How to Sail a Ship across an African Desert
At mid-day Capt. Sarly Manner paced the deck of the flying bridge of the MS Southern Comet. He had been there since sunrise and was tired, hot and hungry, but he could not tear himself away from his latest concern (his crew would say obsession), with forward passage, which he thought was the most important and most troublesome problem with his present command, and the single most discouraging feature of his job.
“Am I the only one on board,” he muttered, “who worries about movement?”
“Why is that?” he demanded of the blue sky, as his eyes almost going up to Heaven to plead with the only force left which had not been brought to bear on his present task. But he thought better of trying that particular route, since he had not since his childhood days been in a position where prayer could work for him.
No, he thought, I’ll have to look elsewhere, as his eye fell upon the chart which was spread before him. There he could see their course, clearly and concisely laid out as a dark penciled line that ran six hundred miles due west, a distance which must be traversed before he could rest, a journey so long, so difficult...
And yet, they were making no headway.
In the past he could put this down to inexperience on the part of the crew. He had found, for example, on their last voyage south to the Panama Canal, a similar problem had been traced to a loose anchor, two tons of solid steel dangling in the water beneath the starboard bow because someone had inadvertently knocked loose a cable brake, and for the best part of a week they had been slowed by this unpardonable error.
“Quartermaster to the bridge!” he yelled over the intercom, as he pushed the handle of the engine telegraph forward, again calling for more steam.
Like Captain Manner perhaps, we often picture seafaring crews as active actors, wet, wild men on a rolling deck in the worst of weather, rushing about as in that famous film, Moby Dick, where Gregory Peck swears and yells at them, lashing them into feverish action on that frozen, wave-washed deck, as the Pequod bears down on the face of an enormous iceberg, and is saved only by that robust command of, “Hard a-lee!” followed by their frenzied effort as they haul and tug at lines and sails, until, thank God, at the very last minute, they finally come about, just in the nick of time!
“Well,” said the First Mate, who had gotten up and yawned as he stretched himself, “This ain’t that kind of story, and the Southern Comet is not in iceberg country.”
“And third, it’s mid-day and hot as hell!” said the Ship’s Doctor.
At that moment the First Mate, Quartermaster, Ship’s Doctor and Maria, the Ship’s Barber and Hairdresser, were all resting on the desert sand by the side of the hull. And the Ship’s Doctor, who was the most lethargic of all, responded in that fashion typical of many seagoing medical men by shifting about in his position and taking off his cap to wipe his sweaty brow. But he did not rise from the prone position. The tang in the air above his prostrate form said immediately that he was the one everyone on board referred to as the ‘Old Goat,’ because, on a warm day, such as this, his decision never to bath while on a voyage was beginning to take effect. It was he who now explained to the inquisitive and enquiring reader that the ship was sidelined for the moment. She would shortly be again underway toward the Republic of Mawundi, and the Island of Moja-Tu, on the edge of Lake Victoria, their ultimate goal.
The inquisitive reader then asked, “Why the hell is this nitwit Captain yelling for more steam, if it’s at rest?”
“Beg pardon, sar,” said the Quartermaster, as he rose and walked to the foot of a ladder where he paused to address that concern. “We’s never usin’ the imparsonal pronoun when we’s referin’ to ships h’an’ boats, sar. Sorry, Union Rules h’an’ h’ all. H’it’s’ h’a ‘she,’ h’if you don’ mind.”
“Okay, okay, hit’s’ a ‘she.’ But that doesn’t alter my question, why is the Captain ringing Full Forward on the telegraph when she’s still in port?”
“She’s not h’in port, sar. If you’ll pardon my sayin’ so, ‘ave a glimmer h’at that ‘ere chart settin’ by the side of the First Mate. She’s well west o’ the coast. She’s h’in the middle of the Taru Desert,” said that trustworthy before he turned and climbed to the quarterdeck where he expected to experience yet another confrontation with Captain Sarly, an activity which would normally be followed by an unmerciful tongue lashing.
“We’ve stopped here because of brake trouble,” said the First Mate, as he fluffed up his cushion, and lay down again on the wooden platform where the Ships’ complement had camped in the shade of the hull, which loomed high above them.
“Brake trouble on an ocean-going yacht? I don’t understand.”
"Yes,” said Maria, who paused in her perusal of a stack of fashion magazines which sat beside her, upwind of the Old Goat, of course, “We’ve been at this railroad siding for a whole week, and we’re very short on conditioner.”
“You mean you people and this blessed ship are in the wilds of Africa?”
“Oh, not ta worry, sar!” yelled the Quartermaster from the top of the ladder as he stepped forward onto the deck, “H’it’s h’all shipshape h’an’ correct. Mrs. Bryce says she’s sendin’ h’a White Hunter to protect h’us.”
“I’ll introduce him to you when he gets here,” said the First Mate, winking as he added with relish, “He’s goin’ to provide us with fresh meat.”
“But, hunting in Kenya has been banned since the ‘70’s.”
“Ah, but not in Mawundi, where wild boar still roams free for the shootin.’”
A general quiet prevailed as they settled back and gave themselves up to the inevitable. The Mate’s eyelids drooped in response to the hot steamy environment which reminded him of the large open kitchens in the rural town of Ecuador of his youth, and in his mind’s eye he saw a wild pig, skin crackling as it was basted to perfection on a bed of hot coals, while the mysterious White Hunter referred to above, stood by wielding a large basting spoon.
“Oh, I forgot to mention,” he said, almost in a whisper, as his eyes fluttered, and saliva dribbled from the corner of his mouth in expectation, “This is another of them Bryce expeditions.” His duty done, his eyes closed and his mouth began working its way slowly through a large piece of imaginary pork loin. He rested content.
And, who else but Emory Bryce would have commissioned such a thing? A string of thirty flatbed railway cars stretching out across this arid landscape with one section of the Southern Comet securely fastened to each car.
They were closely followed by ten passenger wagons which served as quarters for the Ship’s officers and accommodation for the African crew hired in Mombasa. In addition, there were a dozen boxcars and tankers bringing up the rear with provisions, water, fuel, tools and the equipment needed to repair the old, abandoned rail line that they were using. They also were equipped and ready to re-assemble the ship once she arrived on the shores of the Lake.
Historians at some point in the future will wonder how all this came about. Like many grand schemes, great journeys and significant undertakings of a global nature, we can assure them that it started first as a dream, which happened in this way....
* * *
Emory Bryce the heir to the Bryce family fortune and the Strangeways mansion, was soon to turn twenty-one, yet he had still to make his mark on the world stage. Many of his friends and colleagues wondered what would become of him. His mother Mrs. Adele Bryce, especially, was anxious to see her son succeed, and so she challenged him to become somebody, or to do something that would be marvelous to see and emulate.
Emory did not take this challenge lightly. He was well aware that Alexander the Great, at age sixteen had accomplished great things when his father, Philip left him briefly in charge of Macedonia. During that year he put down a revolt, reestablished peace in the region and founded the Greek city of Alexandropoulos. To date, Emory, five years older than Alexander, had accomplished very little in comparison. His most ambitious undertaking had been the skinning and preservation of a humpback whale that had washed up on the beach of his family estate in Newport, R.I., known as Strangeways (but pronounced ‘strang ways’ in the English fashion with a silent ‘e’).
His fifty foot long stuffed specimen now graced the exhibition hall at the Cambridge College of Taxidermy, his alma mater in Newport.
As he climbed into bed one night his competitive spirit made his mind race, and in his anxiety to outdo young Alexander, he neglected to kiss his wife Priscilla good night, a fact she noted with chagrin. Knowing that he was under great pressure to get ahead, and might be too tired physically for any intimacy that evening, she withheld her opprobrium (Which is not what you might think. Ed.).
Emory, his mind still whirling, turned off the light and settled himself into a restful position in bed, but within a short while he was startled to find lying next to him, not his loving wife, but William Shatner.
Like other young people, he had followed the adventures of Captain Kirk and the starship Enterprise over the course of many years. In his case he did this in secret, as his mother, Mrs. Bryce, discouraged the use of computers, videos, TV and DVD players during his early years at Strangeways. Most of what he knew and saw came from the secret collection kept by the family butler, Abner Sharp.
Abner had allowed Emory and his sister, Evangeline, access to his private media room providing they never breathed a word to Adele.
Thus Emory was not surprised to find himself lying on his bed fully clothed in a space suit marked with the Star Trek logo, that famous delta shape which represents the outline of a spaceship. An unusual, but perhaps ominous aspect in the design of this logo, is the star that is enclosed in it, which has one lonnnggg arm that makes it look like a pointy-headed youth with arms and legs akimbo.
Anyone knowing Emory would realize that it was well within reason for him to believe that Captain Kirk had joined him there for a purpose.
As he looked further around him in that darkened bedroom he saw Spock and Dr. McCoy also suited up and lying beside him and Shatner. The only one missing he realized was Scotty, the engineer.
“Captain Kirk...,” Emory began, but before he could speak further, Shatner said, “I know what you’re thinking, where’s that bloody Engineer?”
At that moment a large-bodied Scot with a brush mustache climbed through a porthole that had appeared in the bedroom wall, and lay down beside the others in the crowded bed.
“Reportin’ for duty,” said the last to arrive in a broad accent.
Emory noted that Scotty omitted the word “Sir” and wondered also why Shatner was not sitting in the Captain’s seat, which was occupied after it had materialized at the foot of the bed.
“Aren’t you in charge, Capt. Kirk?” asked Emory.
“No,” said Shatner, “I don't do that anymore. Now it’s all up to Capt. Bezos.”
“Oh?”
“He’s the new owner of the spacecraft.”
Emory had heard that space travel had been taken over by the only people who could afford such expensive hobbies, and that it was now totally in the hands of Elon Musk and Jeff Bezos, who busied themselves night and day seeing how many earthlings they could send into space.
Emory wondered why he had been selected for this particular flight.
“We were told you had a ship,” said Capt. Bezos, reading his thoughts.
“A ship?” asked Emory
“Elon and I heard that it could hold more than a hundred passengers. If so, we thought it might be best for you to fire it up and get as many out there as soon as possible.
“Out there?”
“Into space, man. Aren’t you listening?”
“Is that why I’m here?”
“We thought you might need a lesson in space travel, just to show you how easy it is to take your own ship and go where no man has gone before.”
“So,” said Shatner, “once you have the experience, you’ll be able to do it yourself on your own.”
“But why do you want me to send one hundred people into space?”
“Ah, good question. We want you to send only those people who have not signed up for Amazon Prime, or who don’t own a Tesla.”
“I see. In other words you want to sort out those earthlings who are of little use, and send them to space to get them out of the way?”
“Exactly.”
“Then why were you allowed to come back to earth?” Emory asked the former Capt. Kirk.
“I decided to sign up for a free trial of Prime along the way.”
“And him?” Emory motioned to Scotty.
“Shhh,” Kirk said in a whisper, “we intend to leave him there this trip.”
At which point a baby cried, which caused Priscilla to nudge him strongly in the ribs. Thereupon Emory awoke and tended to the needs of their child, Jasonette, who slept in the next room.
The day after his dream Emory sought out his mentor, Prof. Shaftes Pierceberry. who normally taught advance classes in taxidermy, but had accepted a joint appointment with the Research Station at the Strangeways mansion dedicated to the new area of Harmonious Ecology.
“The ship they referred to I’m sure was the Southern Comet.”
“But Emory, lad, there’s no way she could be launched into space.”
“And we have already fitted her out as a research vessel, not a passenger liner, so, the question is, how can we use her most effectively in our research rather than as a craft to explore space?”
“Well in my case,” said the Professor, “my research is now centered in Africa, and I could sure use some help out there,”
Pierceberry had involve himself in a project that included a study of a group in Africa called, the Gnostics. He was intrigued by the fact that this alternative religious group had become dedicated advocates of Harmonious Ecology. He already had made one trip out there to begin his study, which he hoped would be expanded to include other members of the Strangeways research station. Perhaps, he thought, Emory and Priscilla could benefit from seeing Harmonious Ecology in action.
“Since Bezos has the corner on the space race, maybe what we should do is to show the world that there were still places here on Earth where explorers and scientists could benefit from a look-see.”
“Where could we start?”
“We could send her out to Lake Victoria. Once there we could hire some resident African scientists to beef up the research staff, even hire some local medical personnel, so it could serve as a medical teaching facility and a floating hospital as well.”
“But how could she sail to that Lake? It’s so far inland from the sea?”
Pierceberry showed Emory a newspaper he had been reading in which there was an article describing how the Kenya Government had built a new railroad. “In the process they abandoned the old narrow track railway that they used to have, the one that was used by the old trains going from the coast to the Lake.”
“So, if we could convince them to let us use the old tracks, we could have Capt. Sarly transport her by rail.”
“Exactly,” said Professor Pierceberry, “He could sail her to Mombasa, then cut her into pieces, put them on railcars and send the ship along the old tracks to the Lake.”
And once again he was proven right, in that this was exactly the kind of project that would appeal to Emory.
And so they set it in motion, and while the Southern Comet was sent on her way across the South Atlantic to East Africa via the Suez Canal, Pierceberry traveled out to Mawundi to visit his new research group, the elusive Gnostics, an ancient tribe of Persians, who lived on the shores of the Lake.
Not long after he arrived there, word came back to Strangeways that the Professor had disappeared.
* * *
Resting calmly and serenely at the head of the long train was a formidable locomotive on loan from the Kenya Railways from which an occasional puff of steam escaped. As it sat there in all its stately magnificence in the quiet, dry air of the desert, the engine was called Baba Mkubwa, or ‘big daddy,’ and its diesel engine was ready at a moment’s notice to leap into action, as soon as the rented van returned from Mombasa, whence it had been sent to pick up replacement parts.
“Then we will be flying along following in the footsteps of so many famous explorers,” said Mzee Imbamba, the train driver, a short, heavy man addicted to roast meat, or ‘nyama choma’ a Kenyan specialty.
His name meant ‘Slim Fellow’ in Kiswahili, though he topped the scales at two hundred pounds. He further assured everyone that their forward progress would soon be forever unimpeded. But, until then, it was too hot and stuffy inside the rail cars to sleep during the day. The cars and the steel hull heated to oven temperatures from the African sun and offered little sanctuary. Thus, quite sensibly, everyone including Imbamba retired to one of the few cool places, the shady ground alongside of the loaded flatcars.
They were soon joined by the Ships’ String Quartet, four refugees from the Royal Kingdom of Mulrovia, who, lacking valid passports, as their country had vanished during political events in Eastern Europe, were now unwilling, but permanent, residents of the ship’s company.
Readying themselves to provide an impromptu lunchtime concert, they tuned up, and soon the only sounds heard in this part of the world for miles around were the plinking and plonking which arose from their instruments. It was simply too hot and too dry at midday here for any movement, other than that of the First from Mozart’s C Minor piece for strings, with which they would start their concert, once they received word from the Cook that lunch was ready.
And so it was that after reporting to the Captain and receiving the mandatory bawling out, the Quartermaster set about tidying up the Bridge and confirmed that, “It dawn’t do no good ringin’ for the h’Engineer, Cap’n. He’s gone to Mombasa wit’ h’all the h’others to get the parts, Sar.”
“Damn it, man, don’t take that tone with me,” yelled Capt. Sarly, who could never temper the tone, timbre or pitch of his voice. He was always loud and out of spirits.
“I’m goin’ for a walk,” he yelled, though the Quartermaster was only three feet away. “Call me if anything happens, and tell Cook to get on with lunch, I’m starved.”
And with that he climbed down the ladder onto dry land.
Lined up alongside the railway embankment, watching the whole procedure, was a crowd of African herders from a nearby village who had gathered to peer at the Chombo-mama ya garimoshi, or ‘the mother of a boat that belongs to the smoky engine,’ which had been sitting there for several days.
They were intrigued by the fact that this was the only boat among so many from the Coast which seemed to have lost her way. By rights, she should be sailing east out of Mombasa like her cousins, but she obviously had been captured by the railway and tied down securely. Some felt this was yet another example of how the ‘big fish’ dominate the food chain of life. “And there is a lesson here for the young people,” said one of the elders, who theorized that the Chombo had obviously been drugged before she was cut into pieces to immobilize her.
Possibly, as some believed, and as one villager predicted, she would recover her senses and then, like a large snake, would angrily and speedily head back to sea. All of these conjectures contributed to the reason why she had become the most popular attraction in the region. There was even an element of suspense, as when the white mans’ Chief, the grizzly, grey-bearded mzungu, the one they called ‘The Captain,’ appeared on deck and invariably yelled out, “Move along, blast you!”
Which they interpreted as an invitation to come closer, because, as with many spectators such as those in the London and New York zoos, they enjoyed watching wild and unusual creatures. And who could not help being fascinated by this apparition as it paced back and forth on the deck above, muttering and gesticulating. Perhaps also in the minds of the young people, as again with the above mentioned spectators, was the idea that, if by chance, and if the keeper wasn’t looking, they could poke at him with a stick and see how he would react!
But that thought remained mere speculation, which vanished the minute he put his foot on the top rung of the ladder. Then, like said spectators in the zoos of those prestigious cities, they moved back instinctively, after all, it was only common sense to back off when you see a tiger open the door of its own cage, and stroll out into the sunshine! Which is why they dispersed further as soon as his foot touched the ground at the bottom of the ladder.
His reputation as a mean, angry old man preceded him, and his poisonous nature was further proven when it was seen that as he walked into the bush a number of predators, including one hyena, two jackals and a venomous snake, dashed and slithered from his path!
It seemed clear there were few things on this earth immune to his abrasive character, a character which by now was beyond his ability to change. His speech pattern and surly persona had been set in concrete thirty years previous when he had shipped out on a Chinese coastal steamer, his maiden voyage as Captain. It happened then that he was the only English-speaker aboard and for a full year, plying the pirate-infested waters off the Straits of Malaya, he never comprehended a word of what was said. But he found he could make himself understood with a series of loud, sharp, emphatic gestures, and a speech inflection approaching the intensity of a scream so that within a short period of time the crew and he were as one.
Thus, it was no surprise that as he strolled along the sun-drenched embankment next to the railroad bed, he was alone. There were no witnesses to the fact that he rolled as he walked, unconsciously riding unseen swells. Sallying forth in such a manner it was difficult to stay clear of the thorns on the bushes and the prickles and burrs on the shrubs.
As he made his way along the trail he seemed to catch a sleeve or trouser leg with every step. In consequence, his swearing and cursing grew to a crescendo, which before long was echoed.
Yes, he thought, either it’s an echo or there’s another poor fool out here taking a stroll and likewise hating every step! At which thought, he let out a roar as a thorn pricked his cheek and his cap fell into the bush.
“Roaarr!” he yelled, and...
“Roaarrr!” came back the echo, as again he gave voice to his inner animal.
“Roaarrrrr!” he said, as he rounded a particularly dense thorn bush and came face to face with a three hundred and fifty pound female lioness, shaking her head and roaring back.
"Roaarrrrrrrr!”
“Damn it,” said Captain Sarly, as he scratched his grey, sun-warmed, bare head and wondered out loud, “Where the hell is that woman zoologist, the big one, what’s her name, the Amazon, when you need her!”
He looked thoughtfully at the lioness and shook his fist into her face as he yelled, “Avast you shaggy bitch! She’d ‘rassel you to the ground and break your back in the process if she were here!”
He was referring, of course, to Priscilla Pettijohn, now the wife of Emory Bryce. These two young people, who reside at Strangeways, in Newport, RI, are today the world’s leading proponents of Harmonious Ecology.
He was referring, of course, to Priscilla Pettijohn, now the wife of Emory Bryce. These two young people, who reside at Strangeways, in Newport, RI, are today the world’s leading proponents of Harmonious Ecology.
