Master and Commander owes all to the genius of Patrick O'Brian; I own none of it. In fact, in the mind of my fine felines, I (being their servant and plaything) own not even myself.
Waste is a terrible thing to mind, and Kate minds very, very much this waste of her chance for a calm moment. Surrounded by the noise of fellow travelers, she wishes each and every one of them entirely mute. A rush of tremors moving lengthwise through the craft raise small cries of irritation, adding to the din, but rouse no particular notice. Passengers read, eat, sleep (to Kate's amazement), talk with or ignore each other as their individual natures incline. A woman, complaining at length about her husband's attentiveness to the minister's wife, pauses only enough to regain her wind before continuing a litany of resentment. Kate, searching through her pack for anything (anything!) that would block her ears, thought the husband could perhaps be forgiven should the lady in question prove to be sweet and soft spoken.
This reading, eating, talking, sleeping would have continued—should have continued—but for a sudden violent jolt. Passengers fall, bags fall, silence falls—a stunned silence the length of a mere inhalation—then a clamor of alarm and demands for explanation. In the dimming light and the now continuous shudder of the craft, the crew call for attention, call for order, but receive neither.
Kate, stretching to her tallest, sees nothing but the backs of the people before her. With a lurch, a sense of motion gone awry, and a deep groan not unlike the cry of a wounded beast, the near outer wall splits. For an instant, the rift frames open sky. Then water—no, not water, mere water does not descend with such ferocious intent—the sea, the hungry sea surges through. Caught in the crowd of bodies, Kate's panic grows as her feet leave the floor. Her ribs, resisting the crush, creak as breath is forced from her body. A rush of water fills the craft's hindmost section. Then the sea, momentarily deprived of access by the rolling of the craft, it's onslaught cut short, sends waves thundering against the sides. Kate, pummeled by flailing limbs as others fall, is held against the wall by the strap of the pack slung across her body. With a twisting writhe she can just see the broken beam that has caught the thickly woven pack. Pulling herself over, freezing in alarm when the woven strands stretch and then begin to break, Kate ever so slowly rights herself. Another pull and she drags the pack free, the force of the effort spilling her through the rift—now a deep chasm—into the gray choppy sea. An explosion to the right and a wall of heat send her diving below the surface.
Surfacing, foul fumes burn her throat and dim her vision. Through the smoke, only the forward section of the craft is visible. This floats for a moment, but only a moment, before beginning its slow slide beneath the waves. From the wailing tangle of passengers struggling to escape, one last man thrashes free and launches outward, almost clearing the wreckage. Crashing into Kate, his legs still trapped in sinking debris, the man grasps at her hair, her shoulder, and then his hands lock on her arm as he is pulled under. Caught by his grip and the frantic wrench at her arm, Kate is pulled after. His grip fails, but only as his hands drag along the length of her arm to tighten painfully at her wrist. Through the darkening, deepening water, Kate glimpses his face, dark, one eyebrow made quizzical by a bisecting scar. As their eyes meet, with a look equal parts fear and resolution he releases her. In the fluid landscape of debris and the turmoil of currents, Kate knows not which direction is skyward; she can only feel against her skin the certainty of fathoms of heavy clinging water above and below. It is luck, and only luck, that brings her to the surface.
The surface is a nightmare scene, chaotic to the eyes and overwhelming to the heart. Paddling one-armed—the other deadened from the shoulder down—Kate moves toward the sound of moaning, another woman's voice, to which Kate adds screams as her hand pushes along a shattered lifeless body. When Kate's gasps and sobs subside, all is quiet. Too quiet. Though Kate calls and calls until only a harsh croak remains of her voice, silence is the only answer. Kate waits, half supported by wreckage, staring into the empty sky and the equally empty horizon.
The sea mirrors the sky which mirrors the sea—all gray, a sullen gray so dense that it seems to almost have substance and weight. A brief rain quenches Kate's thirst, gives her a sense of direction. Over and over she pictures rescue, each time in greater detail, willing it with the entire force of her stubborn strength, until surely this time on opening her eyes it will be true. How long has she waited? In this timeless place, it could be hours, it could be days. Time and movement are a language she no longer comprehends. Staring into the gray expanse, Kate is filled with the conviction that should her grip loosen, she will fall into the sky. Drifting—her mind filled with thoughts of weightlessness, with yearning for flying free—what her senses say, what her mind says, all become true and all become false.
Kate no longer knows herself. Are these her hands? Is this her breath? Or is this a dream? Is this noise the call of birds or the call of voices? Is this a hand across her throat? Hands tugging at her, pulling at her clenched fingers? Then flying, this smooth movement skimming across the water must be flying. And this is falling, but falling upwards to a place where warmth and weight cover her. Hands pull at her arms, at her shoulders from too many directions. In panic, she bites the nearest and then falls. A cup pressed to her lips fills her mouth with water. This is wood, aged and worn, against her palms. These are sails, not wings, above her. The roar of noise resolves to voices and then to the words "a grim night's work". A stern face swims into view, quickly followed by another wearing spectacles. (How odd, she thinks, to imagine spectacles.) Again hands upon her, a voice urging her to be still, and a cup pressed to her lips filled this time not with the water, but a chokingly bitter fluid. As her awareness dims, Kate grasps tight to one word, her inner voice repeating it over and over—lost.