Duncan McLean
Navigator | Own Words | Fuck Democracy | Big Cock Fun || Title | Acrobat

Navigator
The Cutty Sark shut at three and we moved on.

Once I've paid up my house, I said, You'll not catch me offshore. I'll jack that in and never go near the fucking sea.

It wouldn't be so bad if you could move around a bit, said Finn. Follow the fucking sun, ken? It's just being stuck in the one place that's the bastard.

I started to cross the road, then stopped and walked straight on. It's just the fucking seamans' mission, I said. I thought it was a bar.

I'm going to get myself a boat, said Finn. One with a bed and a wee oooker -- all mod cons. That's the fucking ticket. Then head off into the wild blue yonder: point the nose of the thing for the equator and cheerio!

Where the fuck's that pub from last time? I said. What's it called? The Schooner...

Finn wasn't listening. He was pushing open a shopdoor. Quick, in here...

I followed him. There were ropes and buoys on the floor, lifejackets and flares and compasses on shelves, and maps of the sea pinned to the walls.

I want some of those, said Finn.

Charts? said the guy behind the counter.

Aye.

Where of?

The Sargasso Sea, said Finn. Zanzibar, Northwest Iceland, Honolulu, the Great Barrier Reef, Van Dieman's Land, the Amazon Basin, Timbuctoo, Montego Bay...

We only stock British coastal charts.

What!

The guy shrugged. Sorry.

Shit... Finn leant his hands on the counter, his head hanging down. He seemed to be away to burst out greeting.

Never mind Finlay! I gave him a clap on the shoulder, and turned to the shopkeeper. Here, do a bit of navigating for us pal: how do we get to the Schooner Bar?


Navigator | Own Words | Fuck Democracy | Big Cock Fun || Title | Acrobat

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