Free Mason & Dixon by Thomas Pynchon

widely appreciated that one must catch Veevle whilst awake, and trick him into standing someone else's Watch, whereupon he becomes the smartest and most estimable of Seamen.
    "Cheerly. Cheerly, then, Lads             "
    "Excuse me, Captain, problem with the Euphroes again." "Get O'Brian up here, then, if it's about Euphroes, he's the one to see." "Hey t'en, Pat. Scribblin' again, are ye? More Sea stories?" Not only does O'Brian know all there is to know and more 'pon the Topick of Euphroes, and Rigging even more obscure,— he's also acknowledg'd as the best Yarn-Spinner in all the Fleets. "Euphroe Detail again."
    They are in the southern Latitudes at last, hence the need for Awnings,— the shipboard routine settl'd into, the Boatswain, Mr. Higgs, turning ev'ryone to upon the Project of tidying up the work of the Riggers at Plymouth, who've left far too many Ends untuck'd for this Deck-Tyrant, born under the sign of Virgo, so obsessive about neatness in Knot-work, as to provide a source of Amusement for the Captain, who finds him an ideal Subject to practice being insane upon. "A Phiz of Doom! we can't have this! Worse than idle Whistling!" Mr. Higgs obliges
      the section not on Watch to attend Instruction in Lashings, Seizings, the art of making a Turk's Head that might fool a Harem Girl. "You may think no one'll get close enough to see it, but a Thousand details, each nearly invisible, all working together, can mean the difference between a ship that goes warping and kedging in to a Foreign Port, and one that Makes an Entrance. And which will the Scoundrels think of meddling with first, eh? Now I want to see each of ye hauling me taut a Matthew Walker, that England shall be proud of,"— implying that somewhere there is a Royal Museum of Splices, Hitches, and Bends, where their Work may one day lie upon Display. Some in the Narcosis of the Cruise are more than eager to adopt Mr. Higgs's Obsessedness as to Loose Ends, becoming many of them quite picky indeed, scrutinizing the Rigging, often whilst fifty feet up in its Midst, for unsightly Dribblings of Stockholm Tar, Hooks too carelessly mous'd, fray'd Throat-Seizing among the Dead-eyes.
    Other Sailors look for alternatives to Ennui even more extreme.
    "Where's Bodine?"
    "Last I saw of him was out the end of the fore t'gallant Yard, with his Penis in the Jewel Block,— quite enjoying the Friction, to Appearance."
    "You men are that desperate for Entertainment?"
    "Do we seem to you a care-free Lot, Sir? 'Tis quite otherwise. Bodine, among his shipmates, is indeed reckon'd fastidious,— the steps from Boredom to Discontent to Unwise Practices are never shorter than aboard a Sixth-Rate upon a long Voyage, Sir." One or two chess players hold out for perhaps an extra week,— then 'tis Sal Si Puedes, and they, too, are biting off their toenails, growing Whiskers, piercing Ears, putting upon View, for a fee, fictitious Sea-Creatures that others must bend down to see, becoming thereupon subject to Posterior Assault.
    In such a recreational Vacuum, the Prospect of crossing the Equatorial Line soon grows unnaturally magnified, as objects in certain Mirages and Apparitions at Sea,— a Grand Event, prepared for weeks in advance. Fearless Acrobats of the upper Courses and hardened Gunners with prick'd-in black-powder Tattoos are all at once fussing about, nitter-nattering like a Village-ful of housewives over trivial details of the Ceremony of Initiation plann'd for those new to this Crossing, and dropping into Whispers whenever these "Pollywogs,"— namely, Mason,
    .5.5 Dixon, and the Revd Cherrycoke,— happen near. Members of the Crew are to take the parts of King Neptune and his Mermaid Queen, and their Court, and the Royal Baby,— a role especially sought after, but assign'd by Tradition to him (Fender Bodine is an early favorite in the Wagering) whose Paunch, oozing with Equatorial Sweat, 'twill be most nauseating for a Pollywog to crawl to and kiss,— this being