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I duck my head under the third and final bunk on the right-hand side and see etched into the ceiling ‘PERRY X’. Between Perry’s old bunk and Don’s superior sleeping arrangements is an empty bunk with no modesty hangings at all, which I assume must be mine. It is nothing like the luxury skipper’s bed I was given on the Crystal Sea, which was separated from the crew’s main sleeping area. Since no one is about, I squeeze myself into the bunk to get a better sense of the space. It is like being inside a coffin, but one in which the relatives of the dearly departed have massively undercalculated the length of the corpse and have folded the legs up in an undignified manner. Curled up in the foetal position, I flick on the light switch directly above my head. It has the same two settings as the cabin lights in the Crystal Sea: either a clinical white or a seedy blue. I lie there for a while inside the Filadelfia’s dark stomach and listen to her groan slightly as she grinds back through her long memory of the changing crews and times in Newlyn.