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Sea Tales from Old Pete

It was 1947 I think, and our ship's hand, Mickey McGillicutty was as green as Queen Charlotte kelp. It was his first voyage you see, and Mickey tried to dismiss his fears like a little girl going to Sunday school.

But we didn't buy one fist of it.

Mickey came over to us from some prissy lake ferry, hired on because we'd lost old Sam Mitchell to a bout of scurvy. The stupid salt wouldn't eat his veggies proper, and it was his own fault too. He should have known when his teeth started falling out, it wasn't on account of his brushing habits.

But Mickey here, he was all piss and vinegar. Thought he knew the run of the sea, but we knew better. We was pretty sure Mickey hadn't seen a whitecap higher than an empty bedpan, and for damned sure he hadn't seen a squall that could turn your beer to butter. But Mickey wasn't going to let on that he was a land-bearing pondskipper.

So the first night, we're some 50 leagues from port, on a due wester to Tahiti. There's a tradewind blowing some 45 knots to our heel, and we have Mickey up topside slinging knots and fastening the yard arm. Mickey don't know it, but Sneaky Tom is up behind him with a rum barrel full of seawater, and done splashes him up over the head with its contents. Only Tom doesn't know it, but Cookie has gone filled that barrel with fish strippings and the whole thing was done stunk up like a week-old beached pilot whale.

It seems that Mickey got more than a rookie's welcome that night and we all kidded it up right, though Tom was a slight bit sorry for having to clean up the fish guts off the main deck. It turned out that Mickey was alright, and we done learned a thing or two from his freshwater boating experiences later on.

Old Pete's Story Archive

 
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