ABSTRACT
On the second evening aboard I met Master Peter Westerfield in the officers’ mess. All conversation ceased, as it would throughout the voyage every time he entered a room. At forty-five, Master Westerfield had a boyish demeanor, wearing a soul patch on his lower lip and keeping a weightlifter’s physique. When not on ship, he windsurfs, fences, and rides his 1000cc Suzuki Enduro around the German countryside. “Harleys are all show and no performance,” he said about the favored brand of Americans. At our first meeting, though, he was more nerd than macho or magisterial, wearing a T-shirt, shorts, and high black socks with sandals, hopelessly uncool.
