Read Online Towing Jehovah by James Morrow - Free Book Online
Authors: James Morrow
Tags: Fiction, General, Science-Fiction, adventure, Fiction - Fantasy, Fantasy, Epic, Science Fiction - General, Fantasy - General, American Science Fiction And Fantasy
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was owned by a family of Florida Keys salvage masters, those vainglorious 19th-century sailors who were, Ockham informs me, "immortalized by John Wayne and Raymond Massey in Reap the Wild Wind."
I already knew Sam Follingsbee was a brilliant cook, but tonight's fried chicken was indistinguishable from Colonel Sanders's secret recipes, both Original and Extra Crispy. An odd talent, this genius for mediocrity. Crock O'Connor, the chief engineer, is the sort of affable Alabama yarn spinner who claims he invented the twist-off bottle cap but receives no royalties thanks to the knavery of an unscrupulous patent attorney. He's been giving us our 18 knots, so who am I to call him a liar? Lou Chickering, the blond and handsome first assistant engineer—our very own Billy Budd—is a stage actor from Philly who once tried to make it on Broadway and now spends his off-hours organizing talent shows in the deckies' recreation room. His specialty is Shakespeare, and even our illiterates were beguiled by his performance last night of Ariel's song from The Tempest. ("Full fathom five thy father lies . . .") Bud Ramsey, the second engineer, is a pornography collector, beer connoisseur, and seven-card-stud fanatic. It's refreshing, I think, when a man wears his vices on his sleeve. And backing us up: 38 gratefully employed sailors—23 men and 15 women—scattered among our decks, galleys, engine rooms, and cargo-control stations. I enjoy browsing through their resumés. We've got a minor-league center fielder on board (Albany Bullets), a former clown (Hunt Brothers Circus), an ex-con (armed robbery), a spot-welder, an auto assembly-line worker, a Revlon saleslady, an Army corporal, a dog trainer, a Chinese math teacher (junior high), a taxi driver, three Desert Storm vets, and a full-blooded Lakota Sioux named James Echohawk.
A great mass of spilled oil—one of those "floating particulate petroleum residues"—has coagulated off Cameroon: that's the story I've been feeding anybody who asks. When Carpco realized the Vatican had gotten wind of the disaster, they offered the Pope a deal: keep Greenpeace and the U.N. off our backs, and we'll remove the asphalt posthaste. And we won't just sink it, either. We'll tow it to shore, chop it up, and refine the fragments into free oil for burgeoning African industries. Great, said Rome, but we're sending Father Ockham to supervise.
So: a secret operation, get it, men? Hush-hush, understand? That's why we don't signal passing ships, turn on our running lights, or let anybody phone home.
"Okay, but why so damn fast?" Crock O'Connor wants to know. "We're practicing to be the first supertanker ever to win the America's Cup?"
"The asphalt's a menace to navigation," I explain. "The sooner we get there, the better."
"Last night I left my empty orange-juice glass on the table," the man persists, "and the damn thing scooted right up to the edge and fell, singing all the way. We're vibrating, Captain. We're gonna crack the fucking hull."
He's right, actually. Run your ULCC in a straight line at 18 knots with empty cargo bays, and before long you'll start flapping apart like a '57 Chevy.
There are ways to soothe a shivering ship without losing too much time. I'm using every trick in the book: changing speed briefly, altering course slightly, shutting down entirely for a minute or two and coasting—anything to break the rhythm of the waves hitting our stem. So far it's working. So far we're still in one piece.
At dawn the sea turtles came.
Hundreds of them, Popeye, swimming through my dreams, their shells glistening with Texas crude. Then the snowy egrets arrived, black as crows, then the roseate spoonbills, the blue herons . . . I awoke in a sweat. I took a shower, dried off, read Act I of The Tempest —Prospero raising the storm and drawing the royal ship to his enchanted island, Miranda falling hopelessly in love with the castaway prince Ferdinand—and drank a
I already knew Sam Follingsbee was a brilliant cook, but tonight's fried chicken was indistinguishable from Colonel Sanders's secret recipes, both Original and Extra Crispy. An odd talent, this genius for mediocrity. Crock O'Connor, the chief engineer, is the sort of affable Alabama yarn spinner who claims he invented the twist-off bottle cap but receives no royalties thanks to the knavery of an unscrupulous patent attorney. He's been giving us our 18 knots, so who am I to call him a liar? Lou Chickering, the blond and handsome first assistant engineer—our very own Billy Budd—is a stage actor from Philly who once tried to make it on Broadway and now spends his off-hours organizing talent shows in the deckies' recreation room. His specialty is Shakespeare, and even our illiterates were beguiled by his performance last night of Ariel's song from The Tempest. ("Full fathom five thy father lies . . .") Bud Ramsey, the second engineer, is a pornography collector, beer connoisseur, and seven-card-stud fanatic. It's refreshing, I think, when a man wears his vices on his sleeve. And backing us up: 38 gratefully employed sailors—23 men and 15 women—scattered among our decks, galleys, engine rooms, and cargo-control stations. I enjoy browsing through their resumés. We've got a minor-league center fielder on board (Albany Bullets), a former clown (Hunt Brothers Circus), an ex-con (armed robbery), a spot-welder, an auto assembly-line worker, a Revlon saleslady, an Army corporal, a dog trainer, a Chinese math teacher (junior high), a taxi driver, three Desert Storm vets, and a full-blooded Lakota Sioux named James Echohawk.
A great mass of spilled oil—one of those "floating particulate petroleum residues"—has coagulated off Cameroon: that's the story I've been feeding anybody who asks. When Carpco realized the Vatican had gotten wind of the disaster, they offered the Pope a deal: keep Greenpeace and the U.N. off our backs, and we'll remove the asphalt posthaste. And we won't just sink it, either. We'll tow it to shore, chop it up, and refine the fragments into free oil for burgeoning African industries. Great, said Rome, but we're sending Father Ockham to supervise.
So: a secret operation, get it, men? Hush-hush, understand? That's why we don't signal passing ships, turn on our running lights, or let anybody phone home.
"Okay, but why so damn fast?" Crock O'Connor wants to know. "We're practicing to be the first supertanker ever to win the America's Cup?"
"The asphalt's a menace to navigation," I explain. "The sooner we get there, the better."
"Last night I left my empty orange-juice glass on the table," the man persists, "and the damn thing scooted right up to the edge and fell, singing all the way. We're vibrating, Captain. We're gonna crack the fucking hull."
He's right, actually. Run your ULCC in a straight line at 18 knots with empty cargo bays, and before long you'll start flapping apart like a '57 Chevy.
There are ways to soothe a shivering ship without losing too much time. I'm using every trick in the book: changing speed briefly, altering course slightly, shutting down entirely for a minute or two and coasting—anything to break the rhythm of the waves hitting our stem. So far it's working. So far we're still in one piece.
At dawn the sea turtles came.
Hundreds of them, Popeye, swimming through my dreams, their shells glistening with Texas crude. Then the snowy egrets arrived, black as crows, then the roseate spoonbills, the blue herons . . . I awoke in a sweat. I took a shower, dried off, read Act I of The Tempest —Prospero raising the storm and drawing the royal ship to his enchanted island, Miranda falling hopelessly in love with the castaway prince Ferdinand—and drank a
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