Sailing the Murk-y Seas

Tuesday, February 06, 2007

One lazy day last summer, I decided to rent a small rowboat and paddle out just a bit beyond the harbor. I had no real destination in mind, just a desire to get away from the constant distractions of city life. I took a cooler of cold Harp Lager with me. After downing four or five, I lay down in the boat and dozed, warmed by the New England sun and rocked gently by the waves and the ocean breezes, not a care in the world.

Suddenly, an earsplitting horn shattered my reverie. I sat bolt upright in the rowboat, looking around in fright. That’s when I saw that my small dinghy was on a collision course with an enormous ship that parted the waves like a scythe through ripe wheat.

The huge craft bore down upon me like a juggernaut. I paddled my small rowboat starboard as fast as I could, but in my panic I did little more than splash about frantically, soaking myself. The rowboat heaved in the forewake of the larger vessel, tossing me about like a die in a gambler’s cup. Just when I thought I was certain to capsize, my boat was shunted aside to bob and roll alongside the larger vessel’s port hull. I wiped seawater from my eyes, sputtering in rage. That’s when I got my first real look at the vessel. She was a pleasure yacht, 200 feet from stem to stern if she was an inch, and her name was printed in gold block letters on her side: the S.S. Murk-eriffic.

“Oh, God, please—no,” I said aloud. But I had precious few seconds to ruminate. Without warning something struck the side of my tiny boat with a terrific blow, splintering the wood. I gazed in horror and disbelief at the sharp, barbed point of a harpoon, driven forcefully through the side of my boat, barely missing my legs. Presently I heard the sound of a high powered winch doing its work. My boat skipped on the wave-tops like a flat stone as it was dragged towards the yacht’s hull.

Two lumbering brutes appeared at the rail, glaring down at me. They were huge, hairy monstrosities, each well over six feet tall and packed with muscle. So hirsute were they that for a moment I thought I may be staring at two of the elusive Sasquatch rumored to prowl the land in colder climes. One dropped a rope ladder, grunted in an odd falsetto and gestured for me to climb up. I shook my head. His twin reached over the rail towards me with a long, wicked-looking boathook.

The message was clear: one way or another I was to board the vessel. I grabbed the rope ladder as I knew I would not appreciate the “assistance” a rusty, pointed boathook would provide. I clambered up the side as best I could, as there is no dignified way to climb a ladder in a kilt, particularly when it’s a rope ladder attached to a rocking boat and you’re five beers the worse for wear.

As I neared the top rail, one of the brutes reached over and casually plucked me from my perch as if he was removing an egg from a bird’s nest, pulling me up and over the rail until I stood upon the deck. The other—the one with the hook—pointed wordlessly towards the fore. Up close, they were even larger than I imagined.

Trying my best to preserve my dignity, I smoothed my dripping kilt and made my way towards the front of the boat, my two hairy companions following close behind. I passed a small helipad, a black, two-person chopper perched upon it like a wasp ready to take flight. I moved past tinted windows that afforded the barest glimpse of luxurious interior cabins. I passed through a volleyball court, shuffleboard deck and an outdoor theatre. Just when I thought the boat couldn’t get any bigger, I found myself at an Olympic-sized swimming pool, built into the foredeck. It is there that I found the Captain and First-Mate of the yacht: Dr. Robert J. Murk, and his Asian wife, Mrs. Dr. Murk.

I stopped short, determined to rail against Murk for this outrage. He sat beneath a sun umbrella in a pair of swim trunks and his brown derby hat, the doctor’s most constant companion other than his wife. I had just inhaled deeply, ready to give vent to my anger, when one of the brutes behind me gave me a rude shove, rendering me breathless. I was knocked sprawling to the deck.

“Ah, Piper,” said Murk. “Funny we should meet by chance out here, of all places. Welcome aboard.”

I stood up slowly. “I doubt it was by accident, Murk. What are you doing here?”

“Why,” said Murk, “the lovely wife and I were just enjoying a pleasure cruise. She wanted to hunt for Mako sharks, as our supply in the palatial estate’s moat is getting low. Hence the harpoon gun you experienced earlier.”

“You could have just asked me aboard, you know!” I yelled.

Murk looked at me blankly. “I had to test the harpoon gun, Piper. Christ, you can be obtuse.”

“What about them?” I asked, jerking my thumb towards the hair twins behind me.

“Oh, you mean Barry and Barry?” asked Murk.

“They have the same name?” I asked, not really surprised.

“As well as the same DNA, you ignorant poltroon. You see, quite by accident I discovered Barry Gibb, formerly of the Bee Gees, working at an Arby’s in Wisconsin. As you know, I’m quite mad for the Bee Gees, so it was a small matter to spirit him away, clone him and pump the two of them full of steroids. Presto! Instant henchmen.”

“You can’t just kidnap people!” I cried.

“We’re talking about Barry Gibb, Piper. I’d say he enjoys a much higher quality of life now, wouldn’t you agree? Too bad about the hair; I would have preferred to clone one of the Bee Gees who didn’t shed quite so much, but both Maurice and Andy are dead, so I was forced to work with what I had.”

“What about Robin Gibb? He’s still alive,” I said.

Mrs. Dr. Murk started violently. A full minute of absolute silence followed. Murk glared at me. “Never,” he said, slowly, “never speak that name in my presence again.”

“Um…ok,” I said. This wasn’t going my way. “Look, Murk…just what the hell do you want this time? Can’t you just leave me alone and allow me to enjoy myself for once?”

“No,” said Murk. Mrs. Dr. Murk giggled.

Up until that moment, she had been but a shadow in the corner of my peripheral vision. Now, I took my first real look at her. Dr. Murk’s Asian wife wore the tiniest of tiny bikinis. She laid on her stomach, sunning herself in a flattened lounge chair, her long legs kicking idly at the air behind her as she propped her body up on her elbows. She stared at me in amusement, one strap slipping down to her elbow, one globular breast threatening to pop out of her top like a ripe grapefruit dipping from its branch, her eyes the color of midnight, her long hair blowing in the slight breeze like dandelion threads in a gentle wind, her brown dusky skin the color of the most perfectly prepared Peking duck…

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Piper,” said Murk. “Stop embarrassing yourself. You realize you have no chance whatsoever, right? My wife loathes you, you’re getting fatter by the day, you wear a skirt, and you have a really small penis. And, let’s not forget you play the bagpipes, for Christ’s sake. Whereas I own a palatial estate, this insanely expensive yacht, and this swell derby hat. Plus, I have an enormous white chocolate bar in my shorts, and I don’t mean that literally. The white chocolate bar I refer to is my huge crank, and that’s the sweet nickname my smokin’ hot Asian wife gave it long ago, on our wedding night.”

“What are you talking about?” I protested. “I wasn’t doing anything!”

Dr. Murk ignored me, instead reaching behind him and retrieving an acoustic guitar. “In fact, your pathetic eye-humping of my wife has only inspired me to renew my devotion to her by singing the song that linked our destinies together like twin stars. I sang this to my beloved at our wedding.”

Murk cleared his throat and gave the guitar a few practice strums. Then, he began to sing in an expertly-trained tenor:

“I got a letter just the other day
She sent a picture, but she didn't sign her name
She wore high heels and a little black lace
I knew her body, but I couldn't see her face
She didn't leave a number, not an address or a clue
But something in that photograph reminded me of you

Baby, let's put the X in sex
Love's like a muscle and you make me wanna flex
Baby, let's put the X in sex
Keep it undercover, baby let me be your private eye…

The guitar fell silent. “And that song is what binds us together, Piper, with a love you will never understand,” said Murk, tears welling up in his piercing blue eyes.

“I was at your wedding, Murk, and that’s not the song you sang,” I said.

“A minor detail. Suffice it to say we’re crazy for each other. I’m Sonny and she’s a bowl of Cocoa Puffs. She’s a pepperoni pizza and I’m a Ninja Turtle. Got it?”

“Sure.”

“Good. Now I’m done talking to you. I trust you can find your own way off the Murk-errific?” Murk said, dismissing me with a wave of his hand.

I looked around, finally spying my small rowboat on the horizon. We had drifted a long way. “But my boat is way over there! And it’s probably taking on water because of your goddamn harpoon gun!” I exclaimed.

“Well, you better start swimming then.” The Barrys grabbed me by my arms, pulling me towards the side of the boat, grunting in their monosyllabic falsettos. They picked me up, preparing to heave me overboard.

“Wait, boys,” said Murk. ”I’ve changed my mind.” My heart leapt. Could it be Dr. Murk was going to give me a ride back to land?

“The wife and I aren’t much in the mood for shark fishing anymore, so I guess we won’t need that bucket of bloody chum after all. Dump it over the side along with the Piper.”

It’s amazing how fast you can swim in a kilt when you need to.