He came up the gangway slowly, balancing a small suitcase in one hand and a large, weathered kitbag on his shoulder. Nobody helped him, and he didn’t seem to care. On reaching the deck, he looked Jay straight in the eye, flashed him a grin and stuck out his hand. There was no trace of exertion, just the sweat dampening his brow and shirtfront from that humid Madras afternoon of March 1979. Wiry, bright-eyed with a mop of hair falling over his forehead. Jay could not help liking the young man’s cheerful demeanour. ‘Hi! I’m Chow—the new Third Mate,’ he...