The $150 Billion Defeat
Jews' Jaws Three
Shark America Seven
Number of Earthquakes in the Past Seven Days: 146
Well, Dear Reader, all day I have been writing one thing and my Old Pal and Mentor God has been asking me to write something else, asking me to tell you a funny incident I experienced when I was working as a bait boy on party fishing boats out of Norfolk, Virginia, in the Chesapeake Bay, during the summer between my sophomore and junior years of high school.
Finally, two hours before deadline, and everything I have written smelling like the fertilizer section of a home and garden store, I have given up and given in and will write what My Dear Friend God as been asking me all day to write.
I have previously written here about my duties as a bait boy when sharks were pulled aboard by the tourist fishermen-guests of the 40-foot party boat where I learned the art of seamanship.
In those reports I established the code-count "Shark America", which runs in piston fashion with the code-count "Jew's Jaws", both going up and down, Zero to Ten and back again, meeting at Five, serving as a somewhat successful timing mechanism.in anticipating God's Space War events against the United States of America and Israel.
For example, the Shark America count led to an American submarine colliding with a Japanese tanker in the area of Iran.
So, here is the story God has asked me to tell you today.
When I worked on the fishing boat I slept aboard every night; and I worked on the fishing boat seven days a week, a most lovely summer job for a 15-year-old boy.
There were a number of rules concerning seamanship and care of the boat my most excellent sipper taught me, and one of those rules was that in the morning when the skipper set foot on the deck I was to immediately awaken at that sound, and with no howdy-do run up to the bow and undo the bow line and coil the line, and hang the coiled line from a nail on the spring pole to which the line's other end was attached.
There the coiled bow line would patiently wait for me to return in the evening to enlist it again its nightly duty of keeping the boat's bow stable
The spring pole was a piling about half the diameter of a telephone pole, and was driven into the bottom of the bay with about ten feet standing out of the water, alone and attached to nothing.
While I was casting off the bow line the skipper was casting off the stern line and starting the engine; and it was important that I did my part well and quickly so the skipper could take the boat some miles to the pier where people would join us for one of our three our four three-hour fishing trips during the day, because the first boats there got the most trips and made the most money.
It was really a nice race every morning, the sun not yet risen but threatening to, six or seven fishing boats in a row heading for the pier; where we bait boys would have hot chocolate and doughnuts for breakfast in the restaurant, and strut our teenage deckhand stuff.
While this may shock my friend, Moonsilver, a woman somewhere around the Blue Ridge Mountains of West Virginia who reads this work frequently, during this morning ritual I was dressed only in my underwear. This was because I had to respond too quickly to the skipper's coming on board to take time to put on my trousers and T-shirt.
Later, of course, I would prefer to sleep in the nude, buy that's another story.
So, I did this casting-off-the-bow-line for a month or more without incident until one day I failed to hang the coiled line on the nail in one smooth motion; and as I fumbled with it, not daring to let the end of the line drop into the water, for which I would have been reprimanded, the boated drifted further and further away from the pole.
You can perhaps in your mind's wicked eye see this picture. I found myself in a situation where I was holding onto the spring pole while the boat was drifting away, and the space between the spring pole and the boat was becoming greater and greater, my feet on the boat and my hands on the spring pole; so to avoid falling into the water I had to attach myself to the spring pole by wrapping my arms and legs around it.
So there I was, in my undershorts, hugging the spring pole; and all the other bait boys from all the other boats laughing at me.
The skipper soon nosed the bow over to me and I got back on board. If I remember correctly he never commented on the event at all, and I never saw him grin the grin I assume he grinned.
The skipper was cool. The skipper taught me to be a good seaman, and would only scold me for really bad screw-ups like leaving lines uncoiled on the deck and letting drunken passengers put their hands in sharks' mouths to dig out hooks, but that, too, is another story.
So, that's the story God asked me to tell you. Go figure. I expect this story to "ripen", but to anticipate God's intention might be like leaving line uncoiled and all over the deck for people to trip on.
I am after all, Dear Reader, one of God's Space Sailors, and seamanship is important to us.
Shark America Seven
Number of Earthquakes in the Past Seven Days: 146
Well, Dear Reader, all day I have been writing one thing and my Old Pal and Mentor God has been asking me to write something else, asking me to tell you a funny incident I experienced when I was working as a bait boy on party fishing boats out of Norfolk, Virginia, in the Chesapeake Bay, during the summer between my sophomore and junior years of high school.
Finally, two hours before deadline, and everything I have written smelling like the fertilizer section of a home and garden store, I have given up and given in and will write what My Dear Friend God as been asking me all day to write.
I have previously written here about my duties as a bait boy when sharks were pulled aboard by the tourist fishermen-guests of the 40-foot party boat where I learned the art of seamanship.
In those reports I established the code-count "Shark America", which runs in piston fashion with the code-count "Jew's Jaws", both going up and down, Zero to Ten and back again, meeting at Five, serving as a somewhat successful timing mechanism.in anticipating God's Space War events against the United States of America and Israel.
For example, the Shark America count led to an American submarine colliding with a Japanese tanker in the area of Iran.
So, here is the story God has asked me to tell you today.
When I worked on the fishing boat I slept aboard every night; and I worked on the fishing boat seven days a week, a most lovely summer job for a 15-year-old boy.
There were a number of rules concerning seamanship and care of the boat my most excellent sipper taught me, and one of those rules was that in the morning when the skipper set foot on the deck I was to immediately awaken at that sound, and with no howdy-do run up to the bow and undo the bow line and coil the line, and hang the coiled line from a nail on the spring pole to which the line's other end was attached.
There the coiled bow line would patiently wait for me to return in the evening to enlist it again its nightly duty of keeping the boat's bow stable
The spring pole was a piling about half the diameter of a telephone pole, and was driven into the bottom of the bay with about ten feet standing out of the water, alone and attached to nothing.
While I was casting off the bow line the skipper was casting off the stern line and starting the engine; and it was important that I did my part well and quickly so the skipper could take the boat some miles to the pier where people would join us for one of our three our four three-hour fishing trips during the day, because the first boats there got the most trips and made the most money.
It was really a nice race every morning, the sun not yet risen but threatening to, six or seven fishing boats in a row heading for the pier; where we bait boys would have hot chocolate and doughnuts for breakfast in the restaurant, and strut our teenage deckhand stuff.
While this may shock my friend, Moonsilver, a woman somewhere around the Blue Ridge Mountains of West Virginia who reads this work frequently, during this morning ritual I was dressed only in my underwear. This was because I had to respond too quickly to the skipper's coming on board to take time to put on my trousers and T-shirt.
Later, of course, I would prefer to sleep in the nude, buy that's another story.
So, I did this casting-off-the-bow-line for a month or more without incident until one day I failed to hang the coiled line on the nail in one smooth motion; and as I fumbled with it, not daring to let the end of the line drop into the water, for which I would have been reprimanded, the boated drifted further and further away from the pole.
You can perhaps in your mind's wicked eye see this picture. I found myself in a situation where I was holding onto the spring pole while the boat was drifting away, and the space between the spring pole and the boat was becoming greater and greater, my feet on the boat and my hands on the spring pole; so to avoid falling into the water I had to attach myself to the spring pole by wrapping my arms and legs around it.
So there I was, in my undershorts, hugging the spring pole; and all the other bait boys from all the other boats laughing at me.
The skipper soon nosed the bow over to me and I got back on board. If I remember correctly he never commented on the event at all, and I never saw him grin the grin I assume he grinned.
The skipper was cool. The skipper taught me to be a good seaman, and would only scold me for really bad screw-ups like leaving lines uncoiled on the deck and letting drunken passengers put their hands in sharks' mouths to dig out hooks, but that, too, is another story.
So, that's the story God asked me to tell you. Go figure. I expect this story to "ripen", but to anticipate God's intention might be like leaving line uncoiled and all over the deck for people to trip on.
I am after all, Dear Reader, one of God's Space Sailors, and seamanship is important to us.
posted by Virgil Kret at 7:50 PM
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