IT'S 1:30 IN THE MORNING. Miller is peeling duct tape from the Morgan's deck and packing up cameras. Laird is telling a Good Morning, America camera that he's pleased with how things went, but there's a general sense of fizzling out. The sensitives say there were too many people on the ship; we scared away the pipe guy. Earlier, I asked O'Farrell if I could camp in the blubber room after everyone left. He agreed to it, provided I let someone from public relations check in on me during the night.

After the busters leave, I bed down in a corner near the forecastle. Something about the rain is causing the ship's planking to make noisy pops, like the sound of burning firewood played through an amp. The sounds bounce around in the hold. An eerie glow at the far end of the room turns out to be a tiny light above the donor plaque. I want to be scared, but mostly I'm just uncomfortable.

But then, sometime around 3 a.m., I'm awakened by something I've never heard before. It's a strange, clotted, desperate sound, like a man choking on blubber. It's frightening. It's definitely in the room with me. It's...

It's Mike O'Farrell's uvula. O'Farrell—who, it turns out, is not merely checking in but staying all night—is crashed out by the doorway to the captain's quarters, snoring wetly.