He knew the haunts of sailing men in these harbours where every little item of personal requirement could be bought and its price. He had an encyclopaedic knowledge of all the principal harbours of the world, and without pausing he could describe in detail the leading lights, the buoys, the water-depths in any major harbour you might care to ask him about. Here he was attacked by real present-day pirates who machine-gunned his ship and fought a life and death struggle for the valuable alcoholic prizes on board. Later during Prohibition days he illegally ran liquor down the St Lawrence river in Canada into the ports on the east coast of the United States. He was twice wrecked off Cape Horn and managed to survive. He was trained in the days of sail on one of those great three-masters that circumnavigated the world in hurricanes, storms and calms. Many long winter nights I sat with him before a blazing log fire and listened to his captivating stories of the sea. He was short, boisterous, wild, with a vocabulary of Rabelaisian language, that would have put any drunken British Tommy to shame. She, whose name was Betsy, was at least twenty years younger, quiet, gentle, dignified and almost regal in her tall and lithesome body. It would not have been easy to find two people more contrasting in every way. He came from England to retire, as he said, from a lifetime of the captaincy of ships, and he took house with an attractive and much younger woman on a beautiful site overlooking Cork harbour. He was known to all as Captain Albert (out of my love for him I will withhold his real name). I suppose it was this thought that put me in mind of the man who aroused my interest in the sea and planted in my soul a curiosity as restless as the waves themselves, and also the fact that a few miles due south from where I was, a drama was enacted with this man that would be hard to equal even in the annals of the most imaginative fiction. I had been sailing for twenty years but I had never sailed alone. “I was now beginning to feel quite cocky because I had almost reached my first day’s destination on my first sail alone, and although it was only a matter of a few hours, for me, it was a fulfilling achievement. Just like this clown Dugg, who got sea sick on his first ride on a sailboat and now pontificates like a wizened old sea-dog, mocking real seasoned sailors for their well intended advice.įuck him and the chuck wagon he rode in on!įrom the incomparable John Feehan, from his book “Secret Places of The West Cork Coast”, written 1978, describing his single handed cruise of the southern Irish coast Most of the time, these degenerates had not even served but had only played tons of war videos and watched war movies from their mamas basement and thus could fake the lingo until a service man came along. They would parade through malls and other high traffic areas, having their tiny egos stroked each time a stranger thanked them for their service or would salute them.Īnd of course, every once in a while, a real member of the armed forces would come along, notice something not quite right with the uniform or badges, and then proceed to rip Bubba a brand new ass-hole for his impersonation of a member of the military. He is so much like those disgraceful ass-clowns who took to wearing military uniforms(bought at their local surplus store) in public, after Desert storm. After listening to this idiots ramblings, it has finally dawned on me why I detest these types.
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