MARAUDING MOSQUITOES

Kamikaze Mosquito

          I awoke this morning, not to the clap of thunder nor the crack of dawn but to the scream of a mosquito, like a Japanese kamikaze pilot dive bombing towards my face. When it landed lightly on the tip of my nose, it sneered at me and said, "I dare you to swat me! Go on, I dare you!" 

          Of course, having been rudely awakened, my senses not yet untangled from it's spiderweb of tentacles, and becoming cross-eyed watching the menacing mosquito about to probe my nasal protuberance with its proboscis, I let fly with my mighty right hand! Hardly a slight swat, myriad of stars swirling in tandem with my stinging nose from the result of my foolish blow, I was now fully awake. 

         Being the size of the gigantic ape, King Kong, in comparison to that pesky squeeter, I was on a mission. Holding out my left arm like a long landing strip, instead of tarmac, made of flesh and blood, I waited like a patient sniper, my sight set and my aim true. While I waited and I waited and I waited until the weight of my arm felt like lead, that minuscule winged insect hovered like a drunken helicopter pilot, one eye out for a landing and the other, eye to eye with me. However, like any tasty buffet, my arm laid out like a  juicy rare T-bone steak, the mosquito overwhelmed with the meal set before it, couldn't resist temptation. Wrapping a bib around its skinny throat while licking its chops, and after maneuvering and re-maneuvering several times, realizing the dangers in setting down, the pesky pest finally alit on my hairy left arm. As it was saying Grace, thanking the Great Skeeter in the sky for what it was about to devour or perhaps imbibe, I waited with the patience of Job, my right hand cocked and ready for the colossal swat to be delivered. Hunkering down, its spindly long legs spread out, I waited until its pointy stinger containing six mouths (you heard right - six mouths) speared my flesh. Then, as it began siphoning out my red blood, confident it had eluded danger, I slowly brought my slaying hand into position, the impact of the swat like a crack of thunder flattening that tiny insect into oblivion! Besides the broken wreckage of that crumpled insect, a splotch of red blood, my blood could be seen. Proud of my achievement, about to be rewarded a Purple Heart for being wounded under fire, I began to hear that alarming Eeeeee sound, not just one but many. The only trouble with mosquitoes is that they seldom fly solo and soon swarms of them, I'm thinking on a quest of vengeance, sent me cowering beneath the covers. 

          The other day, desperately having to take a leak, (when I have to go - I have to go) upstairs to the bathroom is a long distance for a shuffling old man. Unable to get there on time, rather than wetting my pants, I stepped out the backdoor, unzipped my fly and let fly. Well...no sooner had the yellow piss hit the grass, the air turned grey with mosquitoes. Swatting mosquitoes and holding on to my ding-dong at the same time, trying not to spray all over my slippers was more than a little unnerving but believe it or not, I stayed dry and didn't get stung.

          Although here at the base of Green Mountain in New Brunswick, we have been invaded by hordes of mosquitoes, the most I've ever seen was while I was in the northern hemisphere, the arctic. Wearing mosquito netting over my head and my entire body clothed, like a knight wearing armor for protection, I proceeded along the shoreline, each footstep flushing up clouds of mosquitoes. Thousands upon thousands of them were attached to me as if they couldn't dine on me there, were going to airlift me to their tundra domain for a leisurely feast. Although a prowling polar bear could have been lurking behind a nearby huge slab of ice and I should have been wary since we're on their menu, they were not on my mind at that time. Hmm...I wonder which would be a worse way to go - eaten alive by a hungry polar bear or bled to death by throngs of blood thirsty mosquitoes. Hopefully I'll never know...cheers, eh!    

RANSOM - Artist, Lover, Adventurist - Part Two and Conclusion

             Rosy could scarce believe her ears; two men were fighting over her and when she smiled at the thought, it was directed at Ransom. 

          Returning her smile and in a cavalier manner, as if he was challenged to a duel everyday for rescuing some maiden's honour he said, "It matters not to me sir. Choose the place, the time and the weapon and I'll be there." My God! What have I said, he thought. I've never handled a sword or a musket in my life - charcoal and paint have been my tools.

           "Fine! 4:00 tomorrow afternoon at the top of Duelist Hill. I'll supply the dueling pistols and do make sure to bring your second."

             "My second?" Ransom inquired.

             "Yes, your second. A friend if you like, to make sure the duel is held properly and adheres to the rules - it's the gentleman's way."

          "And what are the rules?"

          "If either of us decides to move from our spot or run, our second is allowed to shoot the coward."

          Time was passing quickly and since Ransom had slept in, hadn't crawled out of his cot until late in the afternoon, he decided to visit the Horse and Dog Tavern for a drink or two. He needed something to relieve his shaky hands and also bolster up his courage. What had he got himself into now he thought? I've had jealous boyfriends and angry husbands on my tail, barely able to escape through a window, and none of them ever challenged me to a duel to the death.

              As soon as he walked through the tavern's door and sat down on a bench, his back up against the wall near the fireplace, Rosy came over and sat beside him. "Drinks are on me my handsome hero. It's the least I can do, especially since..."

                "You needn't say it. I know, since it's my last day on earth."  

                "That's not what I was going to say. I was going to say, since you rescued me from that bastard's clutches. What would you like to drink?"

            "Something stronger than an ale if you don't mind."

             "A double shot of whiskey coming up. Anything for you."

             "Anything?" he asked.

             Realizing what he was asking and that it was highly unlikely he would survive the day, she looked into his eyes and smiling coquettishly murmured, "Anything. Anything at all."

              After downing several whiskies and not finding any of his friends in the tavern he sauntered over to Rosy and whispered, "I don't like to ask but can you do me a favour?"

          "Sure, I'd be happy to."

           "Are you a good shot?"

           "What do you mean?"

           "Are you a good shot; ever fired a pistol before?"

           "No. Gracious no. I wouldn't even know which end was which."

            "It doesn't really matter if you know how to use a pistol or not. If someone is apt to run away from the duel, that would be me, not that pot-bellied scoundrel. However, I still need someone for a second; it's the rule."

             Curtsying deeply, her apron in both hands she answered, "I'd be honoured to be your second kind sir."

               The path leading up to the top of Duelist Hill was steep and Ransom was chugging like a steam engine upon arrival, whereas Rosy hardly took a deep breath. Standing bent over, his hands on his knees and gasping for breath he heard someone say, "Is that you Ransom Peabody?"

          "Aye, tis me," he panted.

          "I'm Lord Geoffrey Stuart, the arbitrator between you and Sir Errol Standish. I'm here to make certain the duel is carried out by the accordance of the rules. I don't see a second with you."

           Straightening up and puffing out his chest, Ransom figured since he was most likely going to be shot dead, he might as well look courageous even if he was a coward at heart. Pointing at Rosy he said, "She'll be my second."

            "I'm not sure that the rules will allow a woman to act as second," Lord Stuart stated. 

           "Well...if that's the case," Ransom said, "Then I guess the duel is off."

               "Not so fast...if Sir Standish will accept your second, then I see no reason to halt the duel."

                Sir Standish, confident that Ransom was as good as dead replied, "It's fine with me. Let's proceed with the duel," and then sneering at Rosy continued, "I have an evening engagement with a real lady and I don't want to waste any time than absolutely necessary."

                  As soon as the two duelists had selected their weapons and were standing back to back, their pistols loaded and cocked for action the arbitrator said, "After I count off ten paces, you may then turn, aim and fire at your opponent."

                 "One...two...three..." The count was on and Ransom wasn't feeling very cocky at the moment as he looked at the flintlock pistol, which he was holding near his head and pointed skyward. He couldn't help smiling when he noticed that his hand was no longer shaking and thinking what can be so difficult about firing this gun. All I have to do is aim and pull the trigger - Sir Standish is so fat, how can I possibly miss.

          "Eight...nine...ten." Ransom spun around faster than the portly gentleman but he wasn't fast enough pulling the trigger. He heard a loud explosion and then felt the round lead ball from his opponent's pistol buzzing by his right ear like an angry hornet, taking a portion of the lobe with it. He couldn't believe he was still standing as he aimed his pistol at Lord Standish's heart. Wiping the blood from his ear he looked down at his hand as it dripped between his fingers onto the ground.

                The arbitrator, a puzzled expression on his dour countenance asked, "Aren't you going to fire your pistol?"

               "Do I have to fire it right now? Is it mandatory that I kill him?"

               "No. But I've never heard of anyone refusing to fire their weapon."

                 "Well in that case," nonchalantly gazing at Lord Standish's terrified face, his slumped shoulders and empty pistol sagging towards the ground he said, "What's your life worth sir?"

                 "What do you mean? Take your shot! You couldn't hit a barn door if you were ten paces away."

                 Hmm,,,he has a point there he thought but I'm still the one with the loaded pistol pointed at his heart so he said, "You may think I'm just a commoner sir but I'd wager that you don't know that I served in the Queen's Regiment and was a marksman of deadly aim. I once had the opportunity to shoot Napoleon himself."

          Lord Standish chortled and said, "Well we all know you missed, if you're even telling the truth."

          "Well...I didn't exactly miss. The horse he was riding lifted his head up at the sound of the gunshot and the ball hit it directly between the eyes. So what's it going to be? Are we going to palaver about the amount of money your willing to part with concerning your life or do I pull the trigger? Really makes no difference to me, I've killed quite a few men." As he watched Sir Standish pondering the question, he was hoping he didn't have to fire the pistol because in all reality he would most likely miss. Besides, he was no killer, the whopper of a tale concerning Napoleon was all a lie, he'd never been a soldier of any kind and had never killed anyone.

           At last Sir Standish said, "I don't believe anything you said but what's your price Ransom?"

             Breathing a sigh of relief he answered, "I know you're a wealthy man and not being the greedy sort, how does 5,000 pounds sound? Surely your life is worth that measly much."

          Sir Standish shook his head, which was beginning to turn as purple as a ripe beet and sputtered, "Certainly not; that sum is preposterous. 500 pounds seems more than fair to me."

          Squinting down the barrel of the musket lining it up with Sir Standish's head he continued, "Since you don't seem to put much value on your life, perhaps it's best if I put you out of your misery."

          "Now...now...hold on young man, let's not be too hasty. You're right, but 5,000 pounds is is still too high of an amount. I'll give you 2,000 pounds in cash today if you spare my life."

           Lowering his pistol, Ransom said, "I believe we have an accord sir and you are my witness, are you not Lord Stuart?"

            "Indeed I am sir."

            "Just one more thing before the final deal is struck sir, I'd like to keep these two dueling pistols. Not so much for me but for your sake sir. The last thing you need to be doing is challenging people like me, excellent shooters at duels."

             "Agreed. You may have the pistols as well. Is there anything else and if not, I'll meet you at the Horse and Dog Tavern in about an hour," said Lord Standish and smiled as he thought about how low a figure they had agreed upon. He would have given Ransom a lot more money: if he only knew.
          "Ah, aye. There is one more thing required to seal the deal so to speak. You must apologize to Rosy for your outrageous behavior towards her."
           "I'll do no such thing. Like I said before, she's nothing but a common tavern maid."
            "Then, Sir Standish," slowly raising his pistol to eye level, "You leave me no choice."
              Realizing Ransom was determined he raised his hands in protest and rolling his eyes said, "I'm sorry."
              Wiggling the pistol at Sir Standish Ransom said, "Not good enough sir. You must look directly at Rosy and apologize in a gentlemanly fashion."
            As much as it galled him to make such a gesture, Sir Standish reluctantly did as required.

          Ransom and Rosy lingered on Duelist Hill until Sir Standish, his second and the arbitrator had disappeared from view. Taking Rosy in his arms he quietly asked "Did you mean what you said about giving me anything I desired Rosy dear?"

          Realizing that the duel hadn't ended the way she expected,  she was ever so glad that Ransom had survived, even if it was purely luck. He had risked his life for her honour, a mere tavern maid and that was more than enough for her. Gazing into his big brown eyes, she nodded and put her lips to his. The kiss was sweet and urgent as he gently laid her down on the grassy hill and lifted her dress, only the trees, bushes and some nearby birds would witness the loss of Rosy's virginity...cheers, eh!

RANSOM - Artist, Lover, Adventurer - Part One

         

Flintlock Dueling Pistols

          Ransom Ichabod Peabody, on the verge of waking up, trying desperately to continue on with his dream muttered, "Not yet, damn it!" The tavern maid in his wondrous, semiconscious state was naked and his hands were filled with her voluptuous flesh, soft breasts the size of watermelons bouncing in his face as they thrashed about on a huge bed covered in cerulean satin sheets and matching thick pillows.

            Waking up he shouted, "Ahh!"

           "Hmm... that was jolly good. Nothing like a wet dream to start the day."

           As Ransom lay on his cot, a tiny shaft of sunlight glinting through a small and the only window and illuminating his dreary room, thoughts of Rosy the tavern maid, his dream come true fading into the dark spider-webbed corners, he dreaded the idea of getting up and facing the day. Memories of the past evening, drinking himself into a drunken stupor foremost in his thoughts, he recalled the events which occurred, which would most likely be the cause of his death.

          Sitting up, a sharp pain searing through his muddled head, he hoped his hangover would soon clear up because if he was to survive this day, he was indeed in need of a clear head. Noticing a crumpled cigarette butt sitting on the edge of a small beat-up wooden table next to his cot, he grabbed it and stuck it in the corner of his mouth. Striking a match, he waited for a flame and then lit the cigarette, a lung full of smoke was in order, help take the edge off his worried thoughts. Now, if he only had a drink. A wine bottle that was lying on its side was his only hope and as he reached for it, he noticed his shaky hands. This was at least a good sign because he wasn't, like beforehand on several occasions, seeing pink hippopotamuses wearing purple tutus that looked like overweight ballerinas spinning on their stubby toes. The bottle was dark, opaque as a stone, so he was unable to see if it contained any wine. Tilting it almost upright he sipped the last swig. Noticing a soft lump in his mouth, he dribbled the red wine into his open hand, which yielded a big black fly doing the backstroke. Flicking it onto the dirt floor with a finger, he then lapped up the wine, licked his fingers and said, "I can see this is going to be one of those days when I should have just stayed in bed."

          Ransom was as common as muck. While a boy, his family had been poor and now as a grown man, he was equally poor. However, despite being poverty stricken, he was a very good artist, had an abundant of natural talent. And that was how he survived. A well-known artist Maurice Creston who was busy with commissions from the church and the nobility gave him room and board, plus a few coins, a mere pittance in exchange as his assistant. Ransom was so good that his patron barely added anymore than his signature to the paintings he produced, of which there were many.

          Strolling through the studio, Ransom stopped in front of an easel and looked at a portrait that he was working on. The painting depicted a beautiful young wife of an aging duke. She was dressed in a low-cut, white satin gown, adorned with white lace and a string of emeralds matching her green eyes were strung around her dainty throat. Although the whiteness of her skin glowed like alabaster and made her appear cold, she was anything but as he recalled ravishing her during a posing session - their sexual frivolity actually flattening his cot.

          His head was still pounding as hard as a blacksmith's sledge hammer when he looked at himself in a broken mirror, that was  missing a few shards of glass and hanging on the wall near the easel. Although his eyes were bloodshot and his long black hair was very disheveled, he was still a handsome man. His boyish good looks combined with his artistic charms, a silver-tongued devil, turned many a maiden's eye and shed many a gown. He had fallen asleep, most likely passed out on the cot with his clothes on after his drinking spree last evening and had somehow lost one of the two straps holding up his pants. He looked like hell and as he tried straightening himself out, combing his long hair and tying a tattered ribbon to keep it in place, he recollected the events of last night that would most likely end his life at exactly 4:00 pm.

          As per usual, he spent the majority of the evening in the Horse and Dog Tavern with some friends and a well-to-do aristocrat who simply pulled up a chair and ordered a round of ale. Nobody knew the portly, well-dressed gentleman with the white-coiffed wig, but free ale was free ale and nobody contested his presence. He seemed pleasant enough, his round red face getting redder and redder with each ale he imbibed of which there were many. However, it was late into the evening, almost "last call gentlemen", when Rosy the tavern maid leaned over while placing full mugs of ale on the table, her ample bosoms almost touching the gentleman's face. As if he was entitled, he gave one of them a squeeze.

          Rosy was quite taken aback, not because some of the patrons occasionally tried to take advantage of her womanly charms but from someone who obviously had a position and wealth, his actions were highly unusual. The richer men generally treated her with respect while she was serving them and then just before the tavern closed, would ask how much she would charge for a private visit. As odd as it seemed, highly unusual in fact for a young woman in her position, although Rosy was a flirty wench and very playful, knowing full well the potential of her feminine charms, she was still a virgin. However, although she could not read or write, she was smart enough to know that if she gave it away or for money, she would have a harder time to marry and a family of her own is what she greatly desired. 

          The gentleman had barely touched Rosy's breast when Ransom leaned across the table and slapped him across the face yelling, "That's no way to treat a lady sir!"

          To which the aristocrat heatedly replied, "She's no lady! She's just a common maid. And you, you're just a commoner too and since you took it upon yourself to strike someone of my status, I therefore challenge you to a duel!"

DOWN FOR THE COUNT

Herod Boy, Me and My Dad

          A comment I received on the last post I wrote, about a pirate named One-Eye, kind of stirred these old bones, put a bit of a hop in my step because although the blog gets quite a few hits, I'm never really certain anyone reads it. Lately, because of my not so great physical condition, even my vision giving me a problem and managing to tire myself out while lying in a prone position watching Netflix programs, it gives me great pleasure to let my imagination roam as freely as a mustang running across the plains, the thunder of his hooves echoing under a purple sky. And, speaking of horses, just pour yourself a hot cup of coffee or tea or maybe something with more of a kick (might want to have a few tissues handy too) just in case this tale smacks you in the heart while you're sitting in your comfy chair and reading about Herod Boy (nothing to do with Herod the Great).

          It's summer time in Vancouver, BC a long time ago, my voice has hardly changed and I've barely taken up shaving; still leaning more towards a boy than a man. The evening is warm, the sun's last rays still hitting the mountains rearing up over the north shore like stallions on parade and I'm at Exhibition Park waiting for the starting-gate bell to ring. It's the eighth and final race of the day and a hush has fallen like the first snowfall of winter over the crowd of racehorse-bettors as they clutch their tickets, all eyes on the gate. Suddenly the bell shrills, the gates burst open and Jack Short loudly announces, "And they're off...!", above the din of wildly shouting crowd cheering their horses on.

          I don't have any money on Herod Boy but I'm just as excited if not more excited than anyone who has placed a bet on this fine gelding. My eyes are not on the horses in the lead, hugging the rail as close as a mom holding her first new born in her arms because I know he's not there, he's running further behind in the pack, the jockey almost standing up in the stirrups in order to tightly hold him in position. At this point, you might think this race is fixed but it's not the way Herod runs. He's not a front runner, he's one of those horses that looks like he's a loser at the beginning of the race up until he reaches the final turn heading into the homestretch. Then, and I can still see him to this day as the jockey settled down into the saddle, his ass level with his head and lets the reins loose. A few taps with the crop on Herod's ass end to let him know that running and running as fast as possible is the name of the game - the race is on! 

          There are ten horses in the race and Herod Boy was about in seventh position when he began his move, passing tiring horses and ones that were trying to keep up to his pounding hooves. Breaking into the homestretch, Herod Boy is running fifth and gaining with every stride to overtake the horses in front. The jockey is in tandem with Herod's every move, swiftly flowing together in a singular manner towards the finish wire. Rider and horse, horse and rider breaking loose from the tiring pack and on the heels of the front horses, Herod Boy is gaining with every stride. The crowd of bettors have gone berserk, leaping into the air and screaming their horse's names as Herod Boy and two other horses are vying for the lead neck and neck. Flecks of foam and sweat from their sweaty bodies are flying through the air when the horses reach the finish wire and Jack Short yells, "It's a photo finish! Don't throw away your tickets until the winner is announced!" I didn't have to wait to know which horse had won because I had been standing almost directly even with the finish wire to see that Herod Boy was half a head in front of the second horse. 

          I don't really know if a racehorse knows when they win a race or if they even care but I do know that after they've been running their hearts out, it takes a while to cool them out and that was my job. After the race, my dad and I washed Herod Boy off with soapy hot water, then threw a horse blanket over his body before I started walking him round and round the barn, allowing him sips of water each time we came to his pail. When a horse wins a race, its urine has to be tested for drugs and so it was with Herod. Sometimes it takes hours for a horse to take a piss, but not Herod, as soon as the empty little bottle was put in place under his lengthy ding-dong, he filled it to the brim.

          Everything seemed very normal as I cooled out Herod Boy, the nearby horses in the stalls could be heard munching on hay or  be seen simply standing with their heads out of the doors. It was peaceful as usual and my dad was smiling each time we came by, I knew he needed the purse money. And that was the thing about Herod Boy, he almost always brought home a paycheck, seldom did he finish less than third place; he was kinda what you might call a bread and butter horse. 

          But on this particular night...something was clearly wrong with Herod Boy because as I walked him, he began bloating up, farting loudly and constantly trying to lay down. I didn't know what was wrong with him but I could see that my dad was clearly worried, especially when he said, "Keep him walking. Whatever you do, don't let him go down. I'm off to fetch the vet (track veterinarian)".

          It wasn't very long before my dad returned with the vet, who as I recall was a drunk and was probably drunk when he arrived. He told me to take Herod into his stall so he could take a look at him. Of course, as soon as I led Herod into his stall, he immediately tried to lay down and I had to keep jerking his head up to prevent him. 

          When the doc said, "He's just full of gas. Let him go." I looked at my dad questioningly because it didn't seem like a good idea to me. I don't think my dad liked the idea either but he reluctantly told me to do as the doc asked.

          I had barely taken the shank off Herod's halter, when he instantly dropped to his knees onto his side and then began rolling on the stall floor. He was desperately trying to get the gas out of his bloated belly but like a boxer from a deadly blow, down for the count, he never got up again. I remember going down on my knees in the sweet smelling yellow straw and stroking Herod's head until he took his last desperate breath. The doc's verdict was that Herod had been suffering from colic and that he most likely twisted his bowels when he was rolling around in the stall, which is why in my opinion that wonderful horse shouldn't have been allowed to roll. I would have walked that horse a hundred miles if I'd known it would have saved his life.

          It was late by the time my dad and I left the barn and headed to the parking lot. We were both silent, had hardly said a word since Herod died. When we reached the car, which was parked in front of a long log lying on the ground, my dad suddenly sat down on it and I could tell by his shuddering shoulders that he was quietly crying. With tears in my eyes, I joined him on that log and put my arm around him - it was the first time and the only time I ever saw my father cry. 

          My dad trained and loved horses until he died Christmas day in 1969. I lived in Lethbridge, AL at the time and he had phoned me Christmas eve, a conversation I don't recall, only know what it meant to me. I of course flew home and had to make, besides funeral arrangements, take care of the horses he was training for other people. It was the last time and saddest time I was at the racetrack...I'm feeling pretty sad now as I remember that day and don't really feel like ending this blog with the usual words, only know that they are bitter sweet...cheers, eh!            

THE PIRATES LIFE FOR ME!

             The cataracts on my right eye were removed yesterday and for someone who can't even touch his own eyes to put drops in them, I'm amazed that the doctor did so well. Me best mate Sarah, yar, and a pirate lass she is, still thinks her one-eyed pirate is a special guy. The patch on me eye gave me an idea for a pirate yarn that I hopes you'll enjoy reading.
          Yar! I run me wee ship, ONE-EYE hard aground while tippin' back more than a grog or two. She hit the shore with a horrifying crunch, which sent shivers down me backbone and had me only two remaining teeth clattering within the empty cavern of me maw. Although she's slightly listing between the craggy grasp of hard rocks and the steep cliff, the waves like delicate physician's hands continually slapping her arse end as hard as a new born lass just jettisoned from its womb, I'd be lying if I said we'd soon be clear and able to set sail again to plunder many a merchant ship. Thinking back, when first I saw the high rocky cliffs jutting out of the sea like a giant's fist, I should have allowed the first mate to grab hold the helm with his hairy hands and calloused fingers, the nails bitten clean to the bone - with strength like his, he would have ripped old ONE-EYE from the savage claws of the massive cliff and sailed her to deeper water where we would have been safe in the cradle of the Salish Sea. Although old ONE-EYE may be wedged tighter than a virgin's pantaloons between a rock and a hard place, her thick oaken ribs groaning and cracking with each flaying blow of the sea, all may not be lost for the tide will soon be on the rise and hopefully lift her clear and free.

           The masts, booms and yard arms are as bare as a naked hussy that shivers and shakes as each tremendous wave caresses old ONE-EYE closer to a screaming orgasm, louder than the cry of the lost banshee riding on the frothy waves streaking across the boulder ridden shore. The night is dark, darker than a freshly dug grave, not a silvery satin moon or a blinking beckoning star to be seen overhead in the darkening heavens. The rumble of thunder and roar of the waves, mingling together in tandem across the inky black Salish Sea - musical tones of Mozart gaily bouncing on every bubble came to mind and almost had me doing a jig.

           Yar! My blood was boiling fearlessly as I scrambled up the main mast and upon reaching the crows-nest was amazed I hadn't spilled a single drop of grog from me big mug. As I stood there bent into the wind, a long brass telescope pressed to my one good eye, my blind one tucked beneath a black leather patch with a painted white skull and crossbones shining in the dark, I was hoping to catch a wee glimpse of light within the surrounding misery of darkness. But the sky, as dark as a harlot's heart, wasn't about to give up her gold, not one peeping glimpse of sunshine on the horizon could be seen. The night would be long and many hours would pass before the turning and rising of the tide, which was needed to lift old ONE-EYE off the rocks.

        Cap'n One-Eye and his motley crew of murderous, cut-throats, pick-pockets, rapists, thieves and other lowly degenerates had stormed a British Man O War in a drunken stupor several years back. The ship had been at anchor in a warm Jamaican bay when a heavy mist evolved, the fog so thick, it was impossible to see your fist in front of your face. Stripped almost naked, each One-Eye pirate carried a sharp sword, a primed pistol and a dastardly dagger when they silently stepped aboard the HMS Venerable and slew every sailor in the most ghastly manner and then made the captain and his officers walk the plank - the sharks below licking their chops in eager anticipation. They had plundered many a ship afterward but due to dubious debauchery, gadabout gambling, impetuous imbibing, not to mention scandalous skulduggery, the gold and jewels they plundered were never efficient enough to change their way of living and besides, if given a chance at a more legal and quieter existence, they would have all lifted their mugs of grog high and cheered in unison, "If this is the life of a pirate, then this is the life for me! 

          As Cap'n One-Eye trod round and round the crows-nest his bleary blood-shot eye staring through the spyglass in search of a possible rescue, he suddenly glimpsed something moving between the tumultuous white caps. He wasn't sure if it was wishful thinking on his part or if something or someone was actually a short distance off the starboard side until a sudden flash of lightning lit up the surface of the sea for barely a heartbeat, but long enough for the one-eyed captain to see the form of a long boat and one person. His thoughts concerning the little boat and its lone inhabitant were rudely interrupted when an enormous wave struck the Man O War broadside and stove a gigantic hole in the side of her near the bow, which caused the bowsprit to splinter and dangle only mere bubbles above the sea. Realizing it was a mortal blow, not that the ship would sink, but was more likely to be smashed to smithereens with each wave that smacked her starboard side, it was time to take action and get the hell off the ONE-EYE.

             Grabbing a nearby rope, he swung from the crows nest to  the deck below and hollered to his panicking crew to gather round. When he had their attention he growled, "Well lads, looks like this is the end of ONE-EYE. It wont be long before she's busted all apart and the rats like us will be fleeing for our lives. As these are likely the last words to be spoken as your cap'n, I'd just like to mention how proud I am to have sailed with such a diabolical, comical, unscrupulous, murderous, bone-headed, dreaded, broody, moody, lazy, crazy, unwashed, unabashed, unworthy, scurvy, sleazy, measly, drunkards and raping bastards. I almost gets teary-eyed when I give the order to cut someone's throat and it's carried out immediately and with such glee, or ordering someone to scurry upwards to unravel a twisted sail during a hurricane and they fall to their death or when you're told to haul and keel a disobeying bastard and everyone cheers when the scalawag is ripped to pieces by the barnacles below." 

                After wiping a fake tear away with the sleeve of his thick black coat he grinned because he just then had a brainwave on saving his own life. It was risky the chance he was about to take but living life with those heartless, dumbfounded, treacherous, brain-dead and devious crew that surrounded him were far more threatening. When another huge wave smashed into the Man O War, many of the canons tumbled about and shattered the keel beyond repair. As the main mast cracked, about to break in two he urgently cryed, "Before I give the order to abandon ship I'd like to let you know what I saw through the spyglass" and smiling broadly at the terrified crew continued, "It's something you're really going to like. Just beyond the gentle palm trees growing along the shore, I saw some lights, looked like a small village in the near distance. Women, booze and food - what more could pirates ask for! Yar! Look lively mates, Grabs what you wants from old ONE-EYE and I'll meet you on the outskirts of the village."

          As the crew were dashing around, scavenging anything they thought useful or could sell or trade, Capn' One-Eye walked over to the starboard rail and looked through his brass spyglass until he was observing the small craft being rowed by a person, which he was certain was one of the female variety - much to his liking. His crew were too busy grabbing stuff to notice their captain taking off his shirt, exposing his massive shoulders and slender waist. After he took off his black leather shoes with silver buckles, he rubbed his stubbly square jawed chin, a dimple in the centre, with the back of his hand. He was a ruggedly handsome man, vivid blue eyes, thick black mustache and long blonde hair, which was held in place by a black satin ribbon. Putting everything inside an empty leather bag, which had been lying near his feet, including his musket and ammunition, he took one last glance over his shoulder, stepped up onto the starboard rail and dove into the black silky Salish Sea.

          I'd like to tell you that when Capn' One-Eye reached the dugout canoe, which was indeed being paddled by a Haida maiden, his stunning handsomeness would have made her swoon like so many other maidens he had defrocked. But no, his living happily ever after with a beautiful lass was not to be. Before he could even utter a single word, not even a slight syllable, she stood up in the dugout canoe and hit him squarely in the centre of his head with the sharp edge of the oar, splitting it cleanly in two. His men too, didn't live happily ever after either because their captain had lied to them - there was no village, the small island was deserted and they lived out the remainder of their very short lives by killing, eating each other and other unmentionable disgusting acts...cheers, eh!

READING BETWEEN THE LINES

Lookin' for a Ride

          As some may know, my wife and I have been planning a road trip to Nanaimo on Vancouver Island in our wee Hippie-Hangout trailer but because I haven't been in the best physical condition for quite some time, actually almost two years and still not in the best of shape, we've decided to fly there. That being said, I'm not sure if I should go for the blue or the brown diapers. I could wear the blue because even I am not quite sure anymore whether I'm male or not and that would at least reinforce my gender. And then again, I'm leaning towards the brown, besides matching the colour of my eyes, the deposit, if I somehow don't make it to a bathroom in time, might be camouflaged...hmm...then again the aroma, eu de toilette, I'm sure cannot be disguised. I suppose if passengers are turning to look at me or everyone is wearing an oxygen mask in case of an emergency, I'll get the hint that the jig's up, that I crapped my pants. Hopefully I won't be given a parachute and tossed out of the plane or the pilot doesn't pass out from the stink. 

Peace, eh!

          Up until a few days ago, I was pretty sure I wouldn't go. However, after receiving an email and reading between the lines, from a 70 year old friend who has been living in Mexico and Guatemala for about the last ten years and gives most of his old age pension to educate some kids - he lives in cheap places, sleeps on beaches when the tourists leave and rides a bicycle (not that long ago he got hit by a van, which destroyed his bike and broke three of his ribs) - I decided, even if I'm in rough shape now, which might be the best I will ever be again, to pack my bag, paints and brushes and head west for a month. It's been eight years since I've been back and I know, besides Sarah (who would have been excruciatingly disappointed) my kids, ex-wife and friends will all be pleased to see me. Of course, because of our finances, I still wouldn't be going if my daughter Brandi, who was planning to come to see me with her family in Saint John when I have a cancer check-up, rented us a place to stay. She said the price of our place would have equaled the cost of their two day visit. And where we'll be staying in Nanaimo is within walking distance from where I used to live on my sailboat - now how great is that! Also, Newcastle Island, where me and my little dog Misty walked around many times, is a short ferry ride away - I won't be walking far but it would be nice to just have these old feet shuffle around on friendly familiar ground for a little while once again, even if the feelings that arise might be bitter/sweet.

          It's amazing how hellos are uplifting and sometimes goodbyes are too (depending on the persons). But I don't kid myself, at this age and the problems I have, some of the people I'll be seeing when I get to Nanaimo, the hellos and goodbyes could be for the very last time. And even if they aren't, one has to make the best of it, and that my friends is one of the reasons why I'm going. I've always been a risk-taker - going down the middle of the road with a turn up ahead is what I've always been about...cheers, eh!

INCREDIBLE MARIJUANA HEIST

Page from my recent colouring book
that I drew and wrote the poetry.
18 pages dedicated to the hippie era
Only $10. plus $2.00 shipping

           The thing about an old guy like me, there's not much of a future ahead but looking back, in comparison, there's a helluva lot more past. And the thing about getting old, you never want to get me yappin' because I don't know when to shut up. However, since my fingers don't do a rapid tap-dance on the computer keys, like my mouth flappin' in the breeze, I have to say a lot in as few words as possible.

               Due to some physical issues, which at times can get a wee bit depressive, I try to keep this blog a touch on the funny side if I can. Thinking back to a time, only months into my first marriage, which although the event was a bit risky, I'd like to share a tale about when my friend and I pulled off an incredible marijuana heist.

          The tale starts at the beginning of the 70's in the summer time, the real hippie-dippy era, when everything was cool man, far out and outta sight. My friend Jimmy and I met when we were working in TV together in Lethbridge. When he moved to Calgary  to become a DJ for a radio station, I followed in his footsteps a few months later, when I landed a job at a sign company designing signs. He was single then and living with his parents and I was sorta single. Well...not really, my wife and kids had yet to arrive. Anyway, I'm over at his folk's place this day and we step outside with a couple of cold beers to greet the setting sun, dusk quickly descending and more importantly, share some pot.

                As we're standing on the porch passing the joint back and forth, he says to me, "How do you like our neighbour's garden?"

             It was a small backyard so the garden wasn't very big. Besides some lettuce and other tasty edibles, they were mainly growing corn, so I replied, "It's alright."

            "Take a closer look at the corn," he said.

            Although it was almost dark, I'm sure when my eyes bugged out, the whites glowed and could most likely be seen a block away. "Is that what I think it is?" I asked in disbelief.

            He nodded his head and answered, "Yup. I'd like to rip it off but as you can see, I don't feel like having my ass bit off." 

              His neighbours had two huge dogs roaming about the backyard, leaving gobs of spittle on the ground with every step. They were about the size of rottweilers that never seemed to take their eyes off of us. If there was a staring contest going on, they were definitely the winners! More out of curiosity than anything else I asked Jimmy, "Are they always outside?"

          "They seem to be, at least every time I come out here, they're always there watching me. They must be guarding his pot plants."

           "Too bad."

            And then suddenly, just as we toked up the last of the pot, a miracle occurred, it was as if we had made a wish on the first star of the night. The man of the house stuck his head outside and called in his dogs - most likely their time to eat.  Jimmy and I looked at one another and he says, "Are you thinkin' what I'm thinkin'?"

           "Do bears poop in the woods?" and then continued, "Have you got any ideas how to snatch those plants and getaway without being seen?"

             "It's not as easy as it looks is it? They could let those two mean looking dogs out at any moment."

           Free pot! This was too good to be true and before I knew what I was going to say the words just popped out of my mouth, "You grab your Volkswagen Beetle and pull up in the front of their house and I'll grab the pot!"

              While Jimmy went to get his car, I leaped the fence like Superman in a single bound. Like a ninja, I cautiously looked around and my ears were on high alert too for an opening door, the last thing I needed was a dog attached to my ass with his sharp teeth. Adrenaline pumping through my veins I dropped down on my ass and back and skooched along the rows of corn, ripping out marijuana plants as I went. Unable to hold anymore, I dashed down alongside the side of Jimmy's neighbour's house towards the street. I was young then and sprinting from any form of danger wasn't a problem - now you see me - now you don't!

          Jimmy was right on the ball! The back door of his Beetle was wide open as I tossed the huge armful of pot into the back seat and jumped in! I don't know which was loudest, the screeching of Jimmy's tires as he pulled away from the curb or us roaring from laughter. I'm sure just the aroma from the freshly-picked pot made us even more stoned than we already were until we looked at one another and Jimmy said what I was thinking, "You do realize we're stoned, half drunk and we're packin' a shit load of pot in the back seat. We could go to jail if we're pulled over." 

          Needless to say, we got clean away and had a very hazy summer due to his neighbour's crop...cheers, eh!