Now that Dave has finished his song. I'll just draw another pint to oil my throat and recite this little bit that I got here:

One Hand on the Bulwarks

One hand on the bulwarks, one hand on the cigarette, watching the fog creep back from the shoreline, bit by bit, inch by inch, foot by foot. I am watching the whales dance on the ocean crests, singing their celebratory songs of life, songs of their travels, songs of those that have come before.

One hand on the bulwarks, one hand on the cigarette, feeling the greasiness of dirty clothes brushing against clean skin, with each roll of the boat, each shift of the legs, each lifting of an arm, each turning of the head. You can't wash your clothes they say, have to conserve fresh water they say, it's only four days they say. AAARRGGGHHH!!!! The griminess of it all!!!

One hand on the bulwarks, one hand on the cigarette, hearing the gentle roar of the diesel engines reverberating throughout the vessel, vibrating the steel decks, the bulkheads, the portholes, the crew as the beached stern of the New Carissa slowly descends from sight.

Got an open lap available....

Amergin