Brag
09-16-09, 11:38 AM
Without charts, compass or other navigation instruments, Balz had been lucky to find the Cocos islands. At least other people would have considered it luck. Balz knew he had a highly developed instinct for things nautical and that is what made him the greatest sailor that ever lived.
The Arab Peninsula, though distant was relatively easy to find. But he had to be careful not to slam into some atoll in the Maldives and stay clear of Ceylon and India where the British were all too eager to hang him.
The wind was fair and the little boat moved at about five knots, It would take 25 to 30 days to make the passage and reach the wonders of Arabia. Squalls often soaked him. Shivering, Balz would lower the mainsail a bit and form a funnel to collect the rain into the water cask. When it wasn’t raining, the brutal sun punished the lone navigator.
Two weeks underway, Balz calculated he had cleared Cape Comorin, India’s southernmost point and celebrated the event by smoking a cigar. Disgusted, he watched Birdnard splat another dose of his nasty poo. “You filthy bird,” Balz shouted for the tenth time that day, “you have gesheissed my boat to where it looks like a mobile guano island.”
“I’m not a dirty bird,” Birdnard protested. “Mater of fact, I am a very clean bird.”
“Ha!” Balz gesticulated with indignation. “Witness the mess, smell the sharp, pungent aroma.”
“I am an ecological avian species. Unlike you, humans we don’t crap on the ocean, that’s where we get our food from. Do you crap on your plate before lunch. Huh?” Birdnard flapped his wings for emphasis. “We follow ships and boats. At night we settle on the rigging and let lose with our droppings.
You, like all stupid sailors, don’t realize that all you are doing is driving bird toilets.”
A flying fish landed inside the boat. Swiftly, Birdnard jumped and swallowed it.
Balz laughed. “You’re nothing but a toilet diving bird.”
“Don’t you rub me the wrong way!” Birdnard snapped back.
His fists clenched, Balz controlled himself. He was not going to kill the Albatross and bring bad luck upon himself. There were other ways to deal with the problem.
Arriving in Araby, I will hire a band of assassins to kill this frigging avian ecological scheissing specimen. I will watch feathers fly to the seven winds. Balz let out a ghoulish laugh.
“What are you laughing about?”
“Nothing, just nothing.”
Half asleep, Balz felt the heat of the raising sun. He covered his face with his smoking jacket, wondering when they would reach land. He wanted to be in the shade. His dream was to drink a cool, cool lemonade. He was a prisoner and needed to be free of his wandering bird toilet.
Perched on top of the mast, Birdnard shrieked, “Land, land, land.”
Balz jumped up but couldn’t see anything besides the sea, the cruel sun and large numbers of seagulls.
“It’s Duqm.” Birdnard announced.
“Ah, Duqm,” Balz stretched. “Always wanted to see Duqm. Are the Duqmanies friendly?”
“Duqm is populated by Omanies not Duqmanies. That’s why it’s called Duqm.”
“Wonderful. What can we do in Duqm?”
“You can go to the beach. You can fish. We birds like Duqm. You can bird watch.”
“I like all your exciting suggestions.”
Balz maneuvered his boat around the peninsula where a number of dhows stood at anchor. Seagulls sat on the dhows crapping on the graceful vessels. No humans were in sight under the murderous sun. Balz drew his boat on a beach close to a village. Birdnard had flown off and was lost among thousands of seagulls and other shore birds.
An old man and two goats approached.
“Salaam aleikum,” Balz said.
“Aleikum Salaam,” the old man answered. “Are you crazy to come here?”
“I am crazy for being in this guano boat too long.”
The old man chuckled. “For ten dinars I’ll take you to the Sugar Dunes.”
“What are the Sugar Dunes?”
“They are white dunes that look like salt.”
“Why they call them Sugar and not Salt?”
“Because they are white.”
“So if I go to the Sugar Dunes, I will be looking at dunes, which are neither sugars nor salt but are called Sugar because they are not called Salt. That is very interesting. Where can I buy a magic carpet?”
The old man scratched his beard. “For magic carpets you have to go north, to Sur. Baba Jimbuna, the local sheriff, sells magic carpets.”
It was to be expected, Balz thought. He would land at a place without magic carpets. “Where can I get a lemonade?”
“No lemonade here.” The old man pointed his walking stick to the northwest then made a sweeping arc with it. “Bombay, Karachi, Bandar Abbas, Dubai, Basra have taxis, you can ask there. I’ll show you the Sugar Dunes for ten dinars.”
Balz fanned his head with his tea cozy and let out a sigh. “Where can I find some shade?”
“We have a shade special today, only twelve dinars.”
“Take me to your shade, then.”
The old man led the way over hot pink rock. The heat of the rock penetrated right through the soles of Balz’s tennis shoes. Once in the village, the old man opened an iron gate and ushered Balz into a barren court yard.
“Here is the shade,” The old man spread his arms. “It is my shade but you can use it.”
Balz looked around the sun drenched yard. “I see no shade.”
“You wait long enough. You have shade. Twelve dinars, please.”
“I want shade now,” Balz protested.
“Ah,” the old man exclaimed, “why didn’t you say so. Follow me.”
Balz followed the old man out of the village to where a mangy camel stood.
“Here you are, shade.”
Balz searched for shade with his gaze. “I see no shade.”
“Get under the camel, good shade there.”
http://img87.imageshack.us/img87/9053/dancewithpiratevi9.gif
The Arab Peninsula, though distant was relatively easy to find. But he had to be careful not to slam into some atoll in the Maldives and stay clear of Ceylon and India where the British were all too eager to hang him.
The wind was fair and the little boat moved at about five knots, It would take 25 to 30 days to make the passage and reach the wonders of Arabia. Squalls often soaked him. Shivering, Balz would lower the mainsail a bit and form a funnel to collect the rain into the water cask. When it wasn’t raining, the brutal sun punished the lone navigator.
Two weeks underway, Balz calculated he had cleared Cape Comorin, India’s southernmost point and celebrated the event by smoking a cigar. Disgusted, he watched Birdnard splat another dose of his nasty poo. “You filthy bird,” Balz shouted for the tenth time that day, “you have gesheissed my boat to where it looks like a mobile guano island.”
“I’m not a dirty bird,” Birdnard protested. “Mater of fact, I am a very clean bird.”
“Ha!” Balz gesticulated with indignation. “Witness the mess, smell the sharp, pungent aroma.”
“I am an ecological avian species. Unlike you, humans we don’t crap on the ocean, that’s where we get our food from. Do you crap on your plate before lunch. Huh?” Birdnard flapped his wings for emphasis. “We follow ships and boats. At night we settle on the rigging and let lose with our droppings.
You, like all stupid sailors, don’t realize that all you are doing is driving bird toilets.”
A flying fish landed inside the boat. Swiftly, Birdnard jumped and swallowed it.
Balz laughed. “You’re nothing but a toilet diving bird.”
“Don’t you rub me the wrong way!” Birdnard snapped back.
His fists clenched, Balz controlled himself. He was not going to kill the Albatross and bring bad luck upon himself. There were other ways to deal with the problem.
Arriving in Araby, I will hire a band of assassins to kill this frigging avian ecological scheissing specimen. I will watch feathers fly to the seven winds. Balz let out a ghoulish laugh.
“What are you laughing about?”
“Nothing, just nothing.”
Half asleep, Balz felt the heat of the raising sun. He covered his face with his smoking jacket, wondering when they would reach land. He wanted to be in the shade. His dream was to drink a cool, cool lemonade. He was a prisoner and needed to be free of his wandering bird toilet.
Perched on top of the mast, Birdnard shrieked, “Land, land, land.”
Balz jumped up but couldn’t see anything besides the sea, the cruel sun and large numbers of seagulls.
“It’s Duqm.” Birdnard announced.
“Ah, Duqm,” Balz stretched. “Always wanted to see Duqm. Are the Duqmanies friendly?”
“Duqm is populated by Omanies not Duqmanies. That’s why it’s called Duqm.”
“Wonderful. What can we do in Duqm?”
“You can go to the beach. You can fish. We birds like Duqm. You can bird watch.”
“I like all your exciting suggestions.”
Balz maneuvered his boat around the peninsula where a number of dhows stood at anchor. Seagulls sat on the dhows crapping on the graceful vessels. No humans were in sight under the murderous sun. Balz drew his boat on a beach close to a village. Birdnard had flown off and was lost among thousands of seagulls and other shore birds.
An old man and two goats approached.
“Salaam aleikum,” Balz said.
“Aleikum Salaam,” the old man answered. “Are you crazy to come here?”
“I am crazy for being in this guano boat too long.”
The old man chuckled. “For ten dinars I’ll take you to the Sugar Dunes.”
“What are the Sugar Dunes?”
“They are white dunes that look like salt.”
“Why they call them Sugar and not Salt?”
“Because they are white.”
“So if I go to the Sugar Dunes, I will be looking at dunes, which are neither sugars nor salt but are called Sugar because they are not called Salt. That is very interesting. Where can I buy a magic carpet?”
The old man scratched his beard. “For magic carpets you have to go north, to Sur. Baba Jimbuna, the local sheriff, sells magic carpets.”
It was to be expected, Balz thought. He would land at a place without magic carpets. “Where can I get a lemonade?”
“No lemonade here.” The old man pointed his walking stick to the northwest then made a sweeping arc with it. “Bombay, Karachi, Bandar Abbas, Dubai, Basra have taxis, you can ask there. I’ll show you the Sugar Dunes for ten dinars.”
Balz fanned his head with his tea cozy and let out a sigh. “Where can I find some shade?”
“We have a shade special today, only twelve dinars.”
“Take me to your shade, then.”
The old man led the way over hot pink rock. The heat of the rock penetrated right through the soles of Balz’s tennis shoes. Once in the village, the old man opened an iron gate and ushered Balz into a barren court yard.
“Here is the shade,” The old man spread his arms. “It is my shade but you can use it.”
Balz looked around the sun drenched yard. “I see no shade.”
“You wait long enough. You have shade. Twelve dinars, please.”
“I want shade now,” Balz protested.
“Ah,” the old man exclaimed, “why didn’t you say so. Follow me.”
Balz followed the old man out of the village to where a mangy camel stood.
“Here you are, shade.”
Balz searched for shade with his gaze. “I see no shade.”
“Get under the camel, good shade there.”
http://img87.imageshack.us/img87/9053/dancewithpiratevi9.gif