard watch, led by Toby and the first mate, approached him in Reliant’s cramped foc’sle.

“Mister Thornton,” the mate began, putting a rough hand on Will’s shoulder and glaring into his face, “you’ve been summoned to appear before King Neptune’s Court.”

Will’s face showed his confusion, but he had no time to protest.

“Grab a-hold of ‘em, laddies,” the mate called out. “Hold ‘em good, like a slippery flounder, and bring the lubber on deck.”

His captors all but carried him up the companionway to the deck and held his arms outstretched while the first mate strapped a canvas harness around his waist. He began to tremble and tried to hide it from the other men. He feared he might soil his pants.

The first mate could barely contain a hearty laugh as he confronted him. “Do you have anythin’ to say for yourself, before we feed you to the sharks swimmin’ alongside?”

Will was speechless.

 “So be it then,” the first mate intoned. “’Tis the judgment of this crew that you be sentenced to a sound dunkin’ in the ocean and a personal greeting from King Neptune.” He turned to the man holding the line, “Bos’un, carry out your orders.”

The bos’un began pulling on the line. Other sailors grabbed on, laughing and taunting him as they hauled away. Ascending off the deck, slowly, suspended in the harness like one of Giotto’s angels, he was helpless. Toby and the rest of the watch laughed and cheered as they hoisted him still higher.

From his vantage point, the boundless ocean stretched ahead. The bowsprit pointing south seemed like an ominous warning of the wind and waves waiting for them around Cape Horn. The only sounds he heard were the murmurings of the wind in the rigging, and the creaking of the block as the line hoisted him up to the yardarm. Then the eh-eh-eh cry of a lone bird following in the ship’s wake came to him.

The sight of the bird startled him, momentarily making him forget his dread of what lie ahead. Where had it come from, he wondered? Did it know its way home?  Or was it as lost as he was, a solitary traveler in the middle of the ocean?

The bird came closer, circling the brig and then settling on the topsail yardarm, just above him, its white underbelly and black wingtip feathers stark against the brilliance of the sky.

Will stared up at the bird, and the bird seemed to stare back.  On deck, the crew stopped hauling to watch. “An albatross,” one of them called out to his shipmates, pointing up at the bird. “’Tis a fair omen. Good sailin’ ahead!”

A good omen for him, Will questioned? Lost in the middle of an ocean, not sure what lay ahead, not knowing if he’d ever get home? But there was no time for self-pity because the starboard watch now began hauling on a second line that moved the block along the yardarm until he was suspended over the waves. With a whoop and a holler of excitement, the crew lowered away.

He let out a moan of despair as water surging past the ship’s side rushed up to meet him. He heard the waves slapping against the hull, felt the spray splashing in his face, and tasted salt. Every one of his senses was acute to the imminent collision his body would have with the Atlantic Ocean.  Struggled against the harness holding him as the water came closer, knowing it was useless, he realized if he managed to free himself he’d plummet like a stone, as alone as the bird when Reliant sailed on, but without wings or the sense to find his way.

He skimmed along the surface like a skipped rock for several moments, crashing into wave tops with a force that slammed into his chest and snapped his head back. Each shock of cold water was a vise squeezing his muscles tight, numbing his senses. Then he rose out of the water as the waves passed under him and he began to shiver. The motion of the brig pulled him along, sometimes skimming on the surface and sometimes dunked underneath as the crew bobbed him up and down.  He fought to get his breath each time he surfaced. When he went under and was held there by the brig’s momentum, he thought his lungs would burst. The trial seemed to go on for hours. His strength started to fail him.

Then he felt upward pressure on the harness, as the crew finally began lifting him out of the water. They dragged him over the rail onto the deck. He lay face down, dripping wet, shivering, and coughing up much of the South Atlantic, too weak to move.  The men gathered over him, applauding and cheering, but all he could do was turn his head and stare up at them bug-eyed, like the codfish he’d caught as a boy in Boston Harbor.

“You’ve served your sentence well, Mister Thornton, did yerself proud, ya did,” the first mate said, freeing him from the harness and reaching down a strong hand to help him to his feet. “And no hard feelings, I trust. No man crosses the Line on Reliant without shakin’ hands with Neptune. Yer one of us now. These are yer shipmates, laddy. They’ll help you below. When yer up to it the captain has allowed a ration of rum and water for us all.”