Available on Compatible NOOK devices, the free NOOK App and in My Digital Library.
Related collections and offers
Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781490799551 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Trafford Publishing |
| Publication date: | 02/28/2020 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 128 |
| File size: | 694 KB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
TWO FACES OF A HIGH SEA!
"Gound Sea" (or "Sudge") it's called, and mariners' womenfolk in these parts (with toddlers mimicking them), at its mere specter, holler its name woefully and in despair! It rolls in during late autumn, several weeks after the laughing gulls (having encroached on the "Who? You!!!" gull the whole bothersome mating-and-nesting summer) have now gone back north or south, "or wherever they came from in the first place!!!"
Long period waves from northerly storms — mostly early nor'easters — are thumping the islands' exposed Atlantic-side shorelines.
Plucky young northerly men have brought their boards, and they flock to the passage between these two neighboring cays that bear the names of African peoples from the earliest European settlement period — Loango, Mingo-by-Congos- —, the channel between them further reduced and restricted by coral reefs and some derelict iron wreck, which eventually slid off one of the facing reefs and then impaled and wedged (via calcifying) itself on a median outcropping rock.
The surfing frolics of the inevitable young "snowbird-Statesiders" did not find favor in the eyes of either Skipper (Maas) Ton-Ton Da-Da or Ras Reb, otherwise, consistently and visibly irreconcilable adversaries on most matters!
For the skipper these visitors' presence and their recreational pass-time meant degradation and ruination of an important back-up fishing bank for yellowtail snappers on days when the trek to the blue-water Big High Shoal was out of the question.
For Reb, youngest crew member, their activity was an irritant also, since it was further evidence of Government's blatant pro- Tourism bias, and its neglect of food-production and other grassroots subsistence priorities. "Let them take their effing boards and head back to Malibu or Santa Monica, or even Negril, if that's what Jamaicans want! (Though Maroonage and the imprimatur of Garvey and Marley on that island's mindset should safely trump such an intrusion and indignity in that place!) Jah! Put in place a ban on dese friggin' boards, wave riders an' gadgets like dem dat infec' our Jah-blessed resources and seascapes! Turn them away even at our airports and seaports!
[yabba pot etc, etc.]
Hmmph, not likely, wid dese puppets dat parade as Government leaders! No balls!
So, (while, further on, in the course of this account the rub between Reb and Skipper Ton-Ton Da-Da appears to have commenced with a fishhook barb, it is not insurmountable and, in fact, turns largely on a generational and Class divide, the skipper's age matching more that of the young man's grandparents, with his complexion being more that of their northern Recreation tormentors!
Indeed, the race and "shade" issue between them aside (along with the nagging question "whose earth and whose rights?"), Reb through residual Afro-Caribbean homebred customs would normally address the skipper as "Uncle."
This is not to say that a certain bossal business in the naming of the boat could also be totally swept off the board!
If the skipper's buddy and partner in the boat purchase (not a true acquaintance of Reb) wanted to pull dumb stunts like mucking around in our bossal-ness, let him go ahead. But the old man should know better than to tolerate the disrespect!
Get this pale-skin, pudgy skipper's dander up, and he'll tell you he is "as West Indian as any friggin' man on this boat or anywhere else!"
"Oh, yeah? Prove it! Crank up your big George Forman fists an' slap de front teet' dong your forward partner's t'roat for mockin' our cultural heroes, the Bossals! An affront you yourself would never commit! At leas' not within earshot of any up an' standin' one of us Culture-wise homeboys!")
["Yabba- pot, etc."]
Yet, below the surface, there was another noteworthy bond between these two shipmates, plausibly one that shadowed a brand of Spiritualism, if you looked at it from the Fishing Tradition perspective. It had to do with the freshest mash Ton-Ton-Da-Da offered the game when he chummed.
The extreme locations to which the skipper would travel to be able to offer the most delectable and pollution-free meal in the form of mash to his quarry were noteworthy. The very sand used for the mash! He would sail that extra three or four miles on the lumbering and quaking round-bottom "Bossal Snare" to that bay where the sand was supremely fresh and undefiled to fill up his twenty used ice bags, before heading out to the fishing banks. This care given to the quarry's food preferences matched the kosher-linked consciousness and practices of Ras Reb's I-man people as it related to their food choices and practices.
Once anchored at the bank, the skipper would set his wooden tray on the stern deck and artfully mix fresh, ice-chilled fry with fine, clean sand the way a highly decorated chef would do with his condiments and precious ingredients, taking care to separate out and discard pebbles, shells or other debris.
No matter the composition of his crew on any trip, he alone, again like one ordained into that role, performed the task of mixing and casting mash.
Now, Ton-Ton Da-Da pondered, with those Natural Resources experts (not to mention their chums in Tourism, the Park and the Chamber), just try to break out this process, yeah, the same folks that credential these snowbird surfers to frig-up my life! Just try, especially in a public hearing or charrette. See how far you get before Mr. Chair raps the gavel and announces "Non-germane!" Or, "Time, for the last time, Testifier!" Or "In fact, meeting recessed!"
This routine abuse of his and his folks' rights reverberates with such intensity that the skipper sees himself on his Day of Judgment — minimal practicing Catholic that he is — gaveled into an absolutely muted, senseless and pulverized mass of compliance (despite the promise made to us, from the Pulpit and the Politician's Podium of a mind of our own, so we could and should be free thinkers!)
Yet, there was still this other gripe the skipper harbored; it had to do with an initial encounter and recurring ones between his Bossal Snare and a tour vessel bearing the name Dixie Island Gal or DIG. [Time, take it or tick it!]
CHAPTER 2WELCOME ... AHOY!
(That was the greeting the tourist client read on the cover of the Island Intro and Guide stacked on the dockside counter by where the DIG and the Snare docked and operated from.)
The touring visitor reads the above and naturally wants to know more about the character, etc. of the Master of the vessel. The latter will in turn respond to any inquisitive poking, that he is like any other real local captain, and the visitor's attention might better be employed in observing his crew! He will add that he is "no referee" to the sustained banter and jousting between his ever-chatty crew that takes place on board. "But, yo' free to lissen in; might learn one or two t'ings 'bout how we live!'
Even so, the Master, who is also part-owner of the Snare, by his thunderous voice and voluminous presence, maintains a degree of order throughout the running taunts and the many attempts at defiance against his stated rules of conduct which, simply stated are: "No Preaching, no Judging! Period!"
Besides, in some respects he selects his crew with a view towards balance, and for this trip has these two older allies — neighborhood mates.
In the meantime, as it says further on the cover and guide stacked on the dockside counter:
"A Special Welcome to the BBP#1 or Boarding Briefing Pier#1! To the right, all Pleasure-Seekers and Fun-struck Adult Swimmers! To the left, all certified Global Culture Consortium, (GCC) Associates and Visiting Preservationists!
Promotional Orientations (PROMO-O) commence fifteen minutes sharp before departure. You may board and visit briefly one of two vessels, as suits your fancy. Furthest to your right, Dixie Island Gal, the bling-bling, tourist ferry, festooned in patriotic streamers, once and past tender to a Gulf oil rig. Docked furthest to my right, The Bossal Snare, the famously cranky, round-bottom fishing vessel, most recently documented in the New Concord Maritime Registry as a blue-water lobster boat, earlier logged as a scrub-hauler of seines in the Gulf of Guinea.
(Visitors coming aboard the Bossal are advised to exercise extra caution against slipping and tripping, as the vessel is in preparation for her regular fishing trip at the drop-off, and the deck is wet and slippery.)
Pssst: Permission to board this vessel was only granted moments ago, and the key concession was linked to the visiting crowd getting a chance to see "what these small fishing fleets are up against!" (It's the kind of two-faced dealings that slick technocrats in our island Administration can fashion with the snap of a finger! No one familiar with the workings of pork-barrel politics needs a road map for the details of this type of transaction. The outcome supposedly adds cultural flavor and a tinge of "rusticity" to the visitor's experience!)
Trouble selecting which boat to visit?
Our unbiased advice: Barely drop in on the crew of this craft, the Bossal Snare! West Indian men from several islands in the chain (with at least one with claims to such links), preparing for a typical weekend fishing trip.
No, you will not physically continue on board the Snare, but, instead, after acquainting yourself with the captain and crew, hearing a sampling of their tales and experiencing their surroundings, you will, in time, through news clippings, various eyewitness reports, on-board logs, diaries, journals and the like, available in collected personal papers of the co-owner (for the more research-inclined), likely share in, appropriate and even expand on what took place with the Bossal's master and crew during this weekend fishing trip.
Appropriate and expand, because, dear reader, those privileges fall within your rights! After all, through whatever means, you have in hand the text. You're about to strain your eyes and your imagination following the many twists and turns of the events and tales therein contained. Why not exercise your rights!
[To be honest, the recommendation above — about the vessel to visit — was not exactly objective! While not an ideal Caribbean culture melting pot — or hornets-nest —, this choice offers close-up glimpses into the Pell-Mell of our volatile co-habitation on these islands!]
This trip takes place on a Friday full moon night just days short of Christmas. The crew customarily know enough about each other, during lulls occasioned by the slackening of the current and/or disinterest on the part of the presumptive sea-life game, to engage in verbal jousts, made up mostly of tales and loose accounts — some of them, verily, of dubious veracity — of events lived and fancied.
CHAPTER 3DOMINOS PRELUDING TO THE CROSSROADS EVENT
Now then ...(scooping from an on-land "man-betta-man" scenario), as if the poor lighting wasn't enough of a gripe for the domino players, the sidewalk leading up to the entrance of the supermarket is barely 3 feet wide, and the evening shoppers, at a certain point, are squeezing by each other even more tightly as they go about their week-end commerce with the establishment.
For, with the setting of the sun, the regulars have arrived, claimed their space with folding chairs and a low wooden roll-out table whose top is a draught board, though it serves well for domino games.
Here, against the klakking and slapping of the white black-spotted domino bones, and to the gentle lapping of the wind-driven ripples against the nearby waterfront bulkhead's rusted studs, they argue about a certain "BLACKOUT" business.
"You gon' tell me how it staat, YOU?" [KLAK]
[Yabba pat a-yabba]
The Bookish Spectator [while stealthily withdrawing to a safer place]: "I only tellin' it how I hear an' read it."
"How you manage' to hear an' read it! [klak-slap] Mister, I don't deal with how I hear an' read not'ing, no-friggin'-t'ing! I deal wid what I know! [klak]. Fact! ... an', what I know is: [Watch out, Miss! Hold your bags higher, before yo' tumble de bone-dem off de board as yo' make yo' way tru! An' w'ile yo' at it, Miss, excuse me language to dis friggin' book-slave, Miss!] As I was sayin: I it is who confirm fo' him de name BLACKOUT! I who do dat! OK? Now, you an' all present, ready to hear how it staat?"
Now, (in his mind, at least), having crushed and scattered the competition, our dominant (alpha!) domino player, in presumably full control of his audience, proceeded to lay bare a relates about a would-be forerunner of "BLACKOUT," a man who had returned from the Second World War shell-shocked (though few of the locals even knew the expression at that time) and who then made it a habit of daily appearing on Main Street, posing in such military decking — including leggings — as he still possessed or could beg or borrow, to parade erectly and with great flair, while sounding off and complying with self-commands of "Forward, march!," "To the right; to the left; about face ... etc."
"Dat man people at fus called 'Air-raid,'" he related.
"But there was other returnin' soldiers dat carried on in ways like dat. Tryin' to keep up wid de sailors off de ships, when on shore. Dey dared to take public liberties wid decent women folk passin' wit'in deir reach!. An' I could give de full list of some of de women, includin' hi-brow society ones who didn't mine a slap on de backside from dem sailor boy!
"One of dese strange-behavin' fellows I 'member from bicycle rides to de countryside dat we, as neighborhood boys, used to take on Sunday an' holiday afternoons:
"It had dis stumpy, old White man, pale like tissue-paper an' jus' as disagreeable who always show up from nowhere when we got to de Crossroads. Older folks had warned us about strange t'ings dat took place at de Crossroads! 'An' don't let nightfall ketch yo' near dere! Alyo' mus look out fo' each odda!'
"De man used to take it upon himself to t'reaten us, claimin' he was guardin' de owner's garden or farm to stop us from praagin' w'at didn't belong to us.
"He could never tell us who de owner-dem was. Or how he know what our intention was!
"An' den, de elders tole us to never mind him; he too had been a soldier an' had 'a screw missin'. Besides, any such owner, as he claim to be guardin' for, who would deny po' town chirren de chance to pick a public mango, soursop, guava, sugar apple, mamey or mesple at de Crossroads was headed for certain damnation! He an' whoever he did his dirty work for! He we call Black-out numba two! Though he was White an' had straight-hair! De fus Blackout had dead an' was bury in de Danish cemetery!"
It was conduct of this sort, our dominoes boss claimed — while, with great fanfare, slapping down the double-six bone on the board — that made people brand strange-acting men, especially those on our main thoroughfares and regularly at the Crossroads, with War names like "Blackout," "Air Raid," and "All Clear."
"War is a vexation an' a plague, an' when it blossom 'tis a hundredfold worse!" the oldest of the players declared.
All the bla-bla, however, was of no consequence! For the competing book-bred historian the domino boss was sure he had shut down reemerged — now in the shadows for obvious personal security reasons — and hissed: "Bull! Dis man is talkin', if you listen good, mostly about himself. Himself an' individual persons! A common case of narrow mindedness in dis place! In odda words, he don't get it! People want to know more 'bout de Crossroads. He keeps on tellin' you, he did dis, an' de odda one did dat, talkin' about himself an' company! Somebody, go tell him I say dat!"
So ... we return to the high seas with this crossroads business! For if you didn't know it, at this very moment on this Caribbean Sea, cradle to our islands, Crossroads to four continents, a tale-telling duel is chomping at the bit. You can feel its lyrics wafting in the air and its magical syncopated contours and content are already streaming into the heads, consciousness and creativity of our pre-eminent calypsonians/griots. Hitch that bluster of yours on to our stories told so far and those to tell, Mister Boss of the boardgame! If you can't do that then hold your peace!" [And there are expectations an' standards to uphold, for in this town at least, every member of the league of domino men is a mariner in good standing from days past!
Such were the words muttered timidly and musings at a safe distance from the bullying board-game master by our retreating spectator; softly spoken words that would clear out obstructions in the cultural and archival path of our sea duel. For in like manner that rivers get dammed, so the torrent of tales will at times caulk, and will only resume its flow through forceful Effervescence-driven de-blocking!]
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Angling for Sea Tales over A Haunted Wreck"
by .
Copyright © 2019 Gilbert Sprauve.
Excerpted by permission of Trafford Publishing.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
The Vessels, ix,
The Crew, xi,
The Takes, xiii,
The Places, xv,
The Mantras, xvii,
Two Faces Of A High Sea!, 1,
Welcome ... Ahoy!, 5,
Dominos Preluding To The Crossroads Event, 8,
From Board Game (all the way) To Sea-Musings, 13,
Sea Forces Frolicking At Foreday, 15,
Barely A Speck, 17,
About An Oil-Slick Moon-Glow Vigil, 25,
Dominos Preluding (Again) Etc, 34,
First Challenge Tale, 35,
A Back-To-Life-Tale At A Haunted Wreck, 44,
Skipper's Special, The Moonlight Rainbow, 49,
The Sea Brothers, Or Monkey Roost, 53,
State's Solid-State Tale Approach, 56,
Seeds Of A Complot?, 58,
A Bit From Maas Da-Da's Parable Kit, 61,
On Rays "Breaching" And Turtles "Blowing", 63,
One Way Security Traffic On Gangplank, 65,
From The Captain's Log, 67,
Alert: Slick Plank On To Wobbly Vessel!, 69,
The Plot Pot: Will It Bubble? Or ...?, 72,
A Purloined Mango For Starters, 76,
This Bossal Snare Naming Issue, 78,
A Shared Stint In The Political Cauldron, 81,
What Adrift In The C-Kraal Could Portend, Or Who Said,
Stock Is Given That You Can Just "Take?", 88,
Tales To Hash And Tales To Trash, 90,
Noggin Churnin' With C-Crisis Loomin', 93,
About Hunger Bolts And A Pungent Suspect Cargo, 98,
Rescue Sans Security, 101,
Den ... Ton-Ton's Noggin Up 'N' Went Joggin', 103,
Epilogue, 105,