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Shellfish and Dreams of Electric Flippers
He was the greatest sea captain ever to have walked.
Which he thought was a terrible opening sentence, and would much rather have had his biographer (as, to be honest, as great a sea captain as he was, he was an amazingly inept writer who shouldn't have been allowed near a pen) say that he was perhaps the greatest sea captain ever to have sailed the seas (he could never remember if saying 'seven seas' was politically correct any longer, or whether or not it was accurate in any sense, as he was sure somewhere along the line someone discovered a new one in there or consolidated a few of the seven to make geography lessons in schools easier) or braved the high seas or at least walked the deck or something, and he went so far as to tell his biographer so, which almost lost him the third biograhper the publisher had sent over in the week since they'd decided his life would be properly serviced by being memorialised for time immemorial in a book-like form.
Initially he was chagrined to not have gotten a film deal, but, in the end, he decided a book was probably the best way to go. Especially since he considered that attacking a film-maker with his cane and part of a plastic lobster, no matter how junior, no matter how throwaway they (the film-maker, not the plastic lobster) were deemed, was bound to invoke the righteous wrath of Hollywood upon himself and the whole of the sea-faring industry. And they were quite quick to exhibit their wrath, if the past were any indicator, being from California, largely, and snippy, which was a term he never thought he'd use until he met his first film-maker. Whereas in the book industry the biographer was just sent away and another one was sent in his (or her, though, to be honest, the publisher seemed rather reluctant to send over a female biographer to the captain, even after he requested one and suggested that perhaps he'd work better with a female one, one with brown hair and blue eyes, specifically) place.
Now he was the subject of a book, however, which was emminently more noble than film, anyway, and for which he could take credit, even, if he so chose at a later point in the publishing process, and almost no one would know the difference. And he'd be on respectable chat shows to discuss his "literary effort."
So he was the greatest sea captain ever to have walked. Anywhere.
There was an incident, many, many years ago, with an albatross, that got blown way out of proportion, and perhaps he'd gotten a bit drunk at a party once, absconded with a guest or two and held them captive (literally, unfortunately, and not in the interested sense of the word) while he went on and on about something, not that he could remember, and was only told about it later, in the course of sobering up and recovering from the raging hangover in which he found himself gripped.
But past that, great was he. At sea captaining and walking. The world was an oyster. It was his oyster. He'd seen many oysters, over the course of his long life, seeing as how he spent most of his life on a boat, and oysters lived quite close to boats, oftentimes. Or at least did when you pulled them up out of the ocean, at which point they may technically be dead, so you wouldn't say they lived quite close to boats unless you were counting the last few metres they travelled as they were pulled up out of the sea. Which did count, so far as he was concerned, and which he also said would probably be useful somewhere in the book.
Unfortunately, it did seem like the albatross incident was going to be the focus of the book, though, and lots of stuff about sadness and wiseness and such and not nearly enough about oysters, and the world/oyster analogy he was so keen on, and not once was the book going to touch on his story about the time he and a few of the crew sang "Come on Eileen" in a karaoke bar whilst parked (he had said 'parked' to the biographer, who barked in a manner that sounded suspiciously like a laugh, so much so that the captain felt the need to inform him that oftentimes sailors, proper sailors would refer to the docking of a boat as 'parking', and it was not an uncommon thing, as the biographer should well know if he were at all versed in things nautical) in the far east.
He was the greatest sea captain, sadder and wiser, still. Maybe.
disclaimer:
Do you realise how incredibly difficult (yet oddly thrilling) attempting to re-fit a duvet cover, by yourself, is?
If you succeed, that is. I don't know the exact count, as far as fatalities are concerned, but I'm sure it's not unsubstantial, and possibly came very near adding to that figure myself earlier in the evening.
At any rate, it is a glorious feeling, indeed, of accomplishment.
Ehm, and no offense intended to the film industry. Right on. To a degree. Or sea captains. Or sea lions. Because we like sea lions.
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Yer Weekly Horoscopes. Giggle, giggle, boil and trouble. Or something.