PICTON CASTLE 2012 in the GALAPAGOS ISLANDS
T’was the night before Christmas,
when all through the barque
not a shipmate was stirring,
not even this old fart.
The stockings were hung on the fiferails with care
in the hopes that the Fat Man soon would be there
The crew were all sleeping, except those on watch
while visions of good times swirled (perhaps a debauch?)
With the lookout in her sarong, mate taking star sights,
we were steering full and by on a sweet tradewinds night.
When up on the foc’sle there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my bunk to see what was the matter.
I dashed to my porthole and unscrewed the dog,
but saw not a thing through the miasma and fog,
Rushing on deck and calling the crew,
we braced back the yards, stopped the ship where she flew.
Hove to she was and the noises persisted,
all crew at the lee rail, no wonder she listed,
looking forward through the murk what, to my surprise, did I spy?
But a little man, in a conch, pulled by dolphins five,
He called them by name as they danced the bow wave,
Strange it might sound – but one was called Dave
Saint Nick surfed along and called out the others,
“Spinner and Spanker, Wanker and Caruthers”
They leaped in the air, spinning and flipping,
climbed to the stars to the great northern dipping,
atop the galley house they rested at last,
and popped down on deck demanding an evenings repast
(From Donald)
The whole gang was on deck this bright Christmas night
to greet a jolly red elf, five flying porpoise – what a sight!
The popcorn got popped, a marlinspike conjured,
a tree with sparkles magically alight and dancing the word.
Shooting stars streaked the sky, seabirds flew by
tradewinds blew us along, whales breached and waved hi.
The pinrail groaned with delights, Christmas eve turned to morn
The dancing ended with sunrise, and the elf and friends were gone.
Yards braced up once again, sails set high and low,
coils hung as they should be, just so,
our ship sailing along sweetly, off-watch below at rest
we’re bound for the South Seas and the isles of the blest
The Fat Man called out as he circled our ship
“All of you have a Natty, Irie Krissmuss…
sail on, be true, lean into the wind, don’t slip”