Sea Chanty

Our Captain died, the mate was drunk and we'd been thirsty three long days
our course had wandered off the chart and no landfall could be raised.
South by west was close to the wind with the horizon bare as a bone,
our dry throats were silent but in the rigging wind would moan.

Outrunning a pirate and our luck with no water aboard to drink
moods were black and getting worse, dark thoughts were all we’d think.
Evening saw the wind die down; by dark it was dead calm
but still we moved the stars did prove and could only drift along.

The sailing master bent his ear to the current's steady chop
underway without a breeze no telling where we'd stop.
Daybreak brought no comfort as it dawned a bloody red,
millenniums of sea lore predicted we'd all soon be dead.

The sound of doom came to us being heard before it was seen,
the steady roar of breakers foaming white on sea of green.
All sail set and rudder over availed us not a bit,
drifting closer towards the coral to be broken up and split.

We dropped both anchors in a desperate bid to have a chance at survival
trusting their flukes to hold us fast as no one aboard had a Bible.
But old Davy Jones was foiled that day as we stopped short of the reef
and launched the cutter to row around in search of some relief.

Then Poseidon smiled upon our fate allowing us into the lagoon
where we found a source of water forestalling a grisly doom.
Sunset that night was a pure red sky said to be a sailor’s delight,
though fate was never to be mocked we’d give it a hell of a fight.

Finding fruit and fish and firewood we filled our water kegs
then clear skies allowed the answer accurate navigation begs.
Refreshed in body and spirit we resumed our unlucky trip
as the volcano on that island chose then to let ‘er rip!

We ran before a red hot gale of searing blinding ash
burning holes in every sail during our frantic dash.
Providence and spume of waves prevented us burning alive
saving us from taking that long last final dive.

Headed with dread for Cape Horn.
we rounded last year at the equinox,
borne on terrible ferocious winds
stripped to bare poles and made eleven knots!

There lay our homes to hence we would go
So south we went back to the cold,
anxious to return if we had to row
but far from the mountain where the lava flowed.

Rounding the horn through the strait of Magellan
to the broad Atlantic with seas so green,
making tough way while cursing and yellin'
as we ran up the coast of the Argentine.

Bending on sail for the homeward run
through warm equatorial waters,
hungrily chasing the northern sun
back to our wives and sons and daughters.

Those last few weeks spent plugging leaks
that voyage's end was all we could see,
riding those last few days of waves
with dreams of homes and a cuppa tea.

Into Plymouth channel we sailed
looking for home from the mast top,
hearts all yearning for family ashore
we tied up forever at the Queen's dock.


by Robert Quinn
all rights reserved