From: gwb
To: Hank Blakely
Sent: Tuesday, November 06, 2001
Subject: They that goes down to the sea in ships gets what they deserves
Call me George.
Last week, though, you coulda called me "Dorothy," and I woulda said "hello." That's how mixed up I was.
Tell y' truth, this Commander-in-Chief thing is a hell of lot harder than it looks. It's tough to make decisions, 'cause nobody tells you none a' the important stuff, and it's hard to know who to listen to when ever'body knows more than you. Right now I kinda feel that Rummy's got more a' the right a' things than Colin, so I'm givin' him some headway to make his point. But I'm not sure how many more Red Cross buildin's we can blow up 'fore people starts to question our wisdom.
But it's clear; we got to smoke them bastards out of them caves where they're hidin' in. We got to bring them to the bar...to the bar - a' justice -- for their evil-doin'. But now it's got like fightin' moths while runnin' down a dark street: you can't really make no headway, and sooner or later you're bound to trip over somethin'.
And it's startin' to tell on me now. I'm beginnin' to look kinda gauntlet and pall, my neck has got scrawny, and my hair is grayer. Laura says I'm losin' some a' my "rubicund charm," which if it was anybody else said it, I'd think it meant somethin' dirty. To me it just seems like I'm comin' to resemble one a' them ostriches in Fantasia.
The other day, on one a' the few times that he's actually in town anymore, I complained all this to Dick C, and he said him n' Karl was plannin' to go sailin', and that it might do me some good to tag along - did I wanna go.
Well, I could hardly wait to go. "I can hardly wait to go," I told him.
Ken Lay loaned us one a' Enron's boats free a' charge, which was nice a' him. Enron's been havin' a lot a' serious money and legal troubles lately, and Ken's so busy with lawyers these days he ain't got much time for sailin' anymore anyway.
Dick arranged to have the boat berthed up at the Naval Academy in Annapolis, and we drove down that Friday. It was a beautiful, bright, clear day.
'Cept for the cloud a' doom hangin' over us.
It's usually a short trip, but it seemed a lot longer this time. There was just the five a' us: Laura and me, Dick and his wife, Lynn, and Karl, who come by hisself as usual. The Secrets - a lot more uvva 'em these days - tagged along in another car. The limo's pretty roomy, but it wasn't roomy enough to hold the five a' us on that particular day. Laura and Lynn never have been exactly comfortable 'round each other. Lynn can be kinda severe at times.
But the real problem was Karl. Karl always has been a fidgety fella, but he was way worse today. All the way down he was squirmy and agitated. And he got worse by the minute. By the time we got to Annapolis, he was mutterin' to hisself and smackin' his fist hard into his palm. Soon as we got to the Naval Academy, he insisted on goin' to the Starbucks across the street.
The rest a' us was all enjoyin' our coffees and lattes and whatevers, but Karl kept lookin' 'round anxious. Suddenly he spotted two men in the corner - who was the only ones wearin' suits. He nodded to 'em, excused hisself, and went over to join 'em. I asked Dick what the hell was goin' on. "What the hell's goin' on, Dick?' I said.
It was then Dick told me that part of the reason for the trip was so Karl could take care a' some business away from the pryin' eyes a' the press corps. I understood, of course: The press's been gettin' increasin' scrutinous about Karl's business dealin's over the past few months. His problem is he's gotta lot a' stock a presidential adviser oughtn't to have, and now he's tryin' to find some way to unvest it - without havin' to unvest it, if y'know what I mean.
Whatever Karl was talkin' about made him uncommon nervous. He kept lookin' 'round the restaurant the whole time he was talkin'. When he finished, we left Starbucks and walked down Dock Street to where the boat was. And all the way down Karl kept talkin' about how the press was houndin' him.
The ladies insisted on lookin' into all the little shops and such on the way, but I kept urgin' ever'body to get on with it, so we could get to the boat. See, even a dust-digger like me can hear the sea callin' to him when he's up close to it. I done a little sailin' in my time, and the sea kinda turns me into "Captain George," or somethin'. Plus I was really anxious to see Ken's boat.
And I wasn't disappointed, neither. Ken's boat was called The Pea-Pod, and she was a beauty - a 120-foot long fiberglass, powered yacht, from outta the Sovereign boat company yards up in Canada. And she was a bruiser too, twin screws, a easy 20 knot cruisin' speed, and 3500-mile tanks. She come fully equipped and had luxury state rooms with beds you could sink outta sight in. Made me wonder how come the President don't get his own boat - call it "Navy One," or somethin'.
We was early, and hadda wait a while to board. As Laura stood lookin' out over the water, she said a little poem. I looked it up later. It goes like this:
"I must go down to the sea again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a gray mist on the sea's face, and a gray dawn breaking."
I wish Dick and Karl would let her go out in public more. I wish people could see what I see when I look at her, all happy like she was then - like somethin' fine you could hardly believe you had got - and knew you didn't noways deserve. Like somebody' who'd always forgive you, no matter how bad you screwed up, or how bad you was. That's what I see when I look at her.
Wonder what she sees when she looks at me.
She sure was right about it bein' gray. Without my noticin', the sun had disappeared. The overcast sky and the sea was both like wet concrete - didn't seem to be no separation 'tween 'em at all. Maybe it's 'cause a' what happened after, but it seemed to me ever'thin' looked kinda omen-y that mornin'. It made me feel dark and dreary, like winter was comin' on. Like I had September in my heart.
I don't much like September no more.
The boat had a crew a' three: a Scot, Cap'n Jerry Reynolds; a slim young fella name a' Tod; and Gallagher, a big, black fella with a lotta tattoos. I don't recall that Gallagher ever said a word durin' the whole trip; not even when things went weird on us - which was almost immediately.
The Captain explained how we would itinerate. We was to sail south along the coast, from Eastport to Chesapeake Beach, down through the Lower Parodies to Scotland Beach, Richmond, Hampton, Savannah, and finally, Jacksonville, where Jeb and Columba would drive up and meet us.
There wasn't room enough for the Secrets, so they hadda follow us in the Coast Guard cutter Rachel.
The ship was roomy enough, and we had a comfortable stateroom. For some reason, I always get sick the first day on a boat. So even though I was "Captain George" in my mind, I was "Major Upchuck" in my stomach. Captain Reynolds give me somethin' looked like Pepto-Bismol, but a few hours later I was still pretty turvy in the topsy, and I went back to complain.
"Aye," he said, "that be the way o' medicine: she takes her own time to run the course 've a man's innards. She don't always do the job, but If she can do 'er, she does. If not, she don't. But there's precious else I can do f' ye, Mr. President - I can'na change the laws o' physic."
Somethin' 'spicious there, but I couldn't put my finger on it. Although I thought I saw a smile flicker for a second on Gallagher's face.
Karl wasn't no particular delight, neither. I think he got my stomach more upset than the sea did. The first day out he was still grousin' about reporters, callin' em "the mealy-mouthed media," "rag rats," "snoopy-sniffers," and like that.
I believe I mentioned another time how Karl don't like the spotlight. He's strictly a behind the scenes man, and he don't no way like it when people haul him up into the daylight. But he was kinda scary upset this time, even for Karl.
Nothin' we did could change his frame a' mood. He'd just walk around rantin' about how the press hated to see a man get ahead, and how they had it in for him in particular. We really got worried when he seemed to take it into his head that a 'specially aggressive seagull was after him personally, and started throwin' stuff at it whenever it swooped 'round the boat.
It got even stranger. On the first day, Karl run into some bad luck. While he was chasin' after the seagull, throwing silverware and anythin' he could find at it, he got tangled up in some rope lyin' on the deck and took a bad spill. Hurt his ankle pretty bad, and had to have it bandaged up all stiff. So now he hadda walk like a movie monster. He sounded like this:
Bah-klump!... Bah-klump!...Bah-klump!
That first night I hadda a terrible time gettin' to sleep, cause Karl was up late, walkin' 'round on the deck above us, yellin' to nobody in particular, and bah-klumpin' like nobody's business. Laura said she was gettin' a little scared. I didn't tell her, but so was I. My nerves ain't been all that good lately.
On the third day things got weirder still. We wasn't too far from Cape Hatteras, and we'd picked up a pretty thick fog. I was takin' my daily second nap but woke up sudden. By now I'd got use' t' Karl's rantin' above us, but there was somethin' different about his yellin' this time. I threw on my robe and run up the companionway. Dick and a coupla the crew was already up top. Karl was shoutin' and stabbin' his finger wild out at the horizon. Out on the water you could just make out a ship. It was painted a bright white and appeared to glow in the misty light, kinda ghost-like and loomin-ous, wavy and speckled in the fog.
As we got closer, we could see it was a Bertram motor yacht, maybe forty, fifty feet long. On the stern was the name, "The Mobile Belle." Karl right off pulled out his phone and made a call. About ten minutes later, he got a call back and listened for a coupla minutes. Then he sudden started swearin', "I knew it! I knew it! Son of a bitch, I knew it!"
Seems that the Mobile Belle was a registered charter boat outta Hatteras. Karl said she'd been booked by some people who was identified as bein' from The New York Times. Karl ordered the Captain to make for the ship, and as we got closer, Dick nudged me, and said, "That guy at the bow, doesn't he remind you a little of Adam Clymer?".
Sure enough, that's who it looked like. Clymer, if you don't remember, is that New York Times reporter who I forgot the microphone was on when I called him a major-league - well, let's just say we ain't each other's fan. To make things worst, a photographer standin' next to him started flashin' pictures a' us.
Dick said he thought the Times musta somehow got wind a' Karl's meetin' with the businessmen, and was tryin' to catch him with his pants down, so to speak. He called the Rachel, and she picked up and started toward us as fast as she could go.
By now Karl had gone insane.
He was grabbin' stuff off the deck -- chairs, bottles, whatever -- runnin' to the starboard beam, throwin' 'em at the Mobile Belle, yellin' and screamin' all the while. Meanwhile, the photographer was steady shootin' pictures a' Karl havin' a fit, which give Karl a bigger fit. Finally, Karl dashed up to the pilothouse, grabbed the wheel away from the Captain, and started steerin' the Pea-Pod directly amidships the Mobile Belle.
He was aimin' to scuttle 'er, and there was no more about it.
Fightin' with Captain Reynolds caused Karl to miss his mark, and we wound up only glancin' off the Mobile Belle's port bow. The sea was greasy, cold and choppy now, and the water was sluicin' all about us. Anybody who went down in this sea was a gone man.
Thing about a Bertram-built boat: although it may not be the prettiest sight in the world, if you're plannin' to sink somethin' you'd be better advised to try a whale, 'cause a Bertram just won't cooperate. The Mobile Belle wasn't hurt a bit, and Karl'd only succeeded in openin' up a 15 foot gash in the Pea-Pod's starboard bow.
The skipper a' the Mobile Belle was obvious sweatin' as he brought her about and started to haul - started to get away from there fast. Karl wasn't havin' none a' that, though. He started yellin' and throwin' stuff again - his face by now was so purple I expected to hear his veins poppin' any second.
And then Karl done somethin' I ain't never seen nobody do before.
He sudden seemed to calm down, turned around, and hobbled aft. Once at the stern he seemed to gather up all his strength - and then started runnin' real fast:
BAHKLUMP!BAHKLUMP!BAHKLUMP!BAHKLUMP!BAHKLUMP!BAHKLUMP!
He run the whole length a' the boat, and when he got to the bow-rail he didn't stop, he just flang hisself out over the open ocean -- clearly meanin' to land flat-footed on the stern a' the Mobile Belle.
He come that close to makin' it.
Only thing that saved Karl's bacon, was that he managed at the last possible second to grab onto the Mobile Belle's aft railin'. And he just hung there while she bucked and heaved over the choppy water. The deck and the rails was too wet and slippery to get a hold a', but he had the good - or maybe the bad - luck to get hisself tangled up in a tie-rope that was hangin' from the rail. The more he struggled to get out of it (prob'ly not a good idea, had he thought on it), the more tight it got around him, 'til finally he was trussed-up and hangin' upside-down like a Bluefin tuna.
All the time, mind you, he was still cursin' and screamin'.
Then the Mobile Belle disappeared into a fog bank, and we couldn't see none a' 'em any longer. The sound a' the motor and Karl's cursin' got fainter and fainter, until we couldn't hear neither one uvva 'em no more.
Meantime, the Pea-Pod was startin' to take on water pretty bad. Her bow was ridin' lower and lower.
In the interests a' truthful reportin', I got to admit I did not comport myself with a admirable level a' dignity.
Later I learned that I became particular insistent we was goin' down, and got kinda feverish about it. Apparently I started issuin' nonsensical orders: "Raise the mizzenmast!", "Trim the poop-deck!", "Avast the swabbies!" and a lotta other stuff I musta picked up from pirate movies. It appears nobody could calm me down.
And then, all of a sudden my head hurt and I felt like I was flyin' again - like back in my Air National Guard days - only now my 'plane seemed to be goin' down in flames. Before I blacked out I think I was hallucinatin' pretty bad, too. At one point I imagined I saw Gallagher standin' over me with a metal pipe in his hand.
The next thing I knew, I was awoke on a cot aboard the Rachel.
That was two days ago, and we ain't heard hide nor hair a' Karl since. The Times swears that none of its people ever rented any boat in that area. And it don't seem like anybody's spotted the Mobile Belle since then. As far as any a' us know, Karl's still out there somewhere, tied to her, crestin' the waves like a dolphin.
Ken's furious a' course. His pretty boat is gone, and he can't even claim the insurance, 'cause the whole incident's been classified a security issue. Laura refuses to discuss any part a' the affair, and Dick don't look at me directly these days - when he's around.
I don't know how come I'm takin' the heat on this. Seems to me these things was sorta fore-ordained, or whatever it is when God's made up his mind to shaft ya. I gotta admit the whole thing has shook my faith a little bit.
And I'll tell y' somethin' else: I won't be goin' down to the sea again any time soon.
From: gwb
To: Hank Blakely
Sent: Tuesday, November 06, 2001
Subject: They that goes down to the sea in ships gets what they deserves
Call me George.
Last week, though, you coulda called me "Dorothy," and I woulda said "hello." That's how mixed up I was.
Tell y' truth, this Commander-in-Chief thing is a hell of lot harder than it looks. It's tough to make decisions, 'cause nobody tells you none a' the important stuff, and it's hard to know who to listen to when ever'body knows more than you. Right now I kinda feel that Rummy's got more a' the right a' things than Colin, so I'm givin' him some headway to make his point. But I'm not sure how many more Red Cross buildin's we can blow up 'fore people starts to question our wisdom.
But it's clear; we got to smoke them bastards out of them caves where they're hidin' in. We got to bring them to the bar...to the bar - a' justice -- for their evil-doin'. But now it's got like fightin' moths while runnin' down a dark street: you can't really make no headway, and sooner or later you're bound to trip over somethin'.
And it's startin' to tell on me now. I'm beginnin' to look kinda gauntlet and pall, my neck has got scrawny, and my hair is grayer. Laura says I'm losin' some a' my "rubicund charm," which if it was anybody else said it, I'd think it meant somethin' dirty. To me it just seems like I'm comin' to resemble one a' them ostriches in Fantasia.
The other day, on one a' the few times that he's actually in town anymore, I complained all this to Dick C, and he said him n' Karl was plannin' to go sailin', and that it might do me some good to tag along - did I wanna go.
Well, I could hardly wait to go. "I can hardly wait to go," I told him.
Ken Lay loaned us one a' Enron's boats free a' charge, which was nice a' him. Enron's been havin' a lot a' serious money and legal troubles lately, and Ken's so busy with lawyers these days he ain't got much time for sailin' anymore anyway.
Dick arranged to have the boat berthed up at the Naval Academy in Annapolis, and we drove down that Friday. It was a beautiful, bright, clear day.
'Cept for the cloud a' doom hangin' over us.
It's usually a short trip, but it seemed a lot longer this time. There was just the five a' us: Laura and me, Dick and his wife, Lynn, and Karl, who come by hisself as usual. The Secrets - a lot more uvva 'em these days - tagged along in another car. The limo's pretty roomy, but it wasn't roomy enough to hold the five a' us on that particular day. Laura and Lynn never have been exactly comfortable 'round each other. Lynn can be kinda severe at times.
But the real problem was Karl. Karl always has been a fidgety fella, but he was way worse today. All the way down he was squirmy and agitated. And he got worse by the minute. By the time we got to Annapolis, he was mutterin' to hisself and smackin' his fist hard into his palm. Soon as we got to the Naval Academy, he insisted on goin' to the Starbucks across the street.
The rest a' us was all enjoyin' our coffees and lattes and whatevers, but Karl kept lookin' 'round anxious. Suddenly he spotted two men in the corner - who was the only ones wearin' suits. He nodded to 'em, excused hisself, and went over to join 'em. I asked Dick what the hell was goin' on. "What the hell's goin' on, Dick?' I said.
It was then Dick told me that part of the reason for the trip was so Karl could take care a' some business away from the pryin' eyes a' the press corps. I understood, of course: The press's been gettin' increasin' scrutinous about Karl's business dealin's over the past few months. His problem is he's gotta lot a' stock a presidential adviser oughtn't to have, and now he's tryin' to find some way to unvest it - without havin' to unvest it, if y'know what I mean.
Whatever Karl was talkin' about made him uncommon nervous. He kept lookin' 'round the restaurant the whole time he was talkin'. When he finished, we left Starbucks and walked down Dock Street to where the boat was. And all the way down Karl kept talkin' about how the press was houndin' him.
The ladies insisted on lookin' into all the little shops and such on the way, but I kept urgin' ever'body to get on with it, so we could get to the boat. See, even a dust-digger like me can hear the sea callin' to him when he's up close to it. I done a little sailin' in my time, and the sea kinda turns me into "Captain George," or somethin'. Plus I was really anxious to see Ken's boat.
And I wasn't disappointed, neither. Ken's boat was called The Pea-Pod, and she was a beauty - a 120-foot long fiberglass, powered yacht, from outta the Sovereign boat company yards up in Canada. And she was a bruiser too, twin screws, a easy 20 knot cruisin' speed, and 3500-mile tanks. She come fully equipped and had luxury state rooms with beds you could sink outta sight in. Made me wonder how come the President don't get his own boat - call it "Navy One," or somethin'.
We was early, and hadda wait a while to board. As Laura stood lookin' out over the water, she said a little poem. I looked it up later. It goes like this:
"I must go down to the sea again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a gray mist on the sea's face, and a gray dawn breaking."
I wish Dick and Karl would let her go out in public more. I wish people could see what I see when I look at her, all happy like she was then - like somethin' fine you could hardly believe you had got - and knew you didn't noways deserve. Like somebody' who'd always forgive you, no matter how bad you screwed up, or how bad you was. That's what I see when I look at her.
Wonder what she sees when she looks at me.
She sure was right about it bein' gray. Without my noticin', the sun had disappeared. The overcast sky and the sea was both like wet concrete - didn't seem to be no separation 'tween 'em at all. Maybe it's 'cause a' what happened after, but it seemed to me ever'thin' looked kinda omen-y that mornin'. It made me feel dark and dreary, like winter was comin' on. Like I had September in my heart.
I don't much like September no more.
The boat had a crew a' three: a Scot, Cap'n Jerry Reynolds; a slim young fella name a' Tod; and Gallagher, a big, black fella with a lotta tattoos. I don't recall that Gallagher ever said a word durin' the whole trip; not even when things went weird on us - which was almost immediately.
The Captain explained how we would itinerate. We was to sail south along the coast, from Eastport to Chesapeake Beach, down through the Lower Parodies to Scotland Beach, Richmond, Hampton, Savannah, and finally, Jacksonville, where Jeb and Columba would drive up and meet us.
There wasn't room enough for the Secrets, so they hadda follow us in the Coast Guard cutter Rachel.
The ship was roomy enough, and we had a comfortable stateroom. For some reason, I always get sick the first day on a boat. So even though I was "Captain George" in my mind, I was "Major Upchuck" in my stomach. Captain Reynolds give me somethin' looked like Pepto-Bismol, but a few hours later I was still pretty turvy in the topsy, and I went back to complain.
"Aye," he said, "that be the way o' medicine: she takes her own time to run the course 've a man's innards. She don't always do the job, but If she can do 'er, she does. If not, she don't. But there's precious else I can do f' ye, Mr. President - I can'na change the laws o' physic."
Somethin' 'spicious there, but I couldn't put my finger on it. Although I thought I saw a smile flicker for a second on Gallagher's face.
Karl wasn't no particular delight, neither. I think he got my stomach more upset than the sea did. The first day out he was still grousin' about reporters, callin' em "the mealy-mouthed media," "rag rats," "snoopy-sniffers," and like that.
I believe I mentioned another time how Karl don't like the spotlight. He's strictly a behind the scenes man, and he don't no way like it when people haul him up into the daylight. But he was kinda scary upset this time, even for Karl.
Nothin' we did could change his frame a' mood. He'd just walk around rantin' about how the press hated to see a man get ahead, and how they had it in for him in particular. We really got worried when he seemed to take it into his head that a 'specially aggressive seagull was after him personally, and started throwin' stuff at it whenever it swooped 'round the boat.
It got even stranger. On the first day, Karl run into some bad luck. While he was chasin' after the seagull, throwing silverware and anythin' he could find at it, he got tangled up in some rope lyin' on the deck and took a bad spill. Hurt his ankle pretty bad, and had to have it bandaged up all stiff. So now he hadda walk like a movie monster. He sounded like this:
Bah-klump!... Bah-klump!...Bah-klump!
That first night I hadda a terrible time gettin' to sleep, cause Karl was up late, walkin' 'round on the deck above us, yellin' to nobody in particular, and bah-klumpin' like nobody's business. Laura said she was gettin' a little scared. I didn't tell her, but so was I. My nerves ain't been all that good lately.
On the third day things got weirder still. We wasn't too far from Cape Hatteras, and we'd picked up a pretty thick fog. I was takin' my daily second nap but woke up sudden. By now I'd got use' t' Karl's rantin' above us, but there was somethin' different about his yellin' this time. I threw on my robe and run up the companionway. Dick and a coupla the crew was already up top. Karl was shoutin' and stabbin' his finger wild out at the horizon. Out on the water you could just make out a ship. It was painted a bright white and appeared to glow in the misty light, kinda ghost-like and loomin-ous, wavy and speckled in the fog.
As we got closer, we could see it was a Bertram motor yacht, maybe forty, fifty feet long. On the stern was the name, "The Mobile Belle." Karl right off pulled out his phone and made a call. About ten minutes later, he got a call back and listened for a coupla minutes. Then he sudden started swearin', "I knew it! I knew it! Son of a bitch, I knew it!"
Seems that the Mobile Belle was a registered charter boat outta Hatteras. Karl said she'd been booked by some people who was identified as bein' from The New York Times. Karl ordered the Captain to make for the ship, and as we got closer, Dick nudged me, and said, "That guy at the bow, doesn't he remind you a little of Adam Clymer?".
Sure enough, that's who it looked like. Clymer, if you don't remember, is that New York Times reporter who I forgot the microphone was on when I called him a major-league - well, let's just say we ain't each other's fan. To make things worst, a photographer standin' next to him started flashin' pictures a' us.
Dick said he thought the Times musta somehow got wind a' Karl's meetin' with the businessmen, and was tryin' to catch him with his pants down, so to speak. He called the Rachel, and she picked up and started toward us as fast as she could go.
By now Karl had gone insane.
He was grabbin' stuff off the deck -- chairs, bottles, whatever -- runnin' to the starboard beam, throwin' 'em at the Mobile Belle, yellin' and screamin' all the while. Meanwhile, the photographer was steady shootin' pictures a' Karl havin' a fit, which give Karl a bigger fit. Finally, Karl dashed up to the pilothouse, grabbed the wheel away from the Captain, and started steerin' the Pea-Pod directly amidships the Mobile Belle.
He was aimin' to scuttle 'er, and there was no more about it.
Fightin' with Captain Reynolds caused Karl to miss his mark, and we wound up only glancin' off the Mobile Belle's port bow. The sea was greasy, cold and choppy now, and the water was sluicin' all about us. Anybody who went down in this sea was a gone man.
Thing about a Bertram-built boat: although it may not be the prettiest sight in the world, if you're plannin' to sink somethin' you'd be better advised to try a whale, 'cause a Bertram just won't cooperate. The Mobile Belle wasn't hurt a bit, and Karl'd only succeeded in openin' up a 15 foot gash in the Pea-Pod's starboard bow.
The skipper a' the Mobile Belle was obvious sweatin' as he brought her about and started to haul - started to get away from there fast. Karl wasn't havin' none a' that, though. He started yellin' and throwin' stuff again - his face by now was so purple I expected to hear his veins poppin' any second.
And then Karl done somethin' I ain't never seen nobody do before.
He sudden seemed to calm down, turned around, and hobbled aft. Once at the stern he seemed to gather up all his strength - and then started runnin' real fast:
BAHKLUMP!BAHKLUMP!BAHKLUMP!BAHKLUMP!BAHKLUMP!BAHKLUMP!
He run the whole length a' the boat, and when he got to the bow-rail he didn't stop, he just flang hisself out over the open ocean -- clearly meanin' to land flat-footed on the stern a' the Mobile Belle.
He come that close to makin' it.
Only thing that saved Karl's bacon, was that he managed at the last possible second to grab onto the Mobile Belle's aft railin'. And he just hung there while she bucked and heaved over the choppy water. The deck and the rails was too wet and slippery to get a hold a', but he had the good - or maybe the bad - luck to get hisself tangled up in a tie-rope that was hangin' from the rail. The more he struggled to get out of it (prob'ly not a good idea, had he thought on it), the more tight it got around him, 'til finally he was trussed-up and hangin' upside-down like a Bluefin tuna.
All the time, mind you, he was still cursin' and screamin'.
Then the Mobile Belle disappeared into a fog bank, and we couldn't see none a' 'em any longer. The sound a' the motor and Karl's cursin' got fainter and fainter, until we couldn't hear neither one uvva 'em no more.
Meantime, the Pea-Pod was startin' to take on water pretty bad. Her bow was ridin' lower and lower.
In the interests a' truthful reportin', I got to admit I did not comport myself with a admirable level a' dignity.
Later I learned that I became particular insistent we was goin' down, and got kinda feverish about it. Apparently I started issuin' nonsensical orders: "Raise the mizzenmast!", "Trim the poop-deck!", "Avast the swabbies!" and a lotta other stuff I musta picked up from pirate movies. It appears nobody could calm me down.
And then, all of a sudden my head hurt and I felt like I was flyin' again - like back in my Air National Guard days - only now my 'plane seemed to be goin' down in flames. Before I blacked out I think I was hallucinatin' pretty bad, too. At one point I imagined I saw Gallagher standin' over me with a metal pipe in his hand.
The next thing I knew, I was awoke on a cot aboard the Rachel.
That was two days ago, and we ain't heard hide nor hair a' Karl since. The Times swears that none of its people ever rented any boat in that area. And it don't seem like anybody's spotted the Mobile Belle since then. As far as any a' us know, Karl's still out there somewhere, tied to her, crestin' the waves like a dolphin.
Ken's furious a' course. His pretty boat is gone, and he can't even claim the insurance, 'cause the whole incident's been classified a security issue. Laura refuses to discuss any part a' the affair, and Dick don't look at me directly these days - when he's around.
I don't know how come I'm takin' the heat on this. Seems to me these things was sorta fore-ordained, or whatever it is when God's made up his mind to shaft ya. I gotta admit the whole thing has shook my faith a little bit.
And I'll tell y' somethin' else: I won't be goin' down to the sea again any time soon.
Mobilized!
Sailing, sailing over the bounder's main
© 2001- 2, Hank Blakely
