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Published: March 6th 2014
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Don’t get me wrong, as a self-confessed ardent supporter of the spiritual sanctity of another’s soul, I cherish the greatest respect towards everybody’s religious obligations, no matter how comical, but the more I learn of my bedfellows eccentric habits, the more I am challenged to question my own sanity.
For example, Queequeg’s welts I have already mentioned, but still I cannot but keep myself from staring at them whenever they are abroad. With the appearance of a Vagia’s giant eyeballs, they seem to have their own independent minds, roving this way and that, constantly on their guard as if scanning the surroundings for signs of impending danger. I am convinced they some hypnotic powers over me as it is all I can do to tear my eyes away from them. And as for his manhood, we have discussed this previously and it remains a mystery.
But, Queequeg’s deformities aside, down to the matters at hand, my journal.
First, it seems that it is just not possible to get a decent cup of tea anywhere in the world except my own fair isle. They just do not seem to understand the physics anywhere else. Water must be boiling. Milk
must wait. As Aldous Huxley once said, “All true tea lovers like their tea strong” (see
https://soundcloud.com/theduntmeister/nice-cup-of-tea) and so we are on a mission to purchase our own travel kettle.
Second, it seems when you order a meal, they bring you bread and cheese while you wait. But not just bread and cheese. Bread and cheese and honey!!! (I didn’t even know that bees made cheese). And do you know, it is delightful. Try it.
And talking of honey, it seems as if the whole island is perfumed with honey, and indeed it is, as there is a common flowering plant with a heady fragrance that pervades the whole atmosphere (especially at night).
Third, sadly, I can report no more whale sightings to date, either as a result of poor sea conditions, or as a consequence of no sightings. We remain ever vigilant, waiting for the maroons to go off that signal the return of the leviathans, such that we leave whatever pursuit we are engaged in to rush down to the port to embarque on yet another trepidatious voyage.
And so it is one of these lulls that I find time to capture my thoughts
in this journal.
One thing I forget to mention, just prior to our last voyage, I found Arne approach the boat with a scuba air tank. On enquiring as to whether we were to be diving, he replied in the negative. It transpires that the inflatable dingy itself can sometimes be of interest to passing sharks, who will sometimes try to bite it to see if it is edible I fancy. Of course, it is not edible, but the act of the shark’s bite can leave pinpricks in the envelope causing small leaks and the scuba tank was therefore used to top up said envelope.
I had rather wished that this is something they told us at the end of the adventure, not the beginning, and I expressed my thoughts as such. The crew were very apologetic and told us we were not supposed to see that. Personally, I would prefer it for the punctures to be repaired, but this is a common thing and does not seem to be of concern to the captain or the crew. Indeed, they have reported much worse punctures as a result of shark bite that has seen them limping back to
shore on a flap of rubber sheeting no less.
But ho, not to matter.
On the subject to diving however, with the inclement sea conditions, I took it upon myself to undertake a dive with my divemaster, Moby and so it was that we set off for the south of the island all kitted out for such a venture. Queequeg came too, but as an observer. I know not if his religion prevents such a thing, or maybe it is that his welts cause too much distress, being buoyant in themselves I might fancy.
We came to a small bay, where stood a solitary fisherman who seemed a little perturbed by our presence. Not to worry though, for we were soon in the water and away, exploring and taking samples. Fish, crabs, a ray here, an octopus there, darting off, leaving a trail of ink. Moby, my divemaster, captured some small sea slugs to send to Cadiz University as they believe that a new species has been found in these waters.
And so as our scuba tanks began to run out, we returned to out egress station at which point the said fisherman took great exception
to our presence. There was only one place to egress, and with the tide and swell making it difficult to gain purchase, the fisherman started to shout and gesticulate that we were to leave immediately. Moby seemed unconcerned, even when the fishermen picked up a large rock, and held it over his head to indicate he was about to attempt to kill us. I pleaded with him to cease, calling out “Perdom, perdom”, believing this to be an apology, though it subsequently transpired that I was simply asking him to repeat what he had just shouted at me.
Moby, however, seemed unconcerned and instructed me to get out first.
“But, he’s about to throw a big fucking rock on our heads”, I retorted, at which point Queequeg appeared amidst all the hullabaloo and distracted the man while we made good our escape. Heaven and Hell have mercy on us all – Presbyterians and Pagans alike – for we are all dreadfully cracked about the head and sadly need mending, thought I.
We left him to himself and dressed ourselves a few metres away. I noted that Moby was very discrete, using a large towelling sheet to cover
his private quarters, meaning that I was not likely to get a chance for a sighting of that legendary, milky white, supernatural thing that is the title of the source of my parody. It matters not though, Queequeg’s bizarre and amusing deformities more than make up for the loss.
Back at the port, things were somewhat calmer. Still no sightings. Instead, we watched a film about man’s rape of the sea (End Of The Line –
www.endoftheline.com), very sobering indeed. Is there anything we are not spoiling on this Earth?
And so here we are now in the present moment. Waiting for the sound of the mortars to signal the game is on once more.
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