Brag
09-09-09, 04:15 PM
Gracefully the albatross skimmed the waves. At times it would rise to several meters above the sea hardly ever moving its wings. Then it would descend to where it almost brushed the ocean with its belly.
Almost hypnotized, Balz followed the elegant bird’s evolutions with his gaze. He had not expected to see an albatross in these latitudes. Maybe he had started hallucinating. Three weeks at sea without protection from the murderous sun could cause some men to become peculiar.
The bird had been circling the boat for over three hours and Balz was pleased with its company. With each circle, the albatross drew nearer until Balz could hear the whisper of the wind on the majestic bird’s feathers as it passed overhead.
The bird’s flight pattern changed. It did a sudden wingover, reversed course and in a shallow dive came straight for Balz who ducked as the bird passed. Again the bird reversed his flight abruptly and landed on Balz’s head,
“Hey! What are you doing?”
“I landed to fornicate with the chicken tea cozy.”
“Go away, you don’t belong in these latitudes. You’re supposed be be in the cold and stormy Southern Ocean or the miserable North Pacific.” Balz pushed the bird off who landed and perched on the starboard gunwale.
“You’re being unwelcoming and rude. What are doing here?”
“I’m avoiding the Brits, and heading for the Cocos Islands to provision.”
“You have lousy boat for being this far from land.”
“It’s my new boat,” Balz said with pride. In the Sunda straits he had spotted a British destroyer. By lowering the sails and unstepping the mast he had avoided being spotted. This was a good boat for escaping.
“Humbug,” the albatross farthed and splattered poop on one of the benches.
“You dirty bird,” Balz shouted and sprang to his feet.
The albatross flew off and settled on the bow of the boat where he splattered another glob of poop. “I am a clean bird. Look, it’s your boat that’s dirty.
Balz took an oar an swung it at the albatross.
“Hurting an albatross is a no, no. It brings bad, bad, very bad luck.”
“Quit ****ting on my new boat.” Rage crept over Balz and he broke into a sweat.
“Calm down, Balzy Walzie.”
“How do you know my name?”
“I am an old, magic albatross, my name is Birdnard.”
“This gives me a horrible feeling, a premonition. A premonition of doom.”
“Now, now. When I fly, I can keep a lookout for British ships. When we get to the Cocos, you’ll catch some lobsters. I’m tired of fish. Aah, lobsters cooked in coconut milk. I will bring you good luck. You’ll need it.”
“If you were such a wise bird, you’d know I am a fantastically superb sailor, I make my own luck,”
Birdnard turned and pointed a wing to the south. The southeast monsoon is coming. It’s going to kick your arse and wreck your peanut shell of a boat.” Birdnard let out another farth and plopped poop.
“Quit sheissing mein boot.”
“We birds do what we got to do. Remember? I need to fornicate with your chicken tea cozy.”
“You do that, there will be no lobster for you.” Balz stomped his foot. “I wonder what albatross soup is like.”
Three days later, Balz carefully approached the 26 coral island archipelago from the down wind side. Some of the island had only brush growing on them and could not be seen until one was smashing one’s hull on a reef.
After beaching his boat on the white sands of an uninhabited island with palm trees. Balz got busy fishing, drying the fish, catching lobsters and feeding them to Birdnard. He also collected coconuts.
Rain showers and cool winds announced the approaching Monsoon.
“Excellent weather to sail to the Persian Gulf,” Birdnard said.
“I’m heading for the Cape of Good Hope.”
“Dumb sailor talk,” Birdnard said then continued preening his feathers. After a few minutes he shook himself and looked Balz in the eye. “All of East Africa is British, South Africa, too. Plus you will be fighting the wind. Do what Arab nahodas have done for centuries, follow the wind. Sail to Baghdad and then take a taxi.”
“The British are in Baghdad,” Balz placed an armload of dried fish in the boat.
“That’s why it is safe for you. The Iraqis will help anyone who hates the Brits. You;ll get to meet interesting people, like Ali Baba and his forty thieves, Sheherezade. Sindbad the sailor, the ghost of Harun al Rashid. You will be able to steal and loot from the Brits, great sport.”
A gust of chilly wind raised goose bumps on Balz’s skin. Maybe going south was not such a good idea while the Siberian low sucked cold Antarctic wind. Then there was the prospect of being admired by interesting people. Balz made up his mind. “Like the Nahodas of ancient times, we will sail to the magic lands of Araby.”
Birdnard did his shriek and jumped up and down. “Muscat and Oman here we come, There you will feed me kebabs.”
Besides being admired in kebab joints, there was great attraction to visiting the places where the lateen fore and aft sail and astronavigation were invented.
http://img87.imageshack.us/img87/9053/dancewithpiratevi9.gif
Next week: Camel Ot.
Almost hypnotized, Balz followed the elegant bird’s evolutions with his gaze. He had not expected to see an albatross in these latitudes. Maybe he had started hallucinating. Three weeks at sea without protection from the murderous sun could cause some men to become peculiar.
The bird had been circling the boat for over three hours and Balz was pleased with its company. With each circle, the albatross drew nearer until Balz could hear the whisper of the wind on the majestic bird’s feathers as it passed overhead.
The bird’s flight pattern changed. It did a sudden wingover, reversed course and in a shallow dive came straight for Balz who ducked as the bird passed. Again the bird reversed his flight abruptly and landed on Balz’s head,
“Hey! What are you doing?”
“I landed to fornicate with the chicken tea cozy.”
“Go away, you don’t belong in these latitudes. You’re supposed be be in the cold and stormy Southern Ocean or the miserable North Pacific.” Balz pushed the bird off who landed and perched on the starboard gunwale.
“You’re being unwelcoming and rude. What are doing here?”
“I’m avoiding the Brits, and heading for the Cocos Islands to provision.”
“You have lousy boat for being this far from land.”
“It’s my new boat,” Balz said with pride. In the Sunda straits he had spotted a British destroyer. By lowering the sails and unstepping the mast he had avoided being spotted. This was a good boat for escaping.
“Humbug,” the albatross farthed and splattered poop on one of the benches.
“You dirty bird,” Balz shouted and sprang to his feet.
The albatross flew off and settled on the bow of the boat where he splattered another glob of poop. “I am a clean bird. Look, it’s your boat that’s dirty.
Balz took an oar an swung it at the albatross.
“Hurting an albatross is a no, no. It brings bad, bad, very bad luck.”
“Quit ****ting on my new boat.” Rage crept over Balz and he broke into a sweat.
“Calm down, Balzy Walzie.”
“How do you know my name?”
“I am an old, magic albatross, my name is Birdnard.”
“This gives me a horrible feeling, a premonition. A premonition of doom.”
“Now, now. When I fly, I can keep a lookout for British ships. When we get to the Cocos, you’ll catch some lobsters. I’m tired of fish. Aah, lobsters cooked in coconut milk. I will bring you good luck. You’ll need it.”
“If you were such a wise bird, you’d know I am a fantastically superb sailor, I make my own luck,”
Birdnard turned and pointed a wing to the south. The southeast monsoon is coming. It’s going to kick your arse and wreck your peanut shell of a boat.” Birdnard let out another farth and plopped poop.
“Quit sheissing mein boot.”
“We birds do what we got to do. Remember? I need to fornicate with your chicken tea cozy.”
“You do that, there will be no lobster for you.” Balz stomped his foot. “I wonder what albatross soup is like.”
Three days later, Balz carefully approached the 26 coral island archipelago from the down wind side. Some of the island had only brush growing on them and could not be seen until one was smashing one’s hull on a reef.
After beaching his boat on the white sands of an uninhabited island with palm trees. Balz got busy fishing, drying the fish, catching lobsters and feeding them to Birdnard. He also collected coconuts.
Rain showers and cool winds announced the approaching Monsoon.
“Excellent weather to sail to the Persian Gulf,” Birdnard said.
“I’m heading for the Cape of Good Hope.”
“Dumb sailor talk,” Birdnard said then continued preening his feathers. After a few minutes he shook himself and looked Balz in the eye. “All of East Africa is British, South Africa, too. Plus you will be fighting the wind. Do what Arab nahodas have done for centuries, follow the wind. Sail to Baghdad and then take a taxi.”
“The British are in Baghdad,” Balz placed an armload of dried fish in the boat.
“That’s why it is safe for you. The Iraqis will help anyone who hates the Brits. You;ll get to meet interesting people, like Ali Baba and his forty thieves, Sheherezade. Sindbad the sailor, the ghost of Harun al Rashid. You will be able to steal and loot from the Brits, great sport.”
A gust of chilly wind raised goose bumps on Balz’s skin. Maybe going south was not such a good idea while the Siberian low sucked cold Antarctic wind. Then there was the prospect of being admired by interesting people. Balz made up his mind. “Like the Nahodas of ancient times, we will sail to the magic lands of Araby.”
Birdnard did his shriek and jumped up and down. “Muscat and Oman here we come, There you will feed me kebabs.”
Besides being admired in kebab joints, there was great attraction to visiting the places where the lateen fore and aft sail and astronavigation were invented.
http://img87.imageshack.us/img87/9053/dancewithpiratevi9.gif
Next week: Camel Ot.