Day 14
The last long weekend cometh.
It is abundantly clear to me now that Flying Fish are the dimwits of the
marine world.
Fish are not known for their brightness in any of the species its true;
I only know of one Fish who once attained greatness. He was a
Weatherman, and he got it horribly wrong with a hurricane in October
1987, and he lost it. It's the stuff of legend. I don't imagine that
there are many Einsteins of the fish world (team mammal seems to have
all the brainiacs down there), so to be bottom of the pile of your tribe
in the underwater brains department, is not a good start. When you look
up in awe to your cousin the squid for his brains (at least they can
squirt ink and stuff you know) it's simply a case of: "Just face it
fish face, you is thick."
When you see a flying fish at a distance, skimming across the surface of
the water, changing direction so effortlessly and gliding for what seems
gravity defying miles, only to drop back into the water with perfectly
timed grace and elegance, its hard to imagine them struggling with their
homework. But it's at night their shortcomings become truly apparent,
and their rightful lowly place in life's hierarchy self-evident.
So Friday saw us marching ever onward, eating up the miles and chasing
down the competition. We have become a little too conscious of the race
positions and who's doing what than is approved of by our captain and
his mate. But given none of the crew has more than a healthy
competitive streak, to my mind the data simply adds an amateur level of
interest that the race is all about.
The weather now feels Caribbean. You can almost sense the rum in the
air, the smell of gunpowder and the dead man's chest. We have settled
into a routine where (almost anyway) day is day and night is night. The
haze which existed previously, where we simply stumbled from watch to
bed and back again seemingly behind us. The Watches are at one for most
of the day. Only the odd person disappearing down below from time to
time to catch up on lost sleep.
We all get on well, helping each other where necessary with ropes, or
making tea. Lots of tea making. Steve it seems is a well travelled
sailor, with several long spells under sail and general travel notched
on his belt. Most of it, it seems, on large Square Riggers. He has
adapted to his new maritime environment very quickly and is quietly very
generous with his soft voice of experience. Especially when he points
out the correct rope to haul on, so that I don't look like the total
idiot I feel toward the end of a Watch, or even the beginning if I'm
truthful.
As too is Baldem, our extremely amiable 'senior' German, who's obvious
fitness is clearly testament to his passion for sailing on the lakes in
his native Bavaria. Always neatly turned out, even in the middle of a
rain soaked night, his tidiness making him the perfect cabin mate. Not
that he is capable of uttering a word of complaint, but I can only
imagine the torment he must feel as he returns to the cabin weary from
hard shift, only to survey the mayhem I have probably left behind in my
haste to report for duty up top.
Last night was largely without incident. We steered our way further
westward, we pulled a few ropes, and watched the winking lights of a
distant ship heading for Africa. We managed to fend off sleep. We were
visited by another small pod of dolphins, which kept us company for
about an hour. And then was gone.
It was only after about 4 days that I began to question the source of
some odd noises on deck during our watches. Thuds, splats, even clangs.
They didn't seem to sit with the noises that I'd come to expect from the
boat and it's rigging. And then the odd smell, and fish corpses found
in strange places. Finally last night at around 04:30 during the death
watch (the new pirate inspired grave yard watch) Michael hit square on
the side of his head by a flying fish, which ricocheted down to the
cockpit floor floundering around, looking to be rescued. Michael duly
obliged.
So there you have it my friends. A fish given the gift of flight. A
tool to escape predators. Presumably spooked by the wash of the boat,
the instinct to flee greater than their navigational ability, driving
them toward the presumed hunter rather than away from it. And aside
from the lucky soul last night, to their death.
The blue bottle of the marine world. A life dedicated to blindly
bumping into things. Flying by braille.
FlyingFishA