At full mast!

Buckin’ and swayin’ on the swells takes a certain type of person.  Some are leaders and some are followers, but all are workers, for merciless are the HIGH SEAS to those who can’t hoist.  Each represent a challenge distinct, but it was toward a Captain’s life that I was called and a leader I had to be.

I found this call when I was but a wee lad on a Grocer.  In those days, it was common for ships to sail back and forth through the Gulf of Carpentaria, shipping bulk groceries from the islands to Australia.  On this shipment, we had the sharts, all of us, for we had a brig full of Brie.  And our payment was in Brie.  And our meals were Brie.  This wasn’t all we had.  There was trouble, GUNWALE TO GUNWALE.

Our Captain, Clarence Mack, was a stern, yet forgiving man.  He forgave, but like, the advice, never forgot.  And it was the same that he expected from everyone else, deckhand to merchant.  We slept and toiled under his strict rule, but were paid just as strictly, with all our fair shares of Brie or whatever BRIG BOOTY was offered.  Woe betide the vessel that crossed the bow of Cap Mack in haste and foolishness, for surely there was to be found a swift vengeance.

I was seven at the time and had been committed to servitude by my parents for grand theft rowboat, a travesty I was never to let slip my mind.  Having taken an infantile liking to surgery, Cap Mack put me to mending sails as there was, NEPTUNE BE THANKED, rarely an opportunity in the Grocer trade to put stitch to man.  At least, until the worst of days.

Just past dawn, North of Wellesly Island, there began the first of events in which would be a strange, strange morning.  Out of the fog, the bowman caught sight of the prow of a ship, its planks blackened as though by fire.  The sails were in tatters, and I, with my needle and thread took note, both of their shoddiness and the ragged, belabored visage of the crew.  Only when it was too late did we all see the dried blood upon their scimitars and expressionless faces.

Maybe they wanted our Brie.  Maybe Cap Mack had wronged them in this life or would in the next.  Be that as it may, their frigate overtook our Grocer and smashed our bow.  The ensuing battle lasted only minutes as the Brie trade never called for us to be armed.  The eight of us that made it to the North shore of Wellesly were shocked and slashed and severed almost beyond repair.

My swift stitch could only save two, leaving me with PLANKING CLEAN THROUGH MY THIGH and Cap Mack amazingly unscathed.  Such mercy for his skin had the most irksome effect on the Captain, and with a fury that I have never been able to match, he scooped up two blades off the rocks and calmly, with tears in his eyes, began walking into the sea, straight toward the blackened ship.  Our destroyers had occupied themselves with sifting through the drift for barrels a la Brie and anything else valuable, their spoils.  

In between passing out from blood loss and the pain of removing the planking from my own leg, the last time I saw any sign of the blackened ships, Cap Mack or our shipment of Brie was a pillar of smoke among the drift.  Cap Mack, never forgetful and this time, never forgiving, had committed our murderous opponents to the same watery eternity that held our crew mates.  And it was at the tender age of seven that I knew I would have done the same.

This captain’s fair ship’s log will note an absence from quill and parchment over the passing season and much is the reason.  Now, having cast my eyes on that wet horizon for a score and six, I have encountered a great many things - giant squid being eaten by giant seal, shipwrecked survivors not wanting to be rescued (they were enjoying their Canasta, apparently), Barbara Streisand comedy hours.  HOURS!  Nothing strikes the sails like Streisand’s chuckle-fest.  But none of these things could have prepared me for the torture I and my crew suffered. 

We were in the Mediterranean.  Just outside the Adriatic, off the coast of Albania.  The place where our vengeance was to be found.  Seven months prior, yours truly, having lost a thumb and fourteen pounds of dignity, pulled anchor on an engagement to a fine lass of the seas.  Things, as the dirt-people say, hadn’t gone so well.  In honor of the true women who have put the pitch and yaw in my cabin over the days, a little back-story is appropriate to define this fire-haired villianness. 

Many a fine women has graced the decks of my ships over the years, and many a fine crew-woman proved her worth where many a preposterous man has failed.  Some, given that special measure of Teslan connectivity had conducted their heart and mine with the ease of breathing.  Yet, as our waterborne lives are challenging, the trist cum affair cum love had never held water.  Some had heard the call for firmness both in hearth and ground.  One had been slain during the Cortez affair, more commonly known as the Invasion of Florida.  Another had been manipulating our talent and efforts in order to steal a Caravaggio.  Had only she conscripted the crew, things would have worked out.  They come, they go, all with the certainty of the trade winds.

This wench, nay, bitch, in particular was, in truth, a mermaid.  Not really a mermaid, those don’t exist.  The women who do exist, though, are crafty enough to fain mermaiditude, adding depth and mystery to illusion.  Our crew had no charge, so we decided to spend some lax time searching the shoals where these hybrids were rumored to cast their nets.  And find them when we did. 

Once my eyes met those of that fire-haired villianness, I knew I had found a woman, truly remarkable.  She and her companions threw off their faux flippers, boarded, and began life anew, or so we thought.  Weeks had passed, and so mirthful were the times that even this barnacled bastard considered running my vessel aground.  But then it happened.  Boredom, perhaps.  Perhaps anger or jealousy.  Whatever the case, that Goddamn asshole of a woman, took the love of many a crewmember, killed three, took all my Nutella and blew a hole the size and smell of Portland in my hull.  Those of us that made it to shore swore in blood pact that her death would only begin to satisfy us. 

That was when I started training elephants.  I was determined to find her and destroy her.  See her sitting on a beach, or at some P.F. Changs in Herzegovina and let loose the Pachyderms of hell.  And oh, what a sweet trampling it would be. 

Somehow, though, she caught wind of my scheming.  Whilst taking shore leave, she burned my ship in the harbor.  Donated my elephants (properly trained, mind you) to those Ringling jackasses.  Kidnapped four of my crew and seduced my first mate, Amber, one of the best people I had ever known.  To top it all off, this fire-haired villianness was able to produce a trumped up charge of Barbie doll forgery that landed me in the hoosegow for six months.  That I, I(!), would forge a Mattel! 

And such were the course of events that led I and a new crew filling out a freighter full of elephants to the Adriatic.  It was too easy.  There, on the shore near a tiny marina in Slovenia, she and her cohorts were taking stock of their bounty, much of it, ours.  At full mast, with all speed, we crashed into the harbor, with no thought for our own safety, but only a hope that the blood in our eyes would be appeased.

After sculling to a stop on the shallow rocks, the galley hatch burst into splinters-a-million, the elephantine beauties crash through the shallows with no thought but to death.  Just like daddy told ‘em to.  And as we near fell over the sides, clutching and leaning and screaming the broken screams of vengeance, I caught her last glance.  Even as the brutes were upon her, she resigned herself and gave a care to cast me one last dismantling smile.  Oh, what fire-haired villainy…

No matter what we’ve been doing, no matter how long we’ve been sailing AT FULL MAST, there comes a time in every captain’s life when he or she needs to point the bow of his or her ship at the nearest port and sail for vacation-land.  We, at this point, had been on the high seas for over fourteen months going from port to port, collecting all the life-size cardboard cutouts of Cloris Leachman we could find.  We should never have taken that contract for a multitude of reasons, but I felt like I owed it to my grandpa.

Often times, members of the crew will look at me with the most hateful stares, daring me to crash the hull on the waves another day.  Times like these you just have to ignore the nay-sayers and sail onward.  And then there are the days when you lose seven members of your crew in Shanghai for one lousy life-size Leachman cutout.  Kneeling there on the deck with soiled, soggy cardboard and blood on my hands and the crew staring in shock - it was all too much.  Time to throw in the towel on this one.

You can imagine, then, how overjoyed we all were, as we coasted in to port, the sails struck.  Some of the crew needed to buy new monkeys, others were to be instructed on the uses of toothbrushes whereas others were planning to drink themselves into the oblivion and stupor found only at the bottom of various containers.  To each their own. 

I was daydreaming about elephants (for I am crafty and subversive when it comes to future plans) when I heard a sorrowful statement.  It came from Amethynia, a woman of Greek export who had been sailing with us for three years.

“If I see Justin there, I’m gonna vomit.  When I think about how I could love such a thing, I’m afraid I’m not even human myself anymore.”

Damn these months AT FULL MAST can make us fickle.  It was only yesterday, a day from port’s relief that Justin had been catching the salt air, leaning over the deck rail, when a giant squid rose from the surface and wrapped its hooked tendrils about him.  Amethynia, having loved him from the first, dove in, against all protestation, with a whaling harpoon in her hand.  How long both were under, we couldn’t say for certain, but what we are certain of is that love and love alone gave her the strength to pry affection’s object from that terrible beak.  What a tragedy.

As she soothed and cooed him back to life on deck we all had hopes that finally the love would be spoken and I could perform a marriage (the best part of being a ship’s captain).  Alas, when he came to, his first word was, “Karen.”  Shitty.  Amethynia never let me explain that Karen was Justin’s mother.  I don’t think it mattered.  In the day since, I have broken up three fights between the two and have put thirty-seven stitches in Amethynia’s side (Justin is wicked with a scimitar when cornered).  Oh love, you dainty nymph, that we should never appease thee.

A long shore leave is called for.  ANCHORS AWAY!  That’s what I say.  Some extra days for monkey shopping and toothbrush instruction and elephant training will do us all some good.  My only hope is that Justin and Amethynia can reconcile.  Just as much as love, it would do them well to sail AT FULL MAST come a week’s time.

Like many men of my generation, I spent much of my youth sailing from the Atlantic to the Pacific around Cape Horn.  Mostly we were liberating Chinchillas, mostly.  It was a great day when the holds were filled with Chanel dresses or supportive shoe insoles.  Anything but those damn Chinchillas.  I still don’t sleep, remembering what would happen: Some freshies would poop themselves over the cuteness of thousands of Chinchillas and before you know it the bells would be ringing the alarm, sounding the escape.

You run down the decks, you climb into the rigging, but nothing works.  THERE IS NO ESCAPING THE CHINCHILLAS.  They swarm over decks, run everywhere, jump, hide, nestle themselves in your beard.  Before you know it you’re overpowered.  Even the saltiest of the crew would shriek and jump overboard, longing for the delights of sharks in reprieve of the Chinchilla infestation.

The only crew members brave enough to beat off the hordes of dirt-bathers were the old-timers.  Men and women who have spent years in the Chinchilla trade have learned that when the young pups quiver and cry as the floors move with fur, the only thing to do is grab a lashing pin in each hand, laugh insanely and beat off the raging tide, hour by terrifying hour.  It’d work too.  These vets succeeded where even the rats failed.  EVEN THE RATS!

Now, I have my own ship.  I don’t sail the Cape Horn route any longer and I sure as shit don’t mess around with Chinchillas.  But I do crew out the decks with retirees.

Talk about a dependable sailor.  They’ve eaten at the galley before I’m even up and I’m the damn captain.  Runnin’ bilge pumps after a cannon fight, the old folk are pulling twice the weight and slapping the freshies in the face with their own college degree.  It’s so hilarious to hear them get burned time after time.  “What’s the matter, eh?  Harvard not teach ya how to pump like a swabbie?”  WHAP!  Another hit with the diploma.  It’s like boot camp, hauling line with some of these people.

I tell ya, sailing on these seas AT FULL MAST is great, even in the face of cannons and swords.  But sometimes you need someone to stand about arms length away from, not to close now, there Ebenezer, someone who knows way more than you and tells stories with questionable at-topic relevance.  If I have old people on board I know the sails will be up for the long haul.

More than once I’ve been saved walking a plank by aged wisdom.  While escaping capture in the Florida keys, we chanced upon an island, unmarked on any of our charts.  In its bay, a reefed-up spice trader, the S.S. Salty Doge, it’s life boats beached on a near shore.  Creeping into the jungle revealed the all but skeleton bodies of the crew.  Even I stood perplexed, trying to discover the meaning of this.  Before anyone else, our most senior member of the landing party, Poxter Cunningham, I believe it was, gathered all his acumen, put all his fear into his face and screamed!  “RUN!”  Moments later, freshies and old dogs alike started dropping with two foot darts protruding from their asses.

In talking to other seniors of the seas, we discovered later that we survivors had narrowly escaped death from the Gracious and Benevolent Union of Retired Miami/Dade Exotic Dancers.  These vindictive strippers have been killing the Florida Keys for years, it turns out, sirens who dance on poles on the beaches of uncharted islands, luring sailors to their deaths.  Turns out ol’ Poxter figured it out in just enough time for half of us to raise the rigging and see the sun set on the sea agian.

For reasons such as these, whenever I see a new old person when I’m in port, I stop and shake their hand, hoping they don’t spit on me (old people tell me I’m hideous to look upon).  If all goes well, I thank them for being around so long, for surely without them, we wouldn’t be sailing AT FULL MAST!

I’m sure you’ve been there.  I’ve been there.  Your father has been there.  Things are going well, you’re about to board a man-o’-war after wrapping up the night at an indoor paintball party, having come from dynamite smuggling in Belize.  You are AT FULL MAST on the oceans or rivers or whatnot in which we sail!  Things couldn’t be any better even if you performed a jumping fist pump and time stopped with you in mid-air.

That’s when it happens.  The conversation that rushes all the blood to your brain.

Now, I’m all for talking to friends, and it is pretty awesome to develop friendships.  When, for example, you find someone who shares your love of carbonated alcoholic, fruit flavored beverages and jazz and both at the same time, you know you’ve struck gold. One of the great ways to show such a person that you care is to sit down, listen and, if need be, to “talk about it.”

Sometimes you talk to a friend about sexually transmitted infections (apparently STDs are outdated).  Other times you talk to friends about international diamond thievery (a surefire recipe for AFM).  And then, times you need to slow down, drop anchor, put Calcutta-port on hold and be a good friend.  Turns out, the ears were needed to discuss a matter of the ole move-in.  The ole her and her boyfriend co-habitation.

My bitches at U-Haul have known about co-habitation for years.  In fact, the good folks at AFM R&D informed me that one of the reasons that the sixties were so tumultuous for youths and their parents was on account of U-Haul instigating so many people sharing so many things – homes and the like, and using their trucks for shipping.  You know you got to stimulate profits somehow… and participate in cultural shifts.  Obama take note.

Striking the sails for a moment is important, catch some rays in a bay, right?  Hearing her words of care for her good sir (she kept referring to him as “booty-slap”) were inspiring in the money/love way and were like a shore leave after months of FULL MASTing.  Sometimes girlfriends don’t get any cooler.

So many good things come from people being together.  You live longer, you bathe more often (facilities permitting), you don’t steal as much.  And when you’re used to not living with someone you care about and then do, things are even better.  A little zaney, yeah, but twenty five sheets to the wind awesome.  Feel free to crank that thermostat in the winter when the both of you are splitting the tab.  And you can avoid Dachsunds wearing Snuggies.

I think co-habitation preceding marriage is pretty handy, considering the prospect of never having lived with your mate.  Drooling and shoe collections and laundry schedules can be learned and appreciated.  Still, there will be detractors.  I’ve heard ‘em say, “Just get married already. Give me a fucking break.  You’re seven year old step-sister knows you’re ringing the bells.”  Hatin’ don’t pay.  Any sacrifice made for love, even not farting while making eggs, strengthens all relationships

There are practicality issues to consider.  One does not leave port without a thorough understanding of the manifest.  Shit just makes sense.  So does sanity.  Know what else makes sense?  Playing Modern Warfare 2 with your dong out.  Putting cigarette butts out in an empty bottle of Grainbelt makes sense too.  Just as much as bathroom cabinets full of tampons.    Learning the value of surrending your Dio T-Shirt drawer for bras is a beautiful experience.  Don’t get me wrong, one bra on the floor is a good thing, or on the blade of a ceiling fan, but piles of bras?  One big festering pile of bras, simmering in their own boob-sweat?  Love is bigger than that.  Need to figure how to make that shit work.

With all these thoughts running through my head, I get more excited about being around.  Life AT FULL MAST gets fairly crazy sometimes and hearing a good thing boosts the morale.  You gotta get some when you can, because a forty-four gun frigate is calling you back to Calcutta.  Cruisin’ speed.