Sea Tales from Old Pete
The winter of ’32 was the worst we’d seen in years. We were nine days out of Jamaica and we were already low on ship yarn and salt chuck. The captain of our ship, a twin-seamed sea cutter named Poseidon’s Daisy, opened a crate of dried Flemish poppy bread and swore he’d write it off as spoilage when we made port.
We were destined for Siam, and that meant a fizzbreaker around the Cape. Only Gabby O’Grady the tiller’s mate had been through it before. But our crew was as ready as a coal knot on a Hampton’s wheel.
There was some worry from the passengers–we had taken on a party of rum sisters in Kingston, and they were none too thrilled at the idea of whipsnaking through St. Einias’s Passage in January. (nor any month for sure).
I wasn’t so keen on having to play cruise director for a boatload of jollybaggers, so I set them to the task of retwining the ropes for the costard arm. They weren’t pleased much at the chore, but it kept their minds off of the swelling waves.
The tides and currents turned out to be tamer than a Tibetian snow kitten, and we skated through the strait like hot butter on alabaster.
Still, it was like a first date with the Devil’s daughter, and none of us will forget that too soon.
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