Two Welsh Girls on the Loose: Four out of Four Orb Corners
Three weeks guesting under the so-called roof of Silas the Survivalist was quite enough, thank you very much! I mean, just how much freeze-dried beef Stroganoff are two Welsh girls from the fair village of Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrn- drobwllllantysiliogogogoch expected to withstand? Besides, there was the smallish matter of the bigger picture: my shipmate, Sweet Betsy, and yours truly, Hermione, had yet to locate and to return to the fold, Betsy’s dad — one Captain J. Peacock Perks — now missing and unaccounted for, for some umpteen months, presumably somewhere on the seven seas.
So, sans stroganoff, we shoved off in our dinghy, Dory, from Silas’s south Pacific ‘paradise’ — a splatter of fist-pounded spittle indicating that north-by-northeast would be our course.
Six weeks later, lowish on funds, we found ourselves under the metaphorical lash of Seasalt Sally, crewing on her king crab fishing (fishing?) boat, somewhere north of the Aleutian archipelago.
Let me tell you, it was a pretty tough slog for a couple Welsh girls from the village of Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllanty-siliogogogoch. On top of that, our complexions were taking a real beating.
Finally, one-night, Sweet Betsy pokes her head down from the upper berth and calls for an ad hoc, bilateral pow-wow.
“Listen, Herm, I think it’s time to make a wake. We’ve earned a pretty penny these past few months, and we haven’t lost any fingers … yet! On top of that, there’s Seasalt Sally. Compared to her, Blackbeard the Pirate was Shirley Temple on the good ship Lollipop!”
“I’m inclined to agree with you, SB,” said I, “but where do we go from here? I mean, we’ve already searched four out of four orb corners and so far, not a trace of the captain ... nothing … nada!”
Sweet Betsy thought for a moment, then said, “Hmmm … do you remember ... just before my dad disappeared … how he posted all those rude and discourteous comments on everyone’s blog sites?”
“How could I forget?! I replied. “He likened one of my blogposts to, and I quote, ‘the mental workings of the lesser spotted gimlets of our humanoid world.’”
“Well, that’s it, you see!” declared Betsy. “One of the most common ego-repair mechanisms is the diminishment of others, thereby causing a temporary, but huge, inflation of one’s own ego.”
“Do go on,” I encouraged her.
“Pygmies! I believe that he’s gone to live with a tribe of pygmies in sub-Saharan Africa! That way he can ...”
“... experience the sensation of feeling superior to everyone else,” said I, finishing the brilliant deduction for her. “I think you might be onto something there!”
As soon as we got back to port, we unfurled trusty Dory’s sails and set a course for the Panama Canal. (Although, with some discretionary dollars burning holes in our pockets, we did treat ourselves to a brief SoCal sojourn and a couple of emergency facials.)
It was just our lousy luck that our dropping anchor off African shores happened to coincide with the crescendoing of a local, popular revolutionary uprising. I can’t tell you the name of the country, however, because technically speaking, for a brief period of time, we were members of “La Resistance” … a.k.a. the losing side.
Having ridden our systems of every possible last drop of latent revolutionary zeal, we resumed the journey — now, up the Congo River, until, eventually, we tied our line to the pier of a small, tribal village — which we were fairly certain had to be the place.
Approaching on foot to the village proper, we apprehended some kind of ceremony to be taking place; and, so, quickly, we took cover in some nearby vegetation — from where we were then able to observe a most remarkable series of events.
There before us, hoisted aloft in a sedan chair being carried by eight tribesmen, smiling in all his grandiosity, three plumes protruding from his cocked hat, was Captain J. Peacock Perks, in the flesh.
“This has got to be some kind of panto,” whispered Sweet Betsy.
When the drum beating procession reached the village center, the chair, with Betsy’s dad still in it, was raised up and set upon some kind of pedestal which had been constructed out of sticks.
From atop the pedestal’s pinnacle, the captain began to regally windshield-wiper wave and to nod at the ‘celebratory’ villagers below.
After a time, an important looking man stepped forward, and, after looking up at the captain and smiling, made a short speech — which the captain seemed very much to appreciate, though not to understand.
Then a giddy, elderly fat woman — holding the end of a length of rope which was attached to various supporting members of the pedestal — came forward to stand beside the ‘important villager.’ After smiling and bowing to all, she then yanked on the rope — which resulted in the pedestal, like a house of cards, to immediately and completely, disassemble.
Following a ‘Wile-E.-Coyote-frozen-moment,’ the chair, and its occupant, commenced their descent.
Fortunately-ish, it was not a hard landing for the captain since underneath the pedestal sat a ‘previously hidden from view’ large, galvanized metal tank, filled to the brim with — well, let’s just call it muck, shall we.
It wasn’t until three days into our homeward journey that Betsy’s father made his first utterance: “Wouldn’t have some more laverbread there, would you, Betsy dear?”
As she passed the laverbread, Betsy inquired of him: “Lesson learned, dad?”
“Hmmm … ah … yes, of course … I suppose so … lesson learned.”
“I just don’t know what mum is going to say!” Sweet Betsy muttered, as she swung Dory hard to starboard.
