Bullseye.

He doesn't think it as a word, this isn't some scheme. Not much of a scheme, anyway—the satisfaction of a job well done isn't exactly a criminal bounty. It's simply a nice thing to push himself out of his mood, to make great effort to engage despite the big cold fist in his belly and the handful of guts in its persistent squeeze, and be rewarded for it. He's spent enough time feeling only sad and shy. Weeks, now. It's getting boring.

So he answers, "Absolutely," and looks to where he's meant to board. "Just, eh... just a second, I'm not really," accustomed to boats, but here he comes to the ramp anyway, grasping whatever's there to grasp (tightly, pale knuckles jutting), shuffling the first step as a gauge to be sure his legs aren't immediately going to get creative about this. So far so good—up he goes.

Sea legs: you're welcome, he has none. Expect him to stand with his feet spaced a little wider, the one unhinged knee turned in, faintly wobbling, like a three-legged calf... and completely game for it.