Entry Eight of Twelve

February 12, 2000.  15.56 N 83.95W (16.0X)

 

The sun sinks into the sea revealing our lovely lady Calipso in crepuscalar light -- she sails East -- and we bid a fond farewell to the Spindley Killer Fish.

At the end of such a fine day as this was, my mind wanders to the memory of yet another day on this voyage not so long ago which I spent completely naked with my diving assistant, Jean Claude. 

The experience was the most intense of my sailing career. It all started after a early morning swim in the warm, enticing Atlantic waters off the coast of Brazil some two days ago. 

Jean Claude, he preceded me up the ladder and aboard Calipso, his tight buttcheeks glistening with the dew of mother sea like sun-ripened peaches in the morning light. 

 My flippers seemed to have a life of their own and I gave the signal to hoist the foremast        sail.

Jean Claude enticed me back to his cabin still dripping from our swim. As I was to commence the painfully slow process of peeling the custom-fit, orange Darlexx wetsuit from the young Jean Claude's flexuous, steaming hips,... suddenly a knock came on the cabin door.  Victor Lehmitte, Helmsman and acting Coxswain interrupted our prelude of safe sea sex with a message from the doctor that the salve for my rash had finally come in.

I don't like Victor.

 

   

 

February 14, 2000.  9:48am 4.23 N 53.52W (8.0X)

  We were warming up our Scooter who after all our attention looked like a stubby military torpedo with two handles in the back. Each of these diver's tugs contained 24-volt batteries and a one-horsepower motor that gave a 28-pound thrust for two hours. - the motors not the divers.

Scooter, or so we called him, was ballasted to weigh two pounds underwater. He weighed much more than that.  The diver grasped the handlebars; on the right hand was only one control, a combined starter and throttle, worked by squeezing the hand thinggee. The propeller was under his chest to make a smooth slicky sippy slip stream and avoid prop wash on his mask. To steer the scooter he angled his body and fins; there was no need for hydrofoils or rubbers-- I mean rudders.

When our men encountered sea turtles down in the reefs, they moved in on this scooters, challenging them to races and indeed much more. These turtles, the hussy rowboats of the sea, could put on spurts and swerves that skidded a man out of the race.  Dumas, Falco, and Delmas also rode the promiscuous turtles in the open water. They overtook them by stealth and charm and changed mounts in midwater much to the delight of the turtles. Then so the scooterman would try to race the turtleman ahhh Hah hah.  Falco was able to steer the turtles just about wherever he wanted them to go by his loving caresses and promises of chocolate smelt and turtle wax. However, as air-breathing animals, the turtles were soon exhausted by the game de amour that they would surface almost vertically, retreating from Falco's enormous        facemask.  Falco stayed aboard on several round trips for air and prophylactics but it was so punishing to his ears that he gave it up. Not since my days with the French Resistance has I ever seen ears quite like that.

After the scooter ride with a lot of three-dimensional aquabatics we would come up with buzzing ears. The rapid pressure changes affected the Eustachian system and perhaps other circulations as well. But we did not think of that when our next turn came.  We did not remember the hangover in our lust for turtle  to have another drink and tell the tall tales of the Calypso, the place's we've been to, the things that you've shown us the stories you tell   H'Aye Calypso I sing to your spirit the men who have served me so long and so well...I don't like Victor.