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Man Overboard
The crude word mentions no name or reason. But do flesh the courtesy of the small maneuver that swings the stern aside and with option to all astern comes back so many minutes, searching the wake. The system is faultless; one would suppose the lookouts erred, till at last where a green dye stains the blue, the buoy flung to his reach is bobbing lightly, of its own weight. The ship rocks gently, its beam to the convoy, that goes on. There is no procedure. Without a signal, a brief command, the ceremony has no end, though pity ebbs like a wake.