Kirk stood in the bows of the Albatross, shivering slightly and looking longingly at the island's shore. He was deeply unhappy.
His head hurt. His head was fucking splitting! He had been unable to sleep most of the night. He had stayed out on the deck until he was so tired he was tripping over his own feet. Then he gritted his teeth and went inside his cabin, and spent ten minutes carefully arranging his body on the narrow bunk before finally falling asleep.
He woke up in the middle night with a headache of monumental, I-got-really-drunk-last-night proportions. The stink of tar and wood resin in the tiny cabin made it difficult to breathe. He got out of his bunk forgetting about the low ceiling, and hit his aching head hard enough to raise a bump.
