Two Welsh Girls on the Loose: Episode One: "In Search of ..."

"In Search of ..."

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 is a girl 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 upmteen 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 should 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 Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch. On top of that, our complexions were taking a real beating.

Finally, one night, Sweet Betsy poked her head down from her upper berth and called 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, Sweets," 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!" exclaimed 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 bigger than everyone else," I said, finishing her thought for her. "I think you might be onto something there, S.B!"

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 crescendo-ing 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 continued the journey, now into the heart of darkness, and 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.

As we approached, on foot, the village proper, we apprehended that some kind of ceremony was taking place, and quickly took cover in some nearby vegetation — from where we were then able to observe a most remarkable spectacle.

There before us, hoisted aloof 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 detached, and then 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 villager stepped forward and took hold of a rope that appeared to be attached in some fashion to various supporting members of the pedestal. He then looked up at the captain, smiled, and made a short speech — which the captain seemed very much to appreciate, though not to understand.

Upon finishing his speech, the 'important villager' handed the rope over to a giddy, elderly, fat woman, who, after smiling and bowing to all, yanked on the rope. This caused 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 Betsy's father — since underneath the pedestal sat a 'previously out of view,' large, galvanized metal trough, 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 first uttered a word. " Wouldn't have some more laverbread there, would you, Betsy dear?"

As she passed him the laverbread, 'Betsy posed a question to the captain: "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 murmured, as she swung Dory hard to starboard.