She assaulted all of our senses; the deep rumblings not coming as a steady vibration that lulled you to sleep, but instead a shuddering of her soul. Emanating deep in the engine room and working its way up through the ship in every pipe, vent and valve until even the deck covers chattered. If she were human they were the DT tremors or the lungs of a pneumonia victim through stethoscope ears that identified death’s rattle. Her shakes could be heard in every loose link of chain and felt in every door handle grasped.
The plastic pitcher of water in the galley erupted as if an invisible hail storm was contained in the clear cylinder. A glass half-full and abandoned, while the cook scurried to batten down everything in site, walked its way over to the edge of the table and toppled onto the linoleum covered deck. The spilled water could not decide if it was running north and south or east and west. Two metal canisters braced near each other tinkled in alarm as strong shakes climbed up the bolted counter’s legs. My freighter was struggling and so was her crew.