Chapter 40

Uh huh. Sanitary pad ... to stop the bleeding ... I mean ... what else?

So I slapped that thing on my chin and right off the bat, I noticed that it was scented. And, for sure, I immediately noticed that the pad might be sanitary but the scent stung! And I mentioned it ... loudly ... Very.

“Ouch,” I used some words I wouldn’t want my kids to hear ... like Motherfucker and Ow, God Damn Son of a Bitch and a few others I’d learned from Scottie the engineer when the wrench slipped and he banged the sharp part of the Atlas-Imperial Diesel. Then a few more while he was fishing that same wrench out from under the diesel engine. They were in French and Vietnamese and had a lot to do with mothers, fathers, sisters and excrement ... and goats and water buffalo.

“What?” I asked.

Scottie blushed and told me.

Of course I had to practice pronouncing them until I got it right, I’m a guy ... proper use of obscenities is a guy thing. The Vietnamese was something I could use and get away with.

“Recipe for rice with sesame and peanuts,” I said.

“Yeah, right,” said Wendy.

So ... that pad did stop the bleeding ... and much sooner than its intended use.

The cut on my chin served as a reminder to all and sundry that I wasn’t to be trusted with sharp objects in the vicinity of hairy privates. Inkeri did a bang up job with a pair of scissors all by her own-self.

When we left Norfolk Island, we were leaving land of any kind behind until we raised the black sand beaches of Ile de Nuami. Although we did pass over undersea mounts that were islands 17 thousand years ago. Sea level was five hundred forty-five feet lower than today. That island, Nuami marked the southern edge of Atoll Nëkanmué and the beginning of New Caledonia.

We were still chasing an ill wind; 20 miles to starboard, tack, 40 miles to port ... to make five miles of northwesting. Back and forth, 40 miles right, come about, 40 miles left... 40 miles right, 40 miles left. And there isn’t a damn thing interesting out there ... except our dolphins.

Yes, Old Bill and his pod was still with us. Their antics became wilder and The Girls (yes, I see the caps) seemed to be learning the dolphin vocabulary.

One of the juvenile mammals made a slight “Hey, ya’ll watch this” error and ended up splat on the deck ... a teenage moment.

I want you to know ... dolphins are heavy. It took all of us ... not The Girls, The Girls chattered and chirped to the idiot while we all pushed and pulled ... to get him ... or her ... back in the ocean

One day, the triplets accosted me.

“Daddy, Bill says we’re being followed.”

So I turned around ... nothing ... less than nothing.

“Where?”

So The Girls asked ... so help me gods ... asked Bill where.

“Under the air, daddy.”

Out came the heavy duty Zeiss 20-40-80 turret model ship binoculars. At 40 pounds they had a tapered rail spike so the user didn’t have to hold them up. Hoisting the brass beauties up, I dropped the spike in the stanchion and began to scan the water. After twenty minutes or so, I was beginning to think Old Bill was seeing things.

Wait ... what’s that?

“Channet, Bambi!” I yelled.

“Sir?”

“I need you to look at something.”

It was still there ... in view ... when the girls came aft, “Have a look.”

Channet drew back, horrified.

“That’s what I thought it was,” I said. “Thinking caps on, ladies. We’re being followed by a submarine.”