Sleeping In The Belly Of A Plastic Snake

My sleep is even more disturbed than ever before, if that's possible. During my nightly sleep ration in between watches, (which is never more than three and a half hours, and often a great deal less), I am assailed by prolific nightmares about storms and collisions, half-waking confusions and anxieties, and occasionally wonderful dreams of home (these I try to cling on to but slip away, intangible as cobwebs). The nightmares of capsizing are certainly inspired by my recent memories from the Gulf of Tehuantepec and the nightly reverberating echoes of waves, smashing, punching, sloshing and slapping against the paper thin hull within which I lie, restlessly. I refer to this place loosely as my 'cabin', although it is really a small arch-shaped cupboard which becomes increasingly thin and pointed as it recedes forward into the hull. From within, the walls remind me of the inside of those water slides you find in large leisure pools like the one in my home town, which boasts an unsightly and marginally unstable curly whirly water slide in hard-to-miss chicken yellow that pops out of the exterior wall of the leisure centre like the belly of a giant anaconda, trapped forever in an architectural nightmare of re-inforced plastic and brick. I have always had my doubts about the quality of this serpentine structure, particularly as it seems to be made of a material so thin as to allow natural light to glow eerily through. My cabin is constructed of the same weird plastic day glow stuff. I even tapped it with my knuckles to make sure that it wasn't made of papier-mache. It wasn't.

The mattress is woolly and hard. One of those hard-wearing types that appeals to large families with overactive young children or senior citizens. If this was not a boat, and therefore subject to occasional flooding, I would have expected to find a matching hard-wearing carpet in patterned oatmeal, which is proven to hide a multitude of sins (and bodily fluids). I remind myself that this catamaran is destined for years of chartering before it's private owners finally embrace it into the bosom of their family. Six more years of weekly charters to tourists of questionable hygiene and moral standards would explain the no frills, wipe clean decor that is the signature of this vessel.

When my sheet becomes un-tucked, as it does with regularity thanks to my unconscious thrashing and rolling in the face of vivid nightmares, I often wake with an itchy red chin and wool-burn on my inner forearms. I wake on average every ten or fifteen minutes. This means that I also fall back into an uneasy sleep with the same frequency, having:

a) ...worked out where the HELL I am, what the noises are, and why the room is moving,

b) ...experienced a momentary panic attack that it is my watch and as I am still in bed there is nobody driving the boat which may be on a collision course with a super tanker.

c) ...realised that no, it isn't my watch (yet).

d)...convinced myself, no, we are not in any danger (for all I know), and yes, I should try to get back to sleep (for all of ten minutes) before I really do have to wake up and drag myself wretchedly onto the deck for two hours of mind numbingly boring alertness, staring at nothing, doing nothing and getting all misty eyed as I dream about home comforts like watching Richard & Judy at 5pm on ITV with a lovely cup of English tea and a ham sandwich.