The Creaky Cerebellum

 

Clever is as clever does
memory favours
us both and we share no
difficulties in routine
matters both still
working in overdrive
through long familiarity
and comfort with
each other's presence.

Yesterday morning
meaning to warm the teapot
I instead flushed boiling water
into his waiting coffee pot
full of fresh-ground
freshly-roasted coffee beans
then absently swilled
the lot into the sink
teapot still there, undisturbed.

He laughed, assured me
nothing wrong with the brain
just full of other concerns
then re-ground another batch
for that perfect morning coffee
he so enjoys
and I my morning tea.

This morning his coffee
plunged oddly, taste lacking.
I discovered on removing
the plunger the assembly in
incorrect sequence. He'd dried
the dishes as I washed
and it was he assembled the plunger
I archly pointed out.

Made your day? asked he
slurring the query into
Major Day, as I responded
No, General Havoc
but all the synapses are firing
on cue. We're still capable
and cerebrally functioning
up to expectations; have
another three decades
to mature, gracefully.

The Fearsomely Ferocious Dog

 

He was tiny as a puppy, could comfortably fit in a person's hand. And he didn't mind that at all, instinctively taking pleasure from the warmth transmitted. He was delicate, had a pair of fabulous luminously-large eyes, and a picky appetite. As he grew, so did his hair, voluminously. He resembled a mop more than he did a little dog. In fact, his people had a little fuzzy bed for him, and its interior was the same colour as his hair. Curled up in that little bed one would never suspect a little dog was there, he blended so perfectly with the interior.

In so doing, he risked being stepped on. Good thing the only one doing that stepping-upon was the peoples' infant grandchild. Still, the distress that brought to the little animal was manifested by its yipping protest, and the child was admonished to exercise greater care in future. The future brought age to the tiny dog and the child, both. And while the child learned the lessons carefully taught her, the tiny dog went his own inimitable way. Tiny he might be, but ferocious also.

To this tiny dog's way of thinking rabbits were very nice, cats were tolerable, squirrels awaited conquest, and dogs - well, dogs of any description, any size, were abominable creatures not to be tolerated. Not, in any event, by him. Meanwhile, he was so small for so long that he was never walked on a leash, but set into a camera bag, slung over a shoulder and carried about everywhere. He was more than comfortable in his little bag, and on seeing it on the floor, would hop in and settle himself down for transit.

Eventually it came time to teach him that he could wear a collar and a harness, and be attached to a leash. He would now walk on his legs, like any respectable quadruped, through the neighbouring woodlands for daily exercise. Everything attracted his curiosity, but most especially bugs and insects he might come across on the forest floor. They represented hunting potential and he tracked them with his nose - and then - pounced.

His people tried all manner of persuasive ploys to divert his attention from the presence of other, oncoming dogs on the trails, but nothing quite succeeded. He was ultra-aware, and reacted predictably unfortunately; barking, snarling and generally behaving abominably, an embarrassment to the people he was with, but an act of overweening hubris on his part. Tiny he might be, but he had the courage - or the stupidity - of a giant.

He would indeed, unless restrained, physically attack astonished giant dogs, like German shepherds, dobermans, huskies. Apologies were proffered and his people hurried along with him, admonishing him for his obnoxious behaviour. They tried using a cap pistol to startle him when he would begin barking at other dogs, tried squirting lemon juice at him, tried carrying a tin can full of pennies they'd jangle but to no avail.

He was his own hero, and that was that, simply put. Oh, there was one dog for whom special dispensation was given, an old, overweight and most amenable beagle, whom the tiny dog did virtual leaps of joy over and around; his own, very favourite companion animal. Who responded to the tiny dog's antics and expressions of love by attempting to channel him under his considerable weight with a certain act in mind.

When summer was spent and cooler weather heralded, the tiny dog responded by communicating to his people his misery. Upon which little sweaters would be pulled over his head and legs and back, and the bliss of warmth would be re-established. In the winter months daily excursions into the woods continued, but now the tiny dog was outfitted in a cozily-warm winter jacket and hand-made boots to ensure his body heat would not be lost.

On one occasion walking on a snow-deep trail, his person lacked alacrity when a malamute suddenly appeared and the tiny dog lunged at it. The malamute responded by taking the tiny dog into its great maw and holding it there. The tiny dog's snarls turned immediately to squeals of indignation and fear. His fearful person bent on knees on the snow-tamped trail, to gently pry him from the jaws of the complacent malamute.

His people were truly perplexed. Their loving little - sorry, tiny - companion who would never miss an opportunity to leap upon their laps if they were seated reading the newspapers and cuddle up, to sleep, and who, at night burrowed deep under the covers in bed alongside them, never moving throughout the entire night, could not be cured of his aggression toward other dogs. They hadn't had him neutered, fearing the consequences of anaesthesia.

Finally, however, the deed was done. He was brought home in utter misery and pain, whimpering and cuddling close to his people. They dressed him in infant-wear -- an infant-sized-onesie -- to ensure he would not incessantly lick the source of his pain, a sutured wound. And they cradled him, and spoke gently to him, and reassured him, and the world once again seemed a reasonable place for an apricot toy poodle.

Alas, although his markings in the house ceased, his aggression toward other dogs did not. Mind, once he had seen another dog on a number of occasions and had become familiar with it, he no longer felt hostile toward it. Not like those anonymous dogs (and horses) appearing on the television screen from time to time who required constant vigilance lest they invade the safety and security of his home.

And now he demonstrated a hitherto-absent and profound interest in food. All manner of food. And as much of it as he could scarf, licitly and otherwise. And his once-delicate frame began to fill out. Which did not stop him from energetically matching stride with his people, even to completing half-day treks up and down (modest-sized) mountains to achieve a summit, then return to base.

In the spring he would sense the presence of increasing warmth and sun. Oh, the sun, the powerful warming rays of the sun; he adored the sun. Even on cooler days on spring's arrival he would insist on sitting outdoors if the sun was full out, soaking up its warmth, revelling in its comfort; it was his element and the medium of his quality of life. Still is.

He is older, and wiser in some ways, but not too many. His every wish is his peoples' command, so in that sense he is wiser than they. 

 

The Little Black Dog

 

Things are not as they were. She is no longer tolerant of being physically manipulated. Little wonder, given her age. Perhaps it's a dignity thing. She will, however, allow herself to be lifted and carried on occasion, even hugged and held close. And she is so accustomed to being carried in an over-the-shoulder bag whenever her humans take her to indoor places that she remains comfortable with that routine.

Her human who always grooms her finds it next to impossible now to turn her over onto her back to enable the careful trimming of footpads and muzzle, stomach and legs. It was always the most convenient way. Her hair grew so quickly, it needed constant trimming. Her large expressive and beautiful eyes could disappear behind the luxuriantly healthy growth of her hair. She still submits contentedly to her daily evening brushing, and looks forward to the massage that follows. But turn her on her back?

Now, it takes the considerable concentrated effort of her two humans to coax her to submit briefly to that kind of indignity. With her beard nicely trimmed, her eyes released, her lips revealed, and the puffy hair between her pads removed she looks so much neater, so much more like herself, and it's easier to maintain her hygiene.

She feels otherwise. And struggles unceasingly to free herself from the constraint of human arms holding her in place. No longer as calm and complacent as she used to be.

She was the last of her litter to be adopted by humans looking for companions. Her physical appearance betrayed a lack of symmetry, so perhaps that was the reason. Her coat was not as black as it should be, and the grey patches under her chin, her back end and the joints of her four legs detracted from her attractiveness, as did the awkward length of her legs.

But her eyes would melt the heart of a monster; dark, liquid and appealing.

She had the energy and acrobatic litheness of a champion, fleet as the wind and sure of foot. She outran every dog she ever challenged, and there were plenty of them, from miniature poodles like her, to German shepherds or short-haired pointers. Swift and determined she would leave them panting in her wake. And she loved water, would dive time and again to unerringly retrieve a stone she had scented.

When she was drenched she looked pathetically frail. Belying the fact that at such times she became a whirlwind of excitable energy, dashing about everywhere, fleet-footed and passionate about moving herself through the landscape. Her humans tried to coax her to eat more, to gain some weight, but to no avail. They feared lest one of those fragile legs be trapped under a root, against a rock and break, in her febrile dashes.

She sat quietly in a canoe, and watched the water swirl behind the paddles, eager to see the vessel beached so she could embark on parting the waters with her own body and the energy she brought to the task, a perfect swimming machine. She learned to unerringly read the messages in her humans' spoken vocabulary, in their body language and the clothing they wore, alerting her to perfect communication.

Now, closing in on sixteen dog-years, she has seemed to have forgotten her passion for her tennis balls, and her humans regret the passing obsession. She regards her balls now only on occasion as the treasured objects of possessive action they used to be. Now and again she will locate one of her balls and carry it about, then forget where she had left it, so unlike her previous self.

Occasionally something seems to remind her of her most current ball's absence and she will look everywhere for it, not recalling where she'd left it. Her searches will inevitably enlist the help of her humans, when she will trustingly sit back, ears anxiously at the alert, eyes fixed to the humans' activities looking deep under beds and furniture.

Where once she slept at the foot of their bed, she no longer does, preferring the loveseat opposite, in the bedroom.

Her hearing is now impaired, so that voiced reassurances when she is upset about having her hair trimmed have no effect. She lunges forward, on her back, attempting to put herself upright. She struggles, pants, and whimpers in distress until her humans set her upright, then struggle in that position to trim her, although it's never nearly as successful as formerly, when she biddably permitted herself to be upturned.

Brushing her teeth is no longer done as regularly; twice a week will do, now. Another routine she would prefer to dispense with. As with the trimming of her nails, particularly the dew-claw nails. It's almost as though this must be accomplished by stealth. One human holds her closely, freeing each leg in turn, while the other does the clipping, carefully.

She is now equipped with a padded halter when jaunts in the woods are undertaken, as they are daily, since the family lives beside an extensive wooded ravine. In the ravine, she trots about unleashed, but submits to the leash when she moves impatiently before her humans. They too are of an advanced, albeit human age and fit physically but incapable of matching her pace, hence the padded halter.

She no longer spurts after the squirrels they come across, although she is more than capable of doing so. There is an initial, involuntary reaction, an almost-leap, which subsides and she trots sedately along. Sniffing the ground, shrubs or anywhere other dogs have left their scent remains a vital mode of social awareness. A wariness of bees remains intact, due to an unfortunate incident when she was young.

On occasion she will spontaneously leap forward and outdistance her humans' sightlines, to rush about with glad abandon, celebrating a beautiful day, her green surroundings, and doubtless, her current state of physical fitness. She has always been a fit little animal, capable of energizing herself to the extent of achieving notable mountain ascents and descents.

One of her owners painted a large picture of her as a young animal, on the shore of a lake in Algonquin Park, where she was taken occasionally for camping trips. There are countless photographs of her atop mountains, for she has clambered up many of the mountains in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. Those days are long past, but she is still capable of ascending and descending modest heights requiring 4-hour circuits.

Apart from the time she was neutered, she has never really encountered deleterious health problems. When she was almost fifteen there was an occurrence when a mysterious event appeared to have occurred, freezing her in motion, and utterly draining her of energy. Recovery took months, during which time she appeared to forget routine, toilet manners and even at times who she was.

Returned to normalcy, she resumed being who she was.

Her eyes have become clouded, no longer clear. The veterinarian who looks after her assures her sight is minimally impaired, and it's clear she does retain her sight to a good degree. Her appetite has much improved, although she gains no weight at all, and remains lean and slim. She is more vocally demanding than ever she was, not countenancing her humans' propensity to want to sleep in of a morning.

It offends her sense of propriety to see them slothfully remaining abed when the house is suffused with sunlight. Not that she wants to be fed, merely that she feels the day should be adequately greeted. She has lost none of her verve, her keen appreciation of life, and she insists that her humans do likewise. She has little thought for the future; they prefer not to dwell on a future without her.

 

 

Trapped

 Gluttony, they sneer; her vast and unappeasable appetite; her submission to the incessant demands of her appetite bespeaks her failure. Her all-consuming appetite drives her to gluttony. Sentencing her to a shortened life, to a life devoid of freedoms all others take as their just due. She makes no effort, obviously, to control her appetite, permitting it to rule her life.

Instead, she allows her enormous hunger to guide her to the ultimate failure of existence. If she does struggle, it is unavailing.

It's all very well for those regarding her at a horrified, distasteful distance, with fastidious disgust for the spectacle she presents. But conspicuously regard her, they do. She presents as a freakish prank of nature. Those merely on the cusp of obesity are among the most condemnatory. They assure themselves that by singular comparison, they don't look so bad, after all, merely slightly overweight, and if they really made the effort, they could shed those extra pounds.

But they, at least, do not repel and affront social aesthetic. They do make an effort to control their appetites. They are manifestly superior to the woman who suffers their stares, their silent condemnation easy enough to read by their body language. They don't see themselves in her, nor think for one moment that she once shared their more modest girth, comforting herself with the thought that she'll make the required effort, eventually.

Has she no shame? No idea of how physically repugnant, threatening even, her presence appears to the public eye? Oh, she has, and she does quite handily observe her outcast status. She stands outside herself, as it were, seeing herself as others see her, and takes no pleasure in the exercise. It causes her no end of hapless introspection, guilt, anger, that she is so firmly judged, found wanting, scrupulously avoided.

Granted, her drug of choice is a superabundance of foodstuffs. She is not brain-addled, merely suffers from absence of control, lack of restraint; mortally afflicted thereby. She feels pain, emotional distress, societal distance, physical fatigue, psychological hopelessness. And yet aspires to make the most of her life, as it is. Taking pleasure where she may.

She has a good mind, a pretty face, delicate, if dimpled hands and feet. She is capable of exquisite thoughts, leaping toward eternity. She is resolute in matters unconnected to diet and restraint. Socially conscious, she deplores a world of inequity, struggle, deprivation, where the strong consume the weak, where disease afflicts vast populations and 'tribal' warfare displaces millions.

Her body, vast in its spread over her frail bones and disappeared musculature, is a symbol of nature's providential capacity to alter, yet preserve living matter. Initially, when she was in the expansion process that brought her to her current bloated state, she thought the perfect ovoid of her form symbolically reflected nature's life-force. And then nature's perfect rotund symmetry came full circle.

To some she presents as a vulgar caricature, an unappetizing vision of physical degradation speaking volumes of society's fascination with and dependence upon all that harms us. And she is harshly judged. A contumacious failing of the majority imposing their values, priorities and custom on an exceptional, vulnerable minority.

She does, mightily, mourn her loss of freedom. Freedom of mobility. Freedom from the angry, accusatory glares of strangers scorning and deriding her. Her deleteriously-impacted body leaves her dependent on the goodwill and residual familial regard of those closely connected to her through consanguinity.

And she does suffer from a decidedly predictable lack of personal esteem. Her physician has prescribed a regimen of drugs to balance her fragile state of self-loathing, her insecurities, her severe depression. But more than the drugs, her little coterie of companion-felines ensure her ongoing interest in life, enthusiasms beyond her frail and easily-tipped existence.

Her exoskeleton, she is aware, is suffering. Her internal organs certainly threaten some imminent collapse, incapable of continuing their miraculous mechanical operation under the sheer unadulterated weight that smothers their capabilities, wondrous as they are. Her body's largest organ expands to accommodate additions to the fat her body so efficiently stores.

I will not succumb to starvation quite obviously; rather to the burdens placed on my heart, lungs, kidneys and moving joints. There are many who have expired from life from the effects of tobacco, alcohol and recreational drug-addiction, before they have even reached my current age.

And that is so too for people struck down by dread diseases like various types of cancers in various stages invading their bodies and inexorably spreading, becoming inoperable, steadily moving them toward the inevitable. Serendipitously, I live with my grossly overweight body, past my half-century mark.

I am a devotee and an ardent user of that great modern-day social emancipator, the Internet, and social networking. Where anonymity of physical appearance enhances my social exchanges. I am judged not on the morbidity of my obesity, but on the quality of my mind, my thoughts, my opinions, and my interests.

 

 

The Sound Of A Dove

 

Perched on a branch of a fruit tree
In my garden, outside my window
Its soft cooing soothes and pacifies
It is, after all the universal
Symbol of Peace, is it not?

Inner conflict, personal anguish
Uncertainty and doubt
When it besets, troubles and
Fatigues coping abilities
Leaving an aura of defeat;

Can that symbol assuage
That turmoil of the mind
Nudge the chaotic sense of defeat
Toward acceptance and solution?
Can I ever be a dove

Whose purpose it is to
Persuade the inner mind of a loved one
Toward peace and tranquility
Leaving far behind the purposelessness
Of self-defeating regret and anger?

What has been done is done
And we move on to meet what
Life offers; one fork on the way to
The future or the other
Attempting the while to solve
Interior doubts and miseries of the mind.

Would that I could be as a dove to you
And comfortingly ease your soul of torment.
Somehow placating the ravenous beast within.
I struggle with the attempt, do my best
Ultimately accept the quivering lash
Of your unappeasable fury.

Child of mine, hear me out!

 

 

So, God?

 

My best friend's family is religious. They go to church regularly, every Sunday. I've gone along with them, twice. My mother doesn't believe in religion. She doesn't think there's a God. I'm asking you directly. Where are you? What do you do, exactly? It's like what my mother does for a living, she's a professional, she does project management and she has other skills, like she can do architectural drawings, and she does stuff like interior design. I mean I know she does that stuff, but I don't know what it is. Know what I mean?

My girlfriend's thirteenth birthday was a month before mine. I've been thirteen for a full month, almost. I'm not sure she believes in God -- that's you -- either. We don't talk about it, really. We get along really well together. I like being with her, and I know she likes being with me, too. She used to bug to come over all the time, and that was fine with me. I wasn't all that excited about going over to her house. Besides, I'm the one that has a trampoline; she has cattle, and you can't play with cows.

You may have guessed we live in the country. It can get pretty boring in summer. But know what? I'd rather have the summer holidays than be in school. I'm pretty good at school work, and get good marks, but being bored at home is better than being bored at school. There's a lot of kids that've gone through school with me I'd just as soon not see again - at least for a while. Until school starts up again, and I go into grade eight.

I've always wondered is there a powerful mighty guy. Is there really someone high above us in the sky watching our every move? That makes me kind of nervous. I don't want anyone watching everything I do. There are some things, actually lots of things I'd like to keep private. Anyway, if you do exist, God, are you why I'm here? Are you the one who takes people we love away with you, or is that fate?

I know that people who believe in your existence go to church because they want to prove to you that they have faith in your existence. That's kind of silly, isn't it? They pray there, as a way to tell you that they trust you and believe that if they do what you say, things will turn out all right. So, if someone does something bad, are you the one who decides what to do with them, or is it the police and the criminal justice system?

Don't we control ourselves, our behaviour, our actions? All right, if you exist, and I'm not right to question that, how about Mother Nature? How do you explain that nature is the one that makes things grow, including the food we eat, and is responsible also for our existence as human beings? Should nature not contest you? Is nature answerable to you? Did you create nature too?

There's no real way of knowing, is there? If there is a way of proving that you're real, that you exist somewhere, somehow, I'd sure like to know what it is. Nature isn't fake, we can see what it - or she does, we watch the seasons change, we see things grow, we eat the food that growing things provide for us. Who are we supposed to be grateful to -- you -- or nature? I know that people appreciate nature and worship you.

But no one can give me the answers I'm looking for. No one wants to, they say you've just got to take some things on trust. So why should anyone trust you, God? People kill one another and fight over you. If you're real why don't you put a stop to that? Why don't you stop the fighting, the wars, the children dying in poverty, the people starving? Aren't you supposed to be responsible, too?

It's not peoples' fault they can't live the way they want to. Healthy and wealthy. Why, if you're so fair and just and kindly, do you allow some people to have money and others not? Why are really nice people dying when they're young from some horrible disease, and the nasty people who don't care about anyone but themselves able to live long and healthy lives? Not my idea of fairness or justice.

Is it yours, God? Is there some kind of master plan I'm not smart enough to think of, maybe? You look down on all these pathetic, arguing, miserable people and just let things happen. Because you know we'll figure it all out some day? You know, like tough love? Is that it, God? You love the humans you created so much and respect their intelligence so much that you're prepared to allow them to make dreadful mistakes?

On their way to eventually becoming as smart as you? Will you be there, waiting to greet those people who believe in you, and who say they do all the good things you say they're supposed to, in the afterlife? Come to think of it, what's this stuff about an afterlife? Do we really have more than one life to live? Some kids laugh that off, and say life isn't a practise session. I think they're right, and they're smarter than me too.

So, God, what have you got to say for yourself? I don't mean to be rude. Just asking. 

 

 

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.