We limped into Cala Ratjada two days ago with a squall barreling down out of the northeast, thick with lightning, and a full throttle dash into harbor with everyone soaked through before the lines were even out. No berth was waiting, so we spent that first night rafted at the fuel dock, which I am reliably informed is not glamorous, though I would point out that in several centuries of ship’s business I have slept in worse places than a pontoon that smells faintly of diesel nobody aboard this boat even burns anymore. By the next morning a proper berth had opened up and Cala Ratjada looked considerably friendlier in daylight, as harbors generally do.

Today Björn came aboard with a duffel bag and, as far as I can tell, no particular idea what he’d signed up for, having missed the squall entirely and arrived to find us already settled and smug about it. We cast off for Menorca this afternoon in the gentlest conditions the whole crossing has offered so far, which feels like a small injustice after what the boat put up with two nights ago.

I like a new face brought aboard on short notice regardless of the weather that greets him. It is the oldest kind of crewing there is: a stranger, a boat, and whatever the sea happens to be doing that particular week. Björn passed the test, for what my opinion is worth, which around here is not much, but I am on record as saying so.