On His Majesty's Service

HMS Resolution

 

Another storm during the night. Don't know how Fowler kept her on an even keel. He fought the wheel half the night. Rankin came on during the late watch, offered to take over, said Fowler looked half dead. but he snarled, told him to "hieyerself outta me sight"; so Rankin went below again.

My teeth are getting loose again, gums sore. The ship's biscuit's harder than a cartwheel and full of life. Hardy creatures those weevils, can't figure how they make their way through the hardtack. For my part they can have it all. Captain says it's scurvy, what some of us gets, says he's going to start examining us regular. Whoever shows signs of the bone sickness he's going to leave at the next port. Doesn't want his ship a sick ship, says he's had a good record and we're thick-skulled not to follow orders.

"I've provisioned enough limes to do us the voyage. Never mind those sour looks! Just follow orders, and my orders are every man-jack of you take daily portions of the fruit. Take my word for it or don't take my word, you'll do as you're told, or be dropped off this ship."

When the bosun's whistle blows three short ones we drop whatever we're doing, assemble aft and listen to him. He likes to be listened to. Anyone who doesn't listen, look halfway respectful of the man, lets his fool self in for a tongue lashing no one else can deliver half so well. Try it more than once and it's another kind of lash that's employed. Runs a tight ship, does Captain Vancouver.

So why're my teeth loose, demmit? My mouth's in a constant pucker, that demmed fruit sours me for the morning's duration. As ship's surgeon, I support the Captain, take the medicine as prescribed. Wonder how many others have trouble with their teeth? He'll notice, I fear, that I leave the biscuit. No other officers' mess serves biscuit but the captain says the officers should have it no better than the men.

As I say, he runs a tight ship. Morale had been reasonably good at first, too. We hadn't the losses suffered in the rest of His Majesty's Fleet, nor quite the number of desertions.

That last contingent of city-bred lads the press gang brought in was a sorry lot. But reputation precedes acts of desperation and this time out there was but one desertion. Captain must have been sorry for him. He'd the Cattail right, thirty lashes and then out to the small craft with him, to go from one of His Majesty's Ships in Bristol Harbour to the next. Additional five lashes in each. Total of, let's see - fifty-five. Delirious for a week. Back festering, oozing pus. But draining nicely. I've kept the night-air-miasma from him, though the cabin grows rank from decaying flesh. I feel another week and he'll do service again.

A stout Lancashire lad, he. Rambling on about his Tess. Pity, he'll never see his Tess again. Serve this voyage he may, but not many more.

More fortunate he was, than that other, the voyage previous. Wouldn't submit to the Captain's authority, the demmed fool, so he was keel-hauled. No one survives that. Betwixt the devil and the deep blue sea he was, hoisted down after the lashing, strung under the bow and pulled along from one end of the ship t'other. Brought up at the stern properly keel-hauled. Barnacles torn the living flesh from his body. Completely flayed.

Couldn't tell when he'd drowned, near the start or toward the end. Sewed him into the shroud, said the words and shipped him below. Ah, there's no glory, none at all, for them that works the ships of His Majesty's Navy.

Yet there's some strange compelling need that brings me back, again and yet again to stand on the deck of another ship and look out over the vast eternity of sea, jealous of the free-winged albatross, waiting to see the first glimpse of the Humpbacks breaking water, hear the clarion-clear call of 'Land-Ho!' from above.

This time out, we're weary of the wait. The sea a raging beast in mid-winter. It was poor judgement to sail this late, but he would have it so. The lines, the masts are devilishly iced and hands cleave to the lines as though human flesh loves the deathly cold and grieved to let it go. Leaving as surety flaps of skin behind.

Days pass, mature into weeks of nothing but the blind raging sea and the murky grey sky overhead, the swooping form of a seabird followed closely by another and we look, desperate for sight of land. Ship's water has gone bad and we need fresh. Even cutting it with rum does little good, it is so brackish. We need to re-victual. The galley crew canna do much with victuals running short.

Captain ordered Metcalf to the Crow's Nest. Him especially, known as the most sure-footed and -handed among the surly crew, but the man hung back. Fear spoke loud in his face. Pride, too. His admiration for the captain boundless, yet he was defiant, would not climb in that high wind. Captain Vancouver is a good man, but his face can assume the blackest proportions. Most threatening of any man I've sailed with. And he had his way.

We watched, bating breath, as Metcalf gripped the hawsers, drew himself upward, tortuously slow-like, his legs gripping the pole and sliding back occasionally. Then pulling himself up again, determined, swinging toward the Nest. And a cheer went up from us all, as though we were one tongue in one hopeful head, the scared-witless lot of us.

Turned to a groan as he missed and fell. Ah, Lord, how slowly time churned as he fell. Twisting, tumbling so agonizingly slow as we watched mouth agape. Fell in a languid motion in the frigid air to finally thump the deck. Head turned awry on his neck, so he was as though looking backward, over his shoulder, in the direction of the Auld Sod he'd never see again.

Doesn't do to get sentimental. Must be age advancing on me. No excuse for that kind of thing; sentiment. One less hand to reach greedily for the evening grog. One less mouth to mumble clandestine mutinies. One less man-jack to chase the aboriginal women and strip the deck to offer barter for bodies.

The Captain is a good and God-fearing man. I have no doubt this journey will conclude with a rare and new discovery. Those who travel the bosom of the sea must needs prepare for adversity.

 

 

Night Patrol

 

Shooting Stars! Meteorites!
Satellites traversing the sky
signalling Earth; the life
up here is your own
reflected back to you
courtesy of your local antennae-in-the-sky.

(Eccentricity calculated
that meteorite
just in passing
merely a practise
performance.)

Meteorite velocity
not that of humankind's satellites
collisions resonate
but in the void, however vast
there are possibilities.
The signal is the message.

Gravitational attractions
atmospheric deceleration
pre-encounter velocity
breathless potential
inertia, reference the frame.

Earth's velocity no match
for the unmeasurable speed of
that catastrophic meteorite.

 

 

Tour Guide

 

Sun	Mercury	Venus	Earth
Mars	Jupiter	Saturn	Uranus	Neptune

SUN - Our fiery disk, life-giving, life-affirming, fearsome gaseous activity. Avoid close scrutiny at all costs for the costs of close scrutiny are disastrous. Respect at a safe distance.

Mercury - Atmosphere; none discernible. An inferior planet, so say we. Irregularities in Terminator or the Cusps.

Venus - Thick atmosphere, cloud patterns, spastic interiority, 180-degree cusp studies. Details difficult to discern. Short shrift

Mars - Surface and atmospheric detail. High altitude clouds. equatorial clouds, polar hazes, deserts, frost, ice fog. Questionable.

Jupiter - Gaseous treasure. Ever-changing dark belts, polar region. Observe the satellite transits. Fascinating features, focus with care.

Saturn - Observably beautiful; blingy rings. Zone of belt brightness. Storms like bright spots of active theatre. Sere temperate and equatorial areas against giant disk. A winner.

Uranus/Neptune - Distant worlds, visible telescopic disks. Features indistinguishable (diskettes?) Upper reaches of the atmosphere. Reduced sunlight. Polar collars, brightening. Discrete clouds favouring Uranus.

Earth - Ah, yes. Uninspired nomenclature. But very nice greens, blues and clouds at times obscuring the entirety. Ozone, too. White polar regions. Visit, stay awhile, linger and observe the flora, the fauna. While you may.

 

 

Astronomical!

NASA

 

Homo Sapiens
Neanderthalensis
Lascaux ca. 20,000 - 15,000 B.C.
Upper paleolithic ancestors
extinct fossil hominid species =
extant astronomical imagery
Ah, ye eternal skeptics!

Graphic astronomical observations
imaging the heavens
that ineluctable majesty
astronomical discoveries, theories
observations and analyses;
textual presentations;
comprehension, reproduction.

Imaging, drawing,
astronomical artifacts
graphic techniques
vintage, antique observational
records in scientific enquiry
humankind's hubris
Nature's interlocutor.

Observe, query
record, celebrate.
Reinforcing, autodictatism
cumulative experience.
Man, conqueror of the Universe!

 

 

ME, LAST YEAR; 58th Installment

 

“Look, Mom”, I said and I was hardly able to talk, me and Jennifer were laughing so much, even though she was worried about Lumpy. “Look how stupid they look. They think they’re scaring the daylights out of Jennifer’s pig! I guess they just don’t realize how silly they look, waggling their bottoms like that, clicking their teeth. They’re a pair of clowns!”

“Ah, they’re exercising territorial imperative”, Mom said. Like she had just had a conversation with them, and knew all about it.

“What’s that, Mrs. Feldman?” Jennifer asked. I wouldn’t have. I wouldn’t give Mom the satisfaction of wanting to know. She doesn’t have to talk like that, so no one can understand.

“Well Jennifer, an animal feels very possessive of what he considers to be his personal territory. When a strange animal comes on the scene, most particularly onto the first animal’s territory, the first animal instinctively wants to protect his property rights.”

“Boy, how stupid can you get? It’s our property, not theirs. We just let them live here.”

“Don’t be silly, dear. You know perfectly well what I mean.”

“Do you think it’s all right for them to be together like this then, Mrs Feldman? Will they get friendly after a little while longer?"

“Probably, Jennifer. What I think would be a much better idea is to put them all on neutral territory. It’s very nice out now, all you need is your sweater. Why not take them into the backyard on the grass, so they can forget territorial hostilities? Then perhaps they’ll be more friendly to one another.”

“Okay, that’s a good idea, eh Jennifer?” I said. And she thought so too. So we did. I mean, we took the three of them outside and I made a little pen for them to stay in out of the old croquet hoops, and the short garden fencing.

But wouldn’t you know it, they just started to ignore each other! All the stupid - oh, pardon me, they’re not really stupid (not much!) - well, all they wanted to do was eat and eat and nibble on the grass, nothing else. Just like pigs. Not very sociable, actually. Very appropriately named, you might say.

“Hey, how would you like to see how I trained Lumpy?” Jennifer asked.

“Trained? You trained her to do something? My dad says Guinea pigs are too stupid to be trained to do anything but eat … and poop. But they do that naturally.”

“No, honestly. I’ve trained her to run after me. It didn’t take all that long, either. Whenever I take her out of her cage and put her down outside or something, like it’s somewhere that she doesn’t recognize, she’ll run after me. I taught her when she was small. Actually, I didn’t exactly teach her so much, it was just that the first few times she just kind of followed me. Now it gets so that if I move away and call her, she’ll come over. Or, if she doesn’t notice that I’ve gone away and then she doesn’t know where I am, I’ll call her and she follows my voice to get to me.”

“Hey, cool! Let’s see her do it, Jennifer.”

So she took Lumpy out of the wire enclosure and took her over to the middle of the backyard,and put her down. At first Lumpy just sat there, not even moving or anything. Then she put her head down and just started eating like she was starved, or something. Jennifer walked away and nothing happened, her pig just kept eating.

“Oh, darn. Sometimes she doesn’t notice. Like when she’s busy, eating.”

“That’s like always. They’re always busy eating.”

“No, really Jen, she does run after me. Wait a minute, you’ll see.”

“C’mon Lumpy, Lumpy, c’mon!”

Just when it looked like Jennifer was going to get mad at poor little Lumpy and I was ready to laugh it off, wouldn’t you know it, the little pig started waddling off in her direction with her head down, sniffing the grass. She was running in little spurts and twice stopped and did a little hop and a skip.

I just love it when they frolic like that. Munchkin and Grumpkin used to do that a lot when they were babies. Now they don’t do it so much. They’re getting to be old grumps. Just like kids playing, and then growing up to be serious people. 

 

Inscription

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

All things in good time
and good things are timeless
as in 'for everything there is a season'.
For me, finally getting around to
that incomparable raconteur
the late Pierre Berton's tome
on The Quest for the North West Passage
and The North Pole, 1818 - 1909
"The Arctic Grail", that time was
long in coming. But it did arrive.

The fly page attests to the loving
gift this fascinating account represented
with its inscription: "Daddy, we hope you
enjoy reading this. I know how much you
enjoy history and I thought you might
like to take this along on your trip for
those quiet moments when you are up
and everyone else is asleep. Mimi, Sept. 1989."

Mimi might be offended that it has taken me
two decades to get around to her offering.
This touching family portrait, this brief sketch
of cherished parent, loving daughter might be
thought of as nostalgic familial memorabilia and indeed
it touches me, when I read and re-read it on
first paging through this fascinating volume.

We could not imagine divesting ourselves of books
once read, but of continuing value; mementos of
time, space, history, geography and the fertility
of authors' brain trusts, those whose literary muse
has been refined and lavished on those like us, for the
gratification of the vast public devoid of such talent.
Our bookshelves are pleasantly refulgent with
testimonies to past indulgence. Few books we have
read do not now reside there in a position of respect.

Vast are those books in number that we have acquired
over the decades, as yet unread, despite our diligent
determination to educate, entertain and lose ourselves
in accounts of the past, records of the present, hypothesis
of the future. Yet someone appears to have had little
enough personal book-indulgence as to place this gem
outside their realm of recovery, as a second-hand purchase
for us, and others appreciative of these opportunities
to acquire that which others so carelessly discard.

We are left to wonder: who is Mimi? Where did Daddy
venture on his trip ... a sea voyage to the Galapagos
perchance? 

 

 

Settling Into Winter

 

Wickedly bad tempered of late
she has sent one of her acolytes
to vent his ill tempest upon us
simply to remind, lest we forget
what forces they are that obey
Nature, corresponding to our
frail-minded clinging to puny
humankind's feeble management.

That ill wind, in intense
intercourse with a tempestuously
plunging atmosphere, and a
side dalliance with those
battered, bruised clouds venting
vapour over the land
has us cringing in paroxysms
of mortal distaste.

Trees surrender to naked despair.
Fish dive deep and anxiously hover.
Birds make frantic haste
to leave this familiar space.
While insects burrow deep
to wait out the annual tantrum.

Creatures of the forest gather
what they may to make
themselves scarce as the
landscape inexorably alters. We
grimace at the discomfort of
increasing displays of distemper.

Cringe before her directed onslaughts
of frigid air, wild wind, icy sleet, rain
and snow. Like other animals
we wait out the angry funk.
Awaiting opportunity to resume
the ease of changeable
Nature's goodly graces.