The vane-axial fan hums.
The boat plunges into the seas.
The steward collects the last of the dishes.
The navigator rolls the dice.
The engineer buys the cigars.
The conversation flags.
The exec decides to turn in.
The communicator goes to play poker with the crew.
The skipper is long gone, to his "luxurious" stateroom.
The supply officer is craving acceptance.
The reel-to-reel tape recorder is playing Edith Piaf.
The boat lunges into the seas yet again.
The North Atlantic roars against the hull.
The cards are fickle.
The underwater telephone squawks unintelligibly.
The messenger relays pointless urgencies.
The chronometers tick.
The torpedoman stumbles past with his coffee.
The quartermaster asks for help with his fix.
The movie grinds to a halt.
The radioman reports an undecipherable message.
The cook report a shortage of green beans.
The bridge reports a lack of connection with civilization.
The corpsman grunts noncommitally.
The cook serves fresh sticky buns.
I finally sleep.