It’s a conspiracy, cont,’ed

Ah! I knew it! Now that I’ve uncovered their plans, them waves, swells, shifty winds, they’re acting like it’s not true. Not such shifty anymore! In haste, I forgot to name the main actor in this congregation of hard nosed seafarers, the elephant in the room, stomping like there’s no tomorrow, headwinds! That alone puts a damper on progress, the advancement of Changabang. Where’s the good shift? The lift?
Anyways, enough of that. Although, I’ll say, in the cabin, it makes putting a spoon inside my mouth an equilibrist’s job, sipping a hot cup of cocoa, a hazardous activity. Making a move requires careful planning, and any job requires three or four hands (think using my teeth to hold the opened bag of hot chocolate, squeezing the cup between my legs, holding the Jetboil with one hand, keeping two fingers free to open the gas valve, and the other hand to hold the lighter, all the while being jerked in any direction the next wave decides, or going air borne a bit, and having to make sure the Jetboil doesn’t spill it’s boiling hot content).
And then there’s this conversation I overheard …
Boy: mama, may I say a big word? Mama: oh no darling, it would make your readers frown, and, you know it’s possible you may have a hundred subscribers before you make landfall. Who wants a hundred frowns?!? Boy: but mama, it’s one I learned from daddy, it’s really nice, evocative. Mama: yes, but it would be a quick jolt of satisfaction, swiftly forgotten, and then you’d be known as one who uses big words. Boy: what’s wrong with that? Mama: oh dear, big words make you small. Yell a good once if you have to, and then use real words. Boy: oh, I do yell, mama, I let it rip, and then the anger is gone, and the work is done following suit. Mama: good my dear. Now what is it you wanted? Boy: a lift, mama, just a nice ride home. Mama: soon it’ll be Christmas, and who knows what’ll be under the tree? Didn’t you send a job list in recently? And don’t you have a way for people to contribute? Boy, with big cheery eyes: oh, yes! I’m ready for it! Mama: now, now, enough talking, would you please go clean the head? Boy, oh so looking proud: the bucket? Done mama, yesterday I did it. Nothing like a sparkling bucket to cheer up my day. Mama, what I say it in French?
And, now that this conversation was put in writing, winds are shifting in the wrong direction again. And as I stand up to do something about it, I reach to grasp the trusty handhold line hanging from the ceiling … And it gives way, chafed through … Life offshore. No one can be trusted.
Picture: what’s in a bag? Five weeks of trash! Pretty compact, eh? Better be, imagine 6 months of trash!
Sent from Iridium Mail & Web.

Author: Skipper

Wannabe circumnavigator.

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