We boarded the Duke of York this morning. Nine o'clock, the haze finally cleared out, but the sea was turbulent.

The change of season was upon us. I could tell by the way my knee felt. The Gypsy band was playing The Three Fishers, sending me in a trance. On the left, George was tapping his foot. The little girl came over with a bowler and smiled. I reached in my inner pocket to get some coins when a big wave crashed on us.

The ship tilted, sending luggage flying. People shouted. We were like a can of sardines at the ocean's mercy. The Gypsy band's harpist tumbled and fell between the guitarist's legs. Some people laughed. We all tried to hold on to something with dear lives. Salty water mixed with sweat, leather, and cigarette, creating such a strong and distinctive smell.

I could see the port of Calais.