I was standing on the dock at sunrise, staring at an empty horizon with other frustrated commuters. We were waiting for the SS Office Block, our local ferry, which was at least half-an-hour late. Meanwhile, three empty Marie Celestes sailed past in the opposite direction. Typical. You can blame the trade winds but I think it's just poor scheduling.
This particular morning, a rerouted Raft of the Medusa came rolling by as well. "Is this the right mooring for Human Resources?" one of the haggard, delirious mariners from the raft yelled.
"No, you're going about fifteen nautical miles off-course." I yelled back. "You need to catch the The Flying Dutchman, eastbound," But I don't think he heard me above the sound of crashing waves and the inconsolable wailing of those who were late for work.
I glanced back towards the horizon. Still no sign of the ferry so my boss would be furious with me again. Sometimes I wonder if it's even worth getting out of bed and putting on my sailor suit and life jacket. Surely it makes more sense to work from a safe berth at home than spend hours lost at sea, bailing water aboard an overcrowded and unreliable commuter ark. It's all hands on deck every day.
Unfortunately I don't have that luxury. Press-ganged into clerical service since my teens, I'm still barely clinging to the rigging rather than studying maps and charts in the Captain's cabin. I've never been offered a squint through the Admiral's spyglass or found myself celebrated with a twenty-one gun salute either.
So here I am, singing shanties out of tune and carving third-rate scrimshaw as I wait on the dock with my fellow old salts. But I suppose it's either this or Davy Jones' Locker until I finally hear my financial adviser shout "Land ahoy!" and I can hopefully afford to retire like a rat deserting a sinking ship.
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