He is dreaming of his home town, maybe, when he sees the black waters rising over the prow.

He thinks it is a dream and rubs his eyes.

Before he can look again, the waves are upon him.

There is no alarm; the wireless, perhaps, is broken; the boats, perhaps, are useless; and so the brave ship dives down to Davy Jones's locker with all on board, and the next minute the waves wash over the spot and rub out all memory of those who died there.

Well, well, McTee, there's a way of dying that would please White Henshaw more than a death in a bed at a home port, with the landsharks sitting round your bed grinning and nodding out your minutes of life.