Word: decking
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...wind and sea increased, work on deck became virtually impossible. Davis lashed down the tiller, and let the ketch stand alone. The crew and passengers spent the next four days in the Miru's cramped cabin. All the while, the Miru kicked and twisted, making sleep impossible; worse, the Davis' older son developed a bad case of measles...
...Miru was ready to leave Wellington. That day things looked decidely ominous. Steady, sleeting rain sleeked the ship's deck, and the barometer tumbled to record low; by morning it read 28.40 inches. Despite the black, raining sky, Davis decided to set sail, and without salute or fanfare, the Miru put to sea in the middle of the South Pacific's winter. Never before had anyone ever sailed in mid-winter from New Zealand to America along the 40th latitude--the "roaring forties." It was something that just wasn't done...
...Early this morning we stood on the deck facing the islands we couldn't see. Everyone waited tensely as the loudspeaker announced the minutes, then seconds, four, three, two, one. Then, right on the nose, through glasses so dark absolutely nothing could be seen, appeared a huge orange ball, materializing out of nothing, which grew larger and brighter until it appeared as if no dark glasses were there at all. An intense heat struck us almost immediately and the ball of fire started to rise and slowly lose its intensity. We took off our glasses and saw water vapor...
When reveille sounds at any of the four major U.S. Air Force bases in Newfoundland these dark winter mornings, the G.I. hits the deck of a barracks built of local materials by local labor. He breakfasts on food bought in Newfoundland, and turns to on a work detail with tools and equipment supplied by local merchants. Taking a break, he eats a candy bar or sips a Coke which the PX has bought in the province. After hours, he catches a local bus, takes his local girl to a local movie, and buys her coffee and doughnuts or beer...
...rose over the spruce-covered Newfoundland hills one morning last week, the tiny (34-ton) whaler Arctic Skipper put out from the weathered jetty at Dildo and chuffed at a steady six knots down Trinity Bay. Deck hands were just finishing their breakfast of fried eggs, sausage and coffee in the tiny galley when a lookout cried: "Pothead!"† Captain Iver Iversen rang the engine signal. As the Skipper picked up speed, the whales sounded. When they came up again, they were heading out to sea, and a deck hand fired a rifle shot to turn them. A red signal...