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Sailors can fill idle hours with stories about the sea's mysteries. And popular literature is full of tales about the Kraken, mermaids, the sirens, and other ancient inhabitants of the deep. It's easier for the land-based to accept fantastic myths than cope with a deck of foaming green sea threatening to wash you away despite lifelines.
Former petty office first class John O'Toole loved to get in little digs at me. He remembered when I was " not the sharpest tool in the kit." In short, he remembered when I was an addled brain sailor whose sea locker and sea bag always needed a good tossing and cleanup before inspections.
It was the barest glimmer of gold. Barely a speck. I took the empty cup and dug into the coarse sand, trying to recapture that gleam.
If you've read my work for a while, you know that I'm a prose person. I'll read poetry, but other than a lousy haiku, I don't write it. A while ago, I ran into the poem I am presenting below.
Ah, October, readers, and writers spend time separating the cryptid from the cryptic and the insuperable from the insufferable. Vampires, mummies, witches, and ghouls cavort. Bah humbug!
What follows is a discussion of the newly named scuttlebutt syndrome found primarily among sailors:
As Dwight Eisenhower said -plans are worthless, but planning is essential.
Everybody loves a juicy story with just enough naughty components that your interest is kept from beginning to end. So learning to pare and filter is important."
As a folksinger, I had to perform some odd gigs. At the coffeehouses, you knew what to expect at two in the morning from the drunks.
This post is about the USS Constitution's sails. But there is a bit of a story that precedes it.
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