Sheets of cold November rain beat down heavily on the deck above him. The sound of it beat into his skull, even in the captain’s cabin, where he lay in his bunk. Captain Evan Peterman opened one eye, taking in the wan blue light coming in through the large windows across the aft end of the room. All was obscured by rivulets of rain, but he knew there was nothing to see. More grey, more wet. His head pounded. The ship, the Poaster, was twelve days out of Portsmouth and he had already drank his way through his own personal supply of scotch. He wanted to die.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=3807329&forum_id=2#34759570)