Gus Openshaw's Whale-Killing Journal

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Authors: Keith Thomson
the shell exploded against the sea
bottom, but overall it was nothing to write home (or blog) about.
The real news is it means we’ve managed to get out of the
Tortolans’ firing range. As we have the faster brig by plenty, that
means we’ll be able to leave her in our wake.
The problem (and does there always seems to be one,
or am I just a glass-half-empty guy?) was, cause of the rudder
business, we can only go straight. And we’re on a direct course,
Flarq has reported, ashen, for someplace called the Sea Witch’s
Claws, which didn’t sound so good. But even if was called the
Sea Fairy’s Cotton Candy Store I’d be worried. Anything that’d
make Flarq so much as blink would likely stop most men’s
hearts.

P.S. Here’s a look at
the bow only of the
Torts’ battleship—she’s
so big Flarq couldn’t
fit all of her into one
scrimshaw.

Friday, 23 July 2004 6:55 AM
Witch Way
    If we slowed, the Tortolan navy, hot on our stern (or what was
left of it), would deliver us a death blow or two. There was no
choice but to press on, rudderless, into the region of the Sea
Witch’s Claws.

According to local lore, Thesaurus told us, sailors of a
South America-bound ship a couple centuries ago had tossed
a young woman overboard fearing she was a witch. You know
how that deal goes: If the suspect floats, she’s a witch. Well, this
girl drowned. But some liberal-minded sea gods empowered
her to exact revenge from her mucky, ocean-bottom grave on
all sailormen passing in the area. She does it, supposedly, with
furious clawlike waves thirty feet high that suddenly appear,
surround brigs, then pulverize them.

I looked to Nelson, who never misses a chance to crack
wise on the subject of spirituality (he prays only that, given
his track record, there is no God). I expected him to crack up
entirely at Thesaurus’s tale. The blood was gone from his face.

“Everyone in the Caribbean knows navigation of the
Witch’s Claws is hairy as it gets,” he said, “Not even the
battleship dudes would attempt passage.”
The looks on the rest of the crew expressed similar
sentiments. Bob, the rat, tried to climb the gunwale and jump
overboard. But he was flung back onto the deck by a sudden
bump in the water.
Then we heard her. Growling like a hundred hungry lions.
If it wasn’t ninety-some degrees out, fear would’ve likely turned
us all to ice.

Our one chance was to steer by alternately cutting the
engines. This would regain us the ability to turn left and right
and thus dodge the waves. Due perhaps to my luck being
involved, it didn’t work out.

And now the witch is upon us. A twenty-foot wave just
lashed our portside, knocking everyone off their feet. An even
bigger one thwacked us from starboard. It’s like we’re the ball
in a soccer game being played by giants. Worse, Flarq’s sighted
rocks sticking up out of the sea straight ahead—and straight is
our only course.

A mountain of water just swamped the bow. I’ve got to
turn the computer off now. With all due respect, if I’m going to
meet my end today, I’d rather that it come with me duking it out
with a vengeful sea spirit than electrocution by blog

Friday, 23 July 2004 9:55 AM
Escape Claws
    Suddenly, like passing out of a car wash, we made it past the
Witch’s Claws. The crew and me were psyched not to be dead.
The brig was another story. She’d been tossed a ton of
times against sea rocks the size of buildings—her hull looked
like giant moths had gotten to it. Fortunately (or so I thought),
directly ahead was a large tropical island.
“It’s the Island of Conch,” Flarq said.
“Populated?” I asked.
“About a thousand or so people.”
“Civilized?”
“Very much so.”
“Wireless Internet and everything,” Nelson said.
“Well, that’s good news for once,” I said. We could go
ashore, have the brig patched up, grab a much-needed drink or
six, then get back on the whale hunt.
“The thing is

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