Sink,sank,sunk (4)
Easier said than done. Turning the killer around, I mean. Our skipper insisted conditions were ideal. The towering waves about to swallow us whole were nothing more than “des petits moulins.” Baby sheep. “I’m a coward,” I shouted. “I want to go back.” The real baby sheep were the men. I was surrounded by deaf mutes. Why were all these macho men afraid to open their mouths. (Except to vomit, of course.) At last, the skipper agreed to go back. With one stipulation. We must all remove our life jackets before entering the harbor. Fine. If we made it back alive, I was more than willing to help this fucking auto mechanic save precious face.
We fled towards mist-shrouded shores, trailing a wreck of ship-wrecked dreams behind us.The moment we reached Deshaies, the sun broke through and a gorgeous rainbow painted the sky. For me, it was the end of a nautical nightmare. For the others, a minor backfire, an hilarious beginning to what would become a a perfect cruise. As we waved goodbye (more like good riddance), I felt the earth move under my feet. Jesus Christ! I thought. It’s Soufriere, the island’s volcano about to blow its stack. But no. It was symptoms of what sailors call ‘le mal de terre.’ The landsick dizziness suffered by all those who spend too many days at sea.
It was a man thing Brenda. No one wanted to be the first to scream, “Get me out of here!” The US Army used the same basic principle: most men will choose to die rather than expose themselves as cowards in front of each other, to successfully stage the D-Day landings. All sports, with the exception of golf and curling would be defunct without it
Thanks for bringing us on board, Brenda, terrific story! I just wonder how many “F” words you let fly from the moment you set sail til your humble return.