Scuba Spy Man

“As a general rule, I don’t eat anything that has been crawling on the ocean floor”, he muttered, glaring at me with his good eye.(mwaldie) “But, in your case, scuba spy-man, I’ll make an exception. We’ll roast ye slow, on a spit, over a ton o’ coals right here on the beach. Ye might last a coupla hours….less, after we strip off that rubber suit.” The one-eyed creature, more beast than man, nearly six and a half feet by 300 pounds, gestured to his mate, lurking outside in the shadows: “Borgla! Drag some o’ that drifty wood over here; I’ll cover his nibs here with my Whimsey Korsakoff six shooter.”


Luckily, I was familiar with the Whimsey Korsakoff six shooter, having suffered through a late night episode of Russian Roulette one soggy Easter in St. Petersburgh. I knew that it had a design flaw that would make it skip a shot if you hit a high C note — apparently, the design was so fine-tuned that the reverberations of that particular note were just enough to throw off the vector of the bolt thrust. So I kept my cool and, just as the monster of a man was about to tie me to the spit, I let out a shrill high C so loud and so long it shocked us both. I then ran toward the water still shrieking with all my might the one note that could save my sorry soul and I skulked back into the blackness of the Caspian Sea


I woke, drenched in sweat, thinking I was still in the Caspian. Awareness came gradually;  the dream had been 3D, full color real.  I swung out of my bunk and landed on the teak floor of the forward port stateroom.  I padded naked, aft toward the steps up to the bridge of my 54 foot ocean-going, twin diesel powered catamaran.  Full dark, a billion stars and no moon;  the ship swung easily on her anchor.  Off to the west, the lights of……


the lights of…? where the hell had I anchored last night? Did I mention that we drank two full blenders of that concoction last night – what’s her name and I? She was a stowaway, I remember finding during the crossing of the Gulf Stream, somewhere in the old Devil’s triangle. She came ambling aft, cool as can be, and said “Hi, where are we going?” Turns out she was wanted in Lauderdale for questioning in a cat thievery heist of some diamond jewelry, and decided to get out of town incognito and chose my ship, The Wet Dream, as her getaway craft. Asked her if she was old enough to drink and then we went to work on the Margaritas, and then … nothing. I wondered if she had slipped something into my drink and checked to see if my Rolex was still on my wrist.

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