A nice bit of planking that, thought Kramer, as he ran his figures over the deck, and caught a snatch of a sea shanty in the distance. Why here? Had some press-gang done their dirty deed in some sea-front tavern, dragging Kramer off into the night clutching his King's Shilling and nothing else.
Then a figure, moving slowly towards him across the deck, in his left hand a white stick. Tap, tap, tap. Who's that knocking on my chamber door? Blind Pugh. Blind who?
Kramer looked up and saw the billowing sails above him, the crows nest emtpy except for a cuckoos egg, wating for a surrogate mother. And ropes. Ropes criss-crossing, forming spiders webs between the masts, catching albatrosses for the ancient mariner. A ship of fools, captainless and rudderless, sailing off the edge of the world.
Reef up, me hearties and splice the mainbrace!
A drunken sailor lay in the scuppers, a hose pipe drenching him. Then a one legged cook appeared from a hatch at the pointed end, taking his dead parrot back to the shop where he bought it. Good luck Long John. Or can I just call you Long. Three years before the mast. Rum, sodomy and the lash, but not necessarity in that order.
And now below, inside the wooden hull, which creaked and groaned as it rolled and pitched, tossed and turned. But metal now. Clean and new, pristine. And carpeted. The interior of a liner with all mod cons and the three heated swimming pools. Two of them indoors. Miles of passages, all brightly lit, forming a three dimensional labyrinth. Deck upon deck. And Kramer Should know - he was that soldier boy.
Soldiers and sailors. Merchantmen in warm woollen jumpers. Officers in their crisp white, tropical uniforms. A full complement. And passengers, on the cruise of a lifetime, a one way ticket to a night to remember. Away all boats, but keep a lookout for icebergs. An now the bridge. High above the decks and the waves, far too high to be real. A panoramic view of the seven seas before him. To see the sea.
A sea alive with flying fish and porpoises, with white horses and phosphoresence. And the essence. The deep blue sea. And if you think the sea is big, just remember: you can only see the top.
The ship now ploughing through stormier water, riding three waves before the fourth breaks over the entire length of the vessel, running off, just when he thought it would never surface. One, two, three and then the fourth again, crashing over the forecastle and funnels, the life-boats and the gunnels.
Water, water everywhere and not a drop to drink.
Then calm. The doldrums. Row for wind. Row for your life. A drumbeat begins, beating out a heavy metal rhythm, and oars appear from both post and starboard, dipping into the salt water in perfect time. Ramming speed. Steer by the stars. The North Star, just up from The Plough. Ursa Major. The Big Dipper. Plough through the waves, dip through the waves. pitch and roll and rock and roll.
Then on the starboard bow the Marie Celeste, with a full crew, stops to let them them pass, before disappearing into a fog bank. Sail before steam. Pearls before swine. Oysters climb onto the decks, depositing their treasures, which spill and roll over the side, dropping back into the water without a splash and without a sound. Silence again. Then movement. The ship is turning now, round and round, slow at first but gaining speed, caught in a maelstrom, a huge whirlpool. Faster and faster. Round and round. And then down. Down and down.
The sea shall not have them,
For those in peril . . .
Davy Jones opened his locker and Kramer climbed in.
