Jarvis Pulls Anchor
Jarvis Porter jolted forth from a night terror of being hopelessly entangled in a black mass of web no more than a fathom below the surface, but far enough to cause real drowning and of course, actual death. As the roar of the starboard engine was expediently joined by that of the port in a dual effort to jar the brains from Jarvis’ head, he realized that the web disaster had just been a dream and that it was now time for yet another day of setting gear.
Jarvis dropped like a big brown dumbbell out of his sarcophagus of a bunk to make the feverish dash to pull the anchor. It was 3 a.m. and there was much hate. He navigated up the steps from the forepeak and rushed past the almost naked 72 year old extra-terrestrial who ran this particular vessel. As the whitey-tighty clad geriatric craned his head to and fro looking for…something, Jarvis made his way to the cabin door, pushing it open to be greeted by 35 knot winds from the southwest, his favorite. He fired up the hydraulics and cranked the anchor onboard as the wind bit into him like the fangs of the fabled terminal rabies leopard.
After pulling the anchor in his underwear, poor Jarvis staggered back into the cabin, where in the near darkness he fumbled about awkwardly for a damp pair of sweatpants and grey cotton socks, the same garments which he had been wearing the past ten days. With only a paltry three hours of sleep per night, there was never enough time to dry any of the articles out unless they were placed in the sweltering engine room before bed. But such placement required far too much effort. So sogginess was embraced. The alien had meandered up to the top house where he continued his head swinging ritual, maneuvering the 54 foot Ledford into position to take the first set of the day. “Jarvin!! Breakfast!!” came the cry from upstairs (the life-form could never get his name right), and as the vessel jolted violently in the trough of despair, Jarvis pondered the merits of committing hara-kiri.
To be continued…