Two ten-foot long boats lower silently into the grey waters off the starboard side. The winches creek as they slowly descend. A ragged old mate sits cross-legged in the middle of the deck, taking in the heaves and hoes of the suggestible fools. His head resting lazily to one side on the palm of his right hand, propped up by his leg. Not the kind of posture that is fitting for a pirate. When the captain calls, all hands should be at the ready. Teamwork is paramount on the Tan. But no words are said, no arms are lifted in disgust or sympathy. The thought at such a blatant disregard for the pirate code of brotherhood should be enough to send the sod into a fit of despair. 'He'll see his ways' they think to themsleves.
The man's eyes squint in the morning sun, a tear gracefully glides down his cheek and tickles his neck. They grow heavy as the warm and clammy morning weather drains him. Like the beautiful peace that overcomes one when all work is done, and all that is looked forward to is a long and replenished rest. But only the hardy can survive onboard. You have to show no mercy to the sun. He drifts in and out of wakefullness. No rest for the wicked, nor even the damned. Only pain and toil. If not this then death, or worse madness. A life of struggle is what they chose, and there must be no let up. The long and soft rhythmic creeks of the winches make a lullaby of the environment. The perfect sound to a perfect world. Repetitive, chaotic, unpredictable but banal, and yet entirely peaceful. A sound that as a whole exudes a haunting characteristic only a pirate would have such a malign appreciation of, but yet could soothe the senses of the same effete soul.
The eyes close shut, the mind in dormancy. Sounds are accentuated as his sense of sight disappears. Quiet howls of the wind become booming cacophonies. Calm waves slapping the boat bare down on his ears. But he's at sleepy peace. His eyes prick open suddenly as heavy boots fall onto the two small boats that have been lowered. Oars pierce the waters, a whooshing sound as the handles are driven forward urging the vessels onwards. They become distant as the drowsy chap drifts off again, the eyes sealed. The hazed outline of the mates hanging over the side is seered into his peripherals. Seconds later and no images are left, just a dim glow from the sun as it peers through his eyelids. The cool breeze wafts through his thick dark hair. Shapes begin to dart about. Colours emerge and disappear as quickly as they arrive. A soft purple shape can be seen in the top left corner. It grows larger and larger. And then an unmistakeable outline of a torso. It's not getting larger but closer. Closer it gets until it is right in front of him, then stops. It's a blurred but recognisable face. A face he hasn't seen in years gone. A familiar face, but one he can't put a name to in this arcane but ethereal world. Standing up he smiles at his friend. His friend being responsive gives a mischievous smile back.
"Come my friend, let's have a walk," the fellow said, placing his arm around the pirate's shoulders. He was an odd shaggy looking fellow. A good height to him with a charasmatic smile and warm sense of being. They walk for a while along a dusty road-side, as straight as a plum-line, the end far beyond the horizon. Entering a house to the right the pirate makes his way upstairs and into the bathroom. In the corner of his eye he spots something on the floor. Bending his knees and lowering himself he gazes at the object, prodding it's texture. He prods it again, then using both hands he digs through the substance, knowing something must be underneath it. Only after a good ten seconds of diving through this stuff he comes to the realisation it is shit. Human excrement. But this knowledge does not deter the man as he pries the excrement apart with both hands, getting progressively closer to finding out what is underneath. Then with his left index finger he pokes something solid. With the rush of excitement that can come from unearthing some new secret or mystery he rips the last bits away.
His forehead furrows as his eyebrows contort inwardly, his head shakes in denial and self-resentment, as though the prize for his torment and work isn't what he wanted or even expected. Casually erecting his body he looks down to see his pants are gone. A knock is heard on the door as two people enter, one of them the shaggy looking man he had walked with. Laughs ring out at the spectacle of what is before them.
"What are you doing," they both chuckle and point, then vanish downstairs as fast as they appeared. The lone pirate stands there looking down at himself, his head shaking in delayed shock. Looking about him he see's his trousers on the floor, grabs them and hurriedly steps into them. Gathering his composure he looks into the mirror behind him, rubbing and contorting his face vigorously, in a vain bid to obscure any obvious hints that what he had done was not at all embarassing to him. Expelling the air from his lungs he shakes himself one last time, then proceeds down the rickety stairs. He gets to the bottom and turns right in the direction of all the spoken words and commotion. Entering the kitchen he see's about seven or eight bodies around a circular table.
"Hey people," says the pirate, but no-one responds. Is it the incident upstairs or some other reason. He cannot tell. The pirates thoughts give way to hunger as his stomach grumbles. Lifting a wok from the side he turns on the hob and places in some noodles. It takes only a couple of minutes before its starts to sizzle as the pirate drops in the sauce and stirs ardently, putting the heat up a tad. Lifting the wok off the hob he brings it to the middle of the floor and honkers down with it. He gawks at the sweet smelling food admiringly. Five minutes of gazing at it and the sauce has all but sizzled away into barely nothing, a reddened crusty form now covering the noodles. Quizzingly he wonders why he has let the food go like this. 'Is it my fault,' he exclaims, 'Did I do this'. At that moment a shuffle is heard behind him. He darts his head round to find his odd shaggy looking friend towering above him.
"Hey man you have a good one last nite?," he laughs.
"W..What?," the pirate stutters.
"I'm your friend you haven't seen in so long and you get so drunk last night you didn't even know I was there."
"W..what?," the confused pirate stutters again.
"Yes my man, you're a drunken old fool," he reasserts as he presses his hand on the pirates shoulder. And again he thumps down, this time even harder. The pirate groans in pain but he can't seem to open his mouth to tell him to stop. Looking up he tries begging him to stop but it's no use. The recognisable face of his dear old friend fractures. It becomes blurry and wavy in it's form. The light purple of his top gives way to a blue-ish colour. The dimly lit room brightens to a bright white light. The blue colour comes more into focus, the aroma of sweet smelling smoke in his nostrils. A last thump on his shoulder and a mighty shout of "Psi wake the fuck up it's party time, look what we got". The pirate's eyes spring open, gasping in utter confusion to the place he is now in. A mere two seconds later and he re-shuffles his senses back into gear, the rapid heart rate and panting quickly subsides as he eventually gets his bearing. He is back onboard the Tan, awake and alive. His hands cover his face as he sluggishly moves them over the top of his head, pulling the sweat and hair back. Lying down on the hard deck, he peers at the hot midday sun through his right hand, lamenting on a most peculiar journey. Lamenting not so much the dream itself but that he immediately knew what it meant, which was most odd. He had never known a dream he'd had that he knew the meaning of.
He began to think over the enormity of it as well. He was never into dreams, their meanings or uses but this one struck him. The meaning of it all was the meaning of life itself, to him anyway. What it meant was to enjoy your life to the full. Live in the now and don't worry about tomorrow. Don't waste precious time worrying about life. Do not look for the meaning of life because once you've dug away all the shit and got to the core of its meaning your answer will not be what you wanted and something you probably already knew before. By that time your life will be in ruins and you'll be a laughing stock. Life is all about experience. Take the opportunities as they come, and do something productive with it. If something enters your life do not let it age and wither away. Do things when the time is right. Also do not let things get out of hand or too heated, for that is just as detrimental as doing nothing at all.
Psi lay day-dreaming, languishing in his thoughts and wonders. 'Hey Psi,' said a voice. 'Hey Psi.'
He awoke his brain from lethargy, squinting into the bright sky.
"It's me Hogo. Take this man," the figure said.
Psi sits up, his arms resting on his bent knees. Rubbing his eyes he peers upwards through the white spots still in his vision. Hogo is standing there, a ripe and worthy spliff waiting for him at hand.
"Cheers bud", say Psi. He takes the spliff and tokes hard. Breathing out the sweet smoke he observes the scene about him. Everybody caned on top sensemilla. Some dancing, some swinging off ropes and masts, others lying passed out or throwing up overboard, but most sitting around circles laughing uncontrollably at some witless comment.
"I'm guessing this all came from that ship," said Psi.
"Sure is pal. It's been a mighty horde. Enjoy yourself," Hogo says as he randomly walks off.
Psi smiles gleefully from left to right, taking in the inscrutable lives of his new found brothers and sisters. "I will....I will".
Chapter 2Chapter 3This chapter was based upon two things. A dream I had that is exactly how it is in this chapter. And the meaning of those dreams is the exact meaning that I took from them. Secondly it is based upon Psi's long lost love Dave. And his horse.