The Vampire's essay, which arrived during the night, is in (we think) Hungarian. We are reluctant to post it until we have some idea of what it says.
In the meantime, Gus Openshaw has agreed to pinch hit. The initial entries from his "Whale-Killing Journal" are below. We are pleased to share them with you.
Lastly, at some point in the near future, Rance will write in on the significance of Rocky and [Withheld]'s entries, and share his hopes for the future of this blog.
Have a nice weekend,
The Administrative Staff
GUS OPENSHAW'S WHALE-KILLING JOURNAL
Friday, 11 June 2004: I Got A Fish To Kill
Don't make me relive the details just now. The short of it: a whale ate my wife, kid and right arm. And he got away. For the time being.
Now, there are these Indians in the state of Washington. They have one of those licenses you can get--because of a special religious dispensation or whatever--to kill one whale a year. For probation agreement reasons that I can't get into, I had to get myself one of these licenses before I could go back out on the water--let alone set a toe on a dock--without getting shot at by the damn Coast Guard. So I went up to Washington to pow-wow with those Indians.
Prior to the incident, I worked on the line at a cat food cannery. Literally the worst stinking job you can get. Point is, I was earning just north of squat. But I'd married way better than I deserved. And when she died, I was worth--including everything from the house to my boxer shorts--$515,200. Oddly, the Indian Chief priced the license at $515,000, take it or leave it. I took it, gladly. I later learned that my lawyer had "coincidentally" done some "legal work" for the same Indians that same day, getting him a check $51,500. But I was too busy readying my boat to care about the lawyer. My thoughts were on getting to the neck of the Caribbean where a particularly fat sperm whale had been sighted.
I bought an old wooden cabin cruiser from a geezer in Port Helslop, Washington for $20. Wood boats are a bitch is why. Takes a good couple hundred hours to scrape and paint the hulls every year. Invention of fiberglass made wood boats' asses obsolete. So folks with wood boats they don't use no more are left with this dilemma: "Do I keep paying two grand a year to keep this sucker in dry dock, or do I pay some guy twice that much to come over, chain saw my family heirloom apart and haul it to the dump?" So the price for these craft is zip. The twenty bucks was for the gas in her. And it was a good fifty bucks worth of gas.
A few days later, a few leagues north of the Equator, I upgraded to a 180-foot superyacht that came with this computer I'm blogging on now. I'll get to that next time I blog. Now I got to hit the head.
Saturday, 12 June 2004: For Once, I Get Lucky
A few leagues north of the Equator, I was dozing at the controls. Had been sitting there like a statue for three straight days. Suddenly, I looked up and realized I was about to broadside a 180-foot superyacht.
I grabbed the wheel and spun for all I was worth. Unfortunately, my damn body keeps forgetting that, thanks to the bastard, I got no right arm no more. So I wasn't worth much. It was enough though to swerve just in time to miss clipping the stern.
It was odd the yacht hadn't so much as honked. No one seemed to be aboard. Doubtful everyone on a boat that big'd be below deck at one time. No lifeboats lowered. Copter still on the helipad. No swimmers in sight. She seemed empty and adrift.
I tossed up a line and climbed aboard. My panting from the two-story climb (having forgot I only had one damn arm again) was the only sound on the whole craft. I nosed around. Most of the staterooms had people's clothes and crap in them. Dinner for a dozen or so--three-day-old steak and flat-as-my-first-wife champagne--was sitting on a dining table the foredeck. A bunch of clothes were splayed out on the quarter. Weird as fuck, huh?
Here's what I think happened: There's an old maritime tradition that when you cross the equator on a new boat, everyone--passengers, crew, chihuahuas, whoever--jumps in. This champagned-up bunch evidently stripped down and hopped over the rail without realizing they had no way to re-board. These sleek superyachts got no ladders and crap like that. Hull's too sheer to climb up unless you got suction cups up and down your limbs. So they drowned. Poor bastards, I thought. Truth is though, I always feel a bit better when people are stupider or have worse luck than me.
There's another old maritime tradition. It goes something like, "Lost at sea, belongs to me." It basically means if you're enough of an idiot to lose your boat, you don't deserve it, and whoever's the finder is the rightful keeper. I doubt that would stand up in court. And if it gets even within a whiff of court, I'll probably take the rap for the missing passengers and crew. But I've got bigger fish to kill. With that in mind I cut loose my S.S. Piece of Crap cabin cruiser, which at that point was only afloat cause the termites were holding hands, and took the helm of my new superyacht. Unlike the cabin cruiser, she'll be able to keep pace with the bastard (sperm whales can do 30 mph). Then turn him into cold cuts.
I anchored her off St. Kitts. I rowed ashore and pawned a bunch of Rolexes and crap I'd found aboard. Netted $44,500 in cash. I then tried to hire some crew. Found a couple old guys with harpoon experience. Best I could get otherwise was a couple drug addicts who might have waited around the rest of their lives without getting another berth. When you go into a fish-stinking island seamen's bar and offer cash for a mystery job on a boat you won't name, the best and the brightest sailors don't usually line up. Gotta log off now because one of my new hires just came into the captain's quarters and wants to kill me.
Monday, 14 June 2004: The Cook Tries To Filet Me
http://blubberybastard.tripod.com/blog/index.blog?from=20040614
Posted by captainhoof
at 12:11 PM CDT
Updated: Friday, 13 August 2004 1:06 PM CDT
