7/27/2019 Death of a Sailsman

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Death of a Sailsman

By Robert G. Ferrell

7/27/2019 Death of a Sailsman

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“Heave the mizzen-mast, Mister Zulu. Tonight at high tide we be settin’ course for pot o’

gold,” announced Captain Tankard.

The First Mate gave his head a jaunty cock (Rhode Island Red) and declared, “Thar be

fair skies and good winds fer makin’ way, that much be true, but along what bearing lies a pot o’

gold, I hasn’t an inklin,’ Cap’n.”“O’ course ye hasn’t, swab. The inklin’ is in the strongbox in me cabin, all locked up

good ‘n’ tight. All ye has to do is set the helm where I says and we’ll be reachin’ that pot o’ goldin good time.”

“Aye, aye, Cap’n.”

They pointed the bow of the S.S. Sibilance toward the open ocean. After an hour the

Cap’n came on deck. “Why in the name o’ Davy Jones’ wrinkled bunions arrrr we not movin’?”He looked up at the masts. “The sails has to be unfurled to catch the wind! How many times does

I has to tell ye land-lubbin’ swabs that?”

“Sorry, Cap’n. I allas git those two confused.”“That’ll be a hog-callin’ the next time ye do, ye scurvy crab.”

“You means keel-haulin’?”“Kin ye cut bacon from a keel, swab? Now, git us underway! I’m going to take a fewwinks in me hammock. Wake me when ye spies the pot o’ gold.”

The barque peeled away from the pier, which sank morosely into the harbor. The

Sibilance was at sea and her bowlines sang a spritely song of briny foam and dry rot. Seagulls

 pooped on the poop deck. Luna crept aloft and floated without enthusiasm just above the wavesfor some hours ere hopelessly sinking again. The Southern Cross made a magnificent celestial

signpost, pointing the way for anyone heading that way. Around it were the lesser constellations:

the ear spoon, the tree-ruining beetle, the sea biscuit, and the broken whisk broom: all twinklinglike lusty fireflies stuck to flypaper.

Down the coast of Africa, around the horn (avoiding the bass and drums), and across the

Indian Ocean with the Indians in hot pursuit. In the Timor Sea there were so many big scaryislands scattered about that our timorous craven navigator wouldn’t come out of his cabin, so

there was nothing for it but to backtrack and skirt around Australia to the south (and an elegant

skirt it was, too).We skipped across the broad Pacific until our feet got too sore for it. We tacked a

crooked course through the Straits of Magellan, limped past the nuts on the coast of Brazil and

finally made berth on the far side of Natal Island, right back where we set off from.

Just then the Cap’n awoke and trotted Willy-Nilly down the gangplank on his leash,headed for a shack just at the end of the pier. The crew hoisted grog in the old Pot O’ Gold

Tavern and then hoisted Tankard into the drink.