"She's rolled," said the skipper. "In a few seconds, she'll right herself." With the cabin now under water, it was dark but I could still see the skipper and Paul sitting on the ceiling. Ten seconds passed, and the boat slowly rolled back upright, heaving provisions -- cans of food, heads of cabbage, sacks of rice, a frozen piece of beef and a toolbox -- across the room. Paul and the skipper were thrown onto their backs. I watched from the small space that was my bunk, where I kept myself braced with my hands and feet against the ceiling.
When I looked up again, the skipper was taking the tool box off his chest. There was no time to feel pain or to examine his broken collarbone. Paul had a gash above his eye and his head was bleeding.
I was on my hands and knees looking out of my bunk when I saw something even more shocking out the cabin window: the mast hanging over the starboard side of the boat. "The mast is broken," I said.