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Often, the ship sails past symbols. Sometimes they are male symbols. Sometimes the symbols are female. Whenever the ship is picking its way through a group of female symbols, the men go on deck with their wineglasses and cigarettes. They make jokes and pass comments amongst themselves. Occasionally, one of the bolder women joins them. The skirts of her short cocktail dress billow in the sea breeze, which chills her creamy shoulders. The less bold women feel sorry for her. Not too sorry, though, for it can be hard to truly pity a woman with a careless, amused smile and wide, fearless eyes, even if she is surrounded by coarse hands and groping, masculine humour. A woman whose silvery, peeling laugh, mingling with the deeper guffaws of her companions, drifts faintly to their ears.

They examine their nail polish for chips and scratches. They do not look up.