Somewhere between 2:00 PM and 7:15 PM I wake up in the foxhole by a combination of violent wave movements and the associated sounds.

Beside me, on the other side of the boat's skin, the water rushes in a swirling, roaring stream. The waves sound a little higher, the typical rising and rising noise of the sea. Every now and then the boat gets a blow, a crash of a wave crashes in a stubborn direction.
Inside the ship, the wood of the beds creaks, objects chatter against the mast, clothes and climbing harnesses swing on the washing lines.
Cooking sounds come down from the galley through the drystore. The dry store itself also sounds its orchestra of shaking pots and a rattling anchor chain.
Someone comes down to draw from the supply and I hear the scraping, the opening of a barrel, the wobbling of a bowl.
On deck someone shouts something about the innerjib, followed by a polyphonic 'twooo… six, twooo… six.'

A sleepless while later: 'Good morning foxhole, it is a quarter past seven and time for dinner and your watch.'

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