On a ship at sea — the storm

A ship at sea, in the middle of a tempest of thunder and lightning. The Master, calling out from somewhere unseen, gives orders to his Boatswain: get the sailors moving, fall to it quickly, or we run ourselves aground. The Boatswain shouts the crew through the work — take in the topsail, listen for the master's whistle, blow until you burst as long as we have room to maneuver. The opening pace is breathless and technical, and Shakespeare uses it to put the audience on the deck of the ship before any of the speaking parts arrive.

Then the court comes up: Alonso, the King of Naples; his brother Sebastian; his counselor Gonzalo; Antonio, Duke of Milan; and the king's son Ferdinand. They want to know what is happening; they want the captain. The Boatswain — the working sailor with no patience for any of them — answers bluntly. "What cares these roarers for the name of king?" He orders them below. Gonzalo notes ruefully that the man does not have the look of a drowning man about him: he looks more like he was born for the gallows. They go.

The storm worsens. Mariners come up wet, crying "all lost!" Sebastian and Antonio curse the Boatswain. Gonzalo, in the moment of supposed death, says he would gladly trade a thousand miles of sea for one acre of barren ground — heath, broom, anything dry. A confused noise within: "Mercy on us! We split, we split!" "Farewell, my wife and children!" "Farewell, brother!" The ship is gone. The play has been on stage less than ten minutes and seems to have killed every named character it has introduced. The next scene will reveal that none of this was what it appeared.