Adventures On The High Seas

Plebians:
     It's been a long time since last we've connected. The rolling highs and lows of your dear author's life will, from time to time, conspire to rob me of my creative fluids. Such has been the recent case - as the chauffeuring of my little wonders has ceased with the end of the school year, oddly coinciding with a precipitous drop in my disposable income. However, the silver lining to that gray cloud has been the increase in my disposable time, thereby permitting me to devote more attention to a variety of other pecuniary pursuits. Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor; I'm basically an unemployable fop, who'll do damn near anything for a buck the workforce's version of a Swiss Army Knife.

     So, the impending holiday weekend allows me to sit back, relax, and reflect on the successful voyage that was the Killa Flotilla '14. Class and grace prevent me from running on about how my superior organizational and navigational skills exerted coeval influence on the rousing success that was our latest journey, but know this America - for the 5th year in a row, we returned with every sailor we set out with, losing nary a one; this is a record of  excellence unsurpassed in the annals of nautical exploits. As such, I remain the standard by which all sea Captains are measured.
    

This year's trip saw me and 11 other seafarers, 12 of us in all, set sail to face whatever perils the mighty Susquehanna would provide - and she did not disappoint. Despite my warnings to the contrary, the crew wasted no time dipping into their ration of grog; this lead, I'm certain, to the first near calamity of the voyage.

    

It was near the start of the second watch that one of the fairly experienced seamen, in a foolhardy display of disregard for the power of Lady SusQ, found himself at crossed purposes with the current and some really large rocks. Fortunately, the rest of the crew was boating nearby and, after the hysterical laughter subsided, due to hours of meticulous preparation and training, rescued the founderer, pulling both he and his boat from the lukewarm jaws of death.     

I must say, this shook your Captain; in the aftermath of this near-disaster, I sailed on alone - focusing on what I'd really come to do. Captain Ahab had his White Whale, I have my mermaid. I first sighted the beauty several years ago, during a previous voyage. She appeared as an apparition, dancing on the waves, just out of my reach, then disappeared. Her sweet siren song remains in my ears to this day, beckoning my return. In the intervening years and many sea miles later, I remain committed to this quest, knowing that surely, someday, our paths will cross on the high seas, and I'll make her mine.
     Returning to both reality and my crew, I charted a direct course for our island campsite. Nearing the afternoon's end, we arrived at our pirate cove, site 81A, only to discover that interlopers had arrived before us. It seems that a father and son, we'll call them Jason & Jason (because Daryll & Daryll is already taken), decided to occupy the largest campsite - just the 2 of them! With my cutlass drawn, I approached the blaggards, prepared to either evict or eviscerate them (their choice); my crew however, sensing my mood, counseled me to send an emissary to negotiate a settlement. He did so and, much to my chagrin, arranged a sharing agreement. My senses were correct and should have prevailed, but I relented and ordered the crew ashore.
    

Making camp and a fire did little to abate my seething, as this troglodyte and his wolf pup continued to annoy not only me, but my crew as well. Sensing my growing murderous intent, the crew determined that a bit of jocularity was in order. This took the form of gathering firewood from an adjacent island, quickly crafting a raft, then floating it back to our encampment. Of course, sun, exercise and ample portions of each tar's beverage of choice, soon reduced this to a scene more reminiscent of either a group baptism or a dance of the water sprites, than an exercise of survival skills, as much dunking, splashing and creative use of fireworks ensued.    

After drying out (literally, not figuratively), the crew settled in to the evening's activities: eat, drink, smoke, repeat. By this time, the Jasons had been advised that their presence was neither required nor appreciated, so they escaped to the seclusion of their sleeping chambers; this was no doubt, a life-saving move on their part. The remainder of the evening saw an elevation in both my mood, as well as the crew's, as evidenced by the highly entertaining game of catch the crayfish (successful) and the frogs (unsuccessful), as well as the Johnny Walker wisdom that results from just the right dose of fire water. After a midnight snack of crayfish & drawn butter, we retired for some well deserved sleep. 
    

The dawn broke and found many of the formerly weary water babies now once again ship shaped, ready to face the day. Their enthusiasm was fueled in no small part by an ample portion of Captain Speed's River Chow & Bloody Mary for each sailor. Fully sated, the crew quickly disassembled the campsite, leaving the island exactly as we found it - clear of trash, save the Jasons. We set off in a southerly direction, soon breaking off into smaller raiding parties, seeking adventure around each bend in the river. Soon, we came upon the legendary rope swing of death: an ancient strand, hung 50 feet above the water, on an enormous oak tree. Only myself and one other crew member had the nerve to face this challenge.
     With my adrenalin now fully rushed, I charted a course for the nearest port of call, where we made landfall to a cheering throng of well wishers and curious tourists alike. Naturally, many in the crowd urged me to regale them with tales of our exploits and adventures on lands far away. Throwing the eager assemblage a bone, I provided them a significantly abridged version of the tale I've just spun for you. That's the kind of guy I am. However, there was no time to rest, as I had to immediately begin stocking provisions for yet another voyage, only 2 days hence. I've just returned from that little soiree, feeding my addiction for, what Randy calls, looking for the V.
     There you have it kids; the beans have been spiked and the cat is out of the bag <hackneyed phrase alert>. I'll try my best to provide this special brand of garble on a more regular basis. We'll see. Gesta sunt, dicentium: non meam......