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| CANADA'S SOURCE FOR FISHING HUMOUR, PARODY, AND SATIRE
I'm pretty sure it was in 1936 when the ship and crew of the Osprey were left adrift, floating helplessly like a Ceylon turtle with mahogany legs. We'd run afoul of a Burmese storm, and it tore the skizzle arm right off our jizzmast. Sure we had a full chock of hemlock tucked away in the frog hold, but we didn't have the leg knives to carve it straight. It was only the brilliant thinking of Jimmy The Whistler, our sauna's mate, who saved us for sure from the dreaded Billow's Reef on the north side of the Breadfruit Islands. Jimmy figured we could catch the Freshman's Breeze, a true sailor's wind, if we could rig ourselves some mutton sails. It was lucky for us we had doubled up on bunk sheets when we left Portsmith. Using fishing line and barley hooks, we were able to sew ourselves up a damned fine mutton sail, and lash it to the splintered remains of the jizzmast. It was a fine thing to see, our little sprint boat skiffing across the sea with naught but a few bedsheets to pull us through the waves. I felt like St. Barnaby himself had blown us a sailor's kiss, giving us the rump wind to fair our course. When we reached
port, we took Jimmy to The Sailor's Lump, and filled his gizzet with warm
Tempuran rum. Jimmy never signed on for another deck tour, and went on
make his fortune in camel socks and ape's blisters, but a finer sauna's
mate a ship never had.
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Sea Tales from Old Pete
