JOURNEY LOG

I joined the crew of the Scotia Thistle this day and found her you. Her Captain gathered us and our provisions for the voyage ahead, and my duties as cook and galley slave had me record in the log a compleat list which is herein: 4 T-bone steaks, an onion, salt, pasta, bread baked in loaves, garlic, and 400 cases of beer, wine, port, and scotch. The crew consisted of our captain and first mate, (and of them, later), an American who had been to Cleveland, myself, and a slave lad from the South Pacific who had been a favorite of the Captain’s.

The Captain seemed knowledgeable and fair, and had certainly in his youth been a man of much fire. The fire, now, was smoldering, and we often smelled of him the odor of diesel. He led us in a brief prayer in a strange language (involving the killing of livestock) and we set sail into the waters of the Straits of Georgia. The dawn had risen some two hours before and we sailed with the tide (or so). Within five minutes four of the crew reported abdominal and other gas, and two were visibly off-color. Swells in excess of 24 inches pitched the small craft and rain pelted our now pained faces.

We made for Desolation Sound, but already the seas were too troubled for our poor vessel and her crew. In defeat and disarray we put into the harbor at Manson’s Landing, named for the American, Charles, who I believe to have been a lover of adventure and body carving. The people of Manson’s Landing could not confirm this, and showed us their teeth.

Upon landing and making her faste, the captain paste among us a six pack's worth of beer and the crew was glad. This night we found to our some surprise that our captain is a practicing heterosexual as we attended a local custom in the form of ceremonial danse and merriment (to which the crew was invited by a tribal elder who called himself “Jerry”. The meaning of this name is unclear, because he apparently called everyone — and many animals — “Jerry”.)

Our captain displayed his sexual proclivity at once, attempting to force a local native woman to fall on her knees before him and cook lasagna. Following which, we saw him attempt to wear her clothing while it was on her body. We much remarked on this, but while he had given us another six pack's worth of beer per crew, we were still glad.

We slept, wearied of mind and some body parts.

We awoke at dawn and found a sea like the surface of a mirror, but that it was wet, salty, and had fish and seals swimming in it. All had happily survived the paste night except our first mate, a man of piety and much spirit. I must speak of the first mate before I account the strange story of his death.

Our first mate stood larger and more hale than many rutting bulls, but had a larger appetite for the heffer. His laugh and easy way made our brutal trials the easier, because he would strike us on our backs and leave us for days in the sick bay. But he would cry “It isn’t me, lads, it is a dozen naked Amazons with whips who drive you on” and he would describe them in some detail (with attention to hair color, fashion statement, and buste size). He was a man of worthe.

Upon awakening this day, however, we found our beloved first mate dead upon his bearth. We drank beer and prayed.

We prepared to sail this morning, but not without taking note of a schooner in the harbour which was much visited throughout the night and early morning. This mysterious vessel held great fascination in our minds, and we speculated much upon her allure for the natives. Did she hold a full-sized replica of a Mexican cockfight, or perhaps a jar containing the pickled remains of the legendary “Prince of Prideux Haven” who was said to not have to leave his seat in the tavern to urinate in the bay? The Captain offered to bet us a small wager on the facts; for example, our noses against one of his ex-mistresses, but we were cowardly in accepting the wager.

We set to sea. We were told by many to beware the force of a great gale upon us and we had fear, but the captain chided us calling us “ball-less” and lacking stones. No sooner though, had we sailed, than the storm was upon us and winds gusted to five knots and sometimes six.

I must mention here the experience of the lad from Australia, who fished the waters as we sailed. Many times did he almost catch “the fish”, (as he called it), an animal, which breathed the water and would (he believed) eat sharp, pointed hooks. We were kept much entertained.

The strangest and most wondrous of things happened at this juncture. I have told of the first mate and his death, but not of his burial. When our captain now prepared to perform the burial at sea, despite the storm, we were much troubled, as this is known to be the worst bad luck. But when we carried forward the body of the first mate, he arose from our very hands, and said (in no small voice) “No more beer for me, dammit, or wine neither.” Nor would he imbibe any beverage for many tens of hours. The captain, however, declared this a True Miracle, and we drank beer (but still none for the First Mate) and sailed on into the very Heart of the Storm.

As we entered Desolation Sound, the winds fell slightly, but still gusted to upwards of three knots (and ripples oft times rocked the boat slightly, causing our First Mate to wince greatly).

At this point, two events of import occurred. One was lunch and much eating of sausage (the staple of the sailor and often called the “sailor’s aid” in bawdy stories). The other was the appearance of a great light, which our Captain (more experienced than ourselves) called “the sun” which had been seen occasionally in these waters. It caused a general sensation of warming and much wonder, but was soon passed.

Towards afternoon we put into Roscoe Bay wherein the captain had us lay a bow anchor. Four times we ran aground, which the Captain said should happen and we were not to worry or show concern. (Later we learned that he was famous in these parts for his ability to run aground in any water, regardless of conditions, and he is now much sought by oil companies). Herein we found The Oyster, which, we had also found in Manson’s Landing. This curious beast enjoys being pried apart with screwdrivers and knives and eaten raw or in stews. Mayhaps it enjoys it not, but neither can it speak or scream, so we don’t care. We eat many and make fun of the rest. The Captain chastised us for this unchristian attitude and we felt ourselves shame, and in such penitence spray painted the Captain's graffiti (Super Shark 176) on all of the exposed rocks of the bay.

I went below to pump the bilge and found, to my surprise, that another was aboard our vessel. This was the American, who had followed the Captain’s standing order to “drink beer” which he pursued with much vigor. (However, making only little headway in our grand supply — being the proverbial “drop in the bucket” or “belch in a hurricane” — these being expressions which sailors use and no one understands, another being “fart leeward but often”.

Praised be to heaven and her mercy and that of the sea, but we finally put into Prideaux Haven and sailed around many times without any apparent reason. The Captain had heard tell, however, of a garbage skow here—abouts and wished to see this with his eyes and nose.

Patient reader, but I must now digress with a tale of my own, harking back to Roscoe Harbor and our adventures there. But you will understand I pray, that these are too grotesque and bizarre to longe be held in one’s memory. As we put to shore, there being three in the Dinghy (being myself, the captain, and the Australian lad) we noted that she was unsteady and not sea-worthy (though we drank beer, nonetheless, in keeping with the policy of the captain). Upon leaving the shore the Australian lad pushed off in seaman’s fashion, except that he pushed it under, rather than along, the water, being a small but significant mistake. The Captain jumped ashore, but I submerged, and was pulled to safety amongst dangerously gut-busting laughter. I survived the Ordeal but was much wetted, and remained so, perhaps, for the rest of my life.

But I must return us to Prideaux Haven. The Australian lad was now much exhausted with rowing our vessel but now again attempted to feed his metal hooks to “the Fish”. Much to our surprise and excitement however, his mad attempts were not in vain because he brought to the deck a stinking Beast with the tail of a shark and the face of a dog. The lad exclaimed on this and cried, “Oh bloody hell” which is oft said in his land. This being a beast they call the Dog Fish, which is, all told, “of excellent flesh to eat if there is absolutely nothing else”. Convinced, though, that “The Fish” was awaiting him, he continued to caste his line, catching many thousands of dog fish and throwing them back, until his arms swelled hideously and he fell into a swoon.

We revived him with steak (as is the sailor’s way) and slid into Port-induced stupor. Following the traditional “breaking of wind” we fell into sleep and the sounds and their music drifted to other orifices.

No nude woman aboard any of the ships, as checked through the night.

The Captain requires us to change our underwear. Unfortunately, we must change with another member of the crew.

The Comox 24 hr weather report was still predicting gale winds, and, indeed, winds were gusting in excess of 1 km and the sea was rippled and troubled. When they also predicted hurricane, blizzard, and periodic earthquakes we realized that we had been tuned to “greatest weather hits of the '60s” and turned the radio off.

We took stock and found that we were dangerously short of beer and wine, having remaining only the average annual alcoholic consumption of Vancouver. The captain put us on rations, and the first mate (having now become devoutly religious and considering joining a Buddhist monastery in Llasa) would not touch a drop except to wash.

Before we set sail, we hailed another ship, “The Sound of Music Starring Julie Andrews” and traded with her our supply of obscene limericks for her cargo of Dogfish. We toasted our Captain’s shrewd negotiation and boarded “The SOMSJA”, looting and pillaging for rare spices and precious gems (but finding only more Dogfish). We weighed anchor and sailed with the tide.

The winds dropped and we were becalmed, which, as the First Mate warned, “could make us crazy” so we followed the American’s suggestion and made funny costumes for the Dogfish (to the general glee of the Australian lad). A personal favorite was one dogfish dressed to look like a grey Jill St. John, but we had to throw it overboard to keep it from the Captain.

The winds are fair, but we are running low on diesel fuel, and will make for Herriot Harbor on what we have left. If we are not able, the American feels that we can fuel the engine with hair and body grease, of which we have much.

We are in an area in which the timber on the islands is cut and sold for lumber and we have seen the men at work. This they do in a curious way, which we are told is done to preserve the natural splendor of this region. A wooded island is selected, and covered in any tonnes of a thick cream. The men then run a gigantic blade of steel across the surface, wiping it clean, and then apply a warm towel and a few splashes of Brut.

The wind freshened as we entered the region called “Heaven’s Blow-Job”, where our vessel decided it didn’t want this any more and attempted to turn for home. We reined her in and set the course. To my inexperienced eye, it seemed that we were surfing on great breaking waves, but the Captain informed us that these were simply a tidal rip on a following sea. He then changed his clothing to a Hawaiian Shirt and baggy shorts and shouted “Kowabunga, Dudes, Surf City.”

At moments like these, the mates on any ship will draw close and confide their hopes and fears. Thus, I spoke to the Australian lad and told him that I hoped we lived through this and that I feared for our safety. He also told me his hopes and fears, saying, “Yeh, I hope I win the lottery and I’m afraid of nuclear fallout.”

Upon entering the harbor at Campbell River we looked for the famed native women who are said to swim naked to the ship, offering to dive for brie and camembert, but these we did not see. We did, however, see a drunken sot (by whom we were bemused) and a quantity of a substance, which we know as sea sludge.

Here we will trade our novelty-costumed Dogfish for anything we can get, and will sign on new hands and other body parts.

But for me I am away, for the sailor's life is a life of mystery and adventure, much like that of a tax consultant, and I will now set sail for those chartered waters.