“Captain, I think we’re two miles south of our plotted track. If we turn ten degrees to port now, we clear the ice field.”
Anya gave the order. The helmsman spun the wheel. For twenty agonizing minutes, they listened to the hull groan. Then, through the rime on the windows, they saw it: a massive chunk of glacial ice, blue and silent, sliding past their starboard side with less than fifty meters to spare. imo model course
Later, in the chartroom over cold coffee, Anya tapped the IMO binder. “You didn’t learn that from the simulator, did you?” “Captain, I think we’re two miles south of