Tuesday, 19 November 2013

It's all gone Hunter Thompson on the HST

FROM LANDED gentry to captain of a scooner class vessel I may well contact the House of Windsor to ask for what I now deem as my rightful passage to an honour of the old fading Empire, such has my drunken rise become so glorious.

Do not worry ‘oh my droogies’, I have not become an Ahab style obsessive strolling atop the deck of the Pequod, arms folded behind my back. 

But during several lost days drifting in this steal coffin loaded on LSD and booze, while Bingo and Bubbles tan themselves to Icarus levels, I have found certain aspects of this sea bound mentally challenging and disheartening.

My attempts to emulate Brian Jones and Hendrix LSD voyage may not have produced any mind blowing music, but I now stand astride the quarterdeck sporting the iconic Orlebar Brown sky blue beach swims, Mikkel Rude cream check shirt, Woolrich Arctic black cap, Universal Works Hockey navy wool socks, a pair of Adidas Gazelle Indoor bluebirds and of course, Ray Ban Outdoorsman handed to me from my fallen predecessor as he slipped, with a little help from myself, overboard into the waiting waves.

With no real understanding of our route, viewing maps while under the heavy influence of liquid pharmaceuticals, dehydrated and sun burned is never easy, I have stuck to my initial plan of full steam ahead, while firing out countless flares, sounding the ships klaxon continually and firing off Geo satellite phone missives to The Colonel is working, well we are moving ahead if nothing else.

The latter has resulted in a planned alcohol, food and clothing drop, which is of course a life saver, but I have given up listening out for further calls from my old Cuban ensconced chum preferring to blast out countless tunes instead over the ship’s superb Tannoy system, Noriega stylie and share sun tan application duties with the girls.