The Puerto Rican Sirens
&
the Tempest they Bring
Most sailors with some knowledge of Greek mythology know the danger of sirens, specifically being pulled on to the rocks by their enchantment and song.
I often ventured outside of our ship listening for their song during our ship’s transit through various parts of the Caribbean Sea. I often heard nothing but our hull politely slicing through calm seas. I had thought that these sirens were a bunk concept.
Largely forgetting about my mind’s pursuit of knowing sirens, I enjoyed some slow speed operations around a few islands that seemed to come out of nowhere. Our ship practiced anchoring, towing another ship, and a myriad of skills a warship should do well. It afforded me an opportunity to gawk at a few women at a yacht club and to soak up some sun like a Mansonian lizard. I thought nothing of it at the time, a tumultuous end was around the corner and I was celebrating its arrival.
The trip was a hidden blessing in that a cursed monotony was not causing me grief. It was something different and odd for us to do, but it felt like we got hit with one of the strangest armaments of all: our ship was to pull into the military base in Puerto Rico. My head continued to swirl. The thoughts were maddening.
I had every reason to believe that I called upon the memory of every Irish buccaneer and morally bankrupt sailor I knew to give my year a purpose. The island called with shapely women, the roughest mouthfelt rum, and an escape from my idiotic life decisions. But it was not to be.
The powers that be, not trusting the feral ship’s company, decided against a prolonged port visit. This decision, which was made for many port visits, was a sore spot for us. It made for bittersweet memories, seeing crystal blue waters, and teeming wildlife. I was under no delusion that I would have fun, hell was a constant companion. I watched a few cackling grifters disappear off the ship to return with cases of rum, to be stored for their slumber. During this visual insult, we completed our begrudging tasks. Our masters counted their lists and compared notes. They counted nothing else and found out we had hours left until we needed to leave once more.
For some reason, the powers that be capitulated and came together to figure out how to handle their charges. It was not prudent to let us loose upon a nearby town, knowing that we had rage to mix with our randy natures. Instead it was a furlough that was given as a consolation prize. It was better than nothing.
I found one of my usual cohorts that fancied fine drink, frivolities, and low grade criminal activity. He knew nothing better than to set out on foot to what sounded like a built up concrete shell doubling as a club. Both of us enjoyed the journey, finding no vehicles to relieve our feet. Seeing no hurry being on island time; we stopped to knock loose a coconut out of a tree, like backward evolving Homo Erecti. Then enjoying the sport of splitting it open with a rock and eating it primate style. I for one enjoyed the fair winds and courteous sun.
Our trek gave us time to jabber and to ponder. The journey was short, though. We found the concrete shell quickly, it being perched upon a mountain rising out of a sparkling pool. It appeared to be God’s thumb. There were people milling about and enjoying libations. And around these milling patrons, I spied a tattered sign that was warning us to: “Beware of underage women. Do not buy them drinks”.
I never knew that this was a problem, considering that this part of the base had thinned out of people. But alas, the warning had merit. I had spied three budding Puerto Rican sirens running out the door, smiling devilishly. The irony is that their song was heard no more, no longer pushing sailors toward the pain contained in the rock of a prison’s wall.
My cohort and I resisted the temptation to buy those nubile creatures strong drink. We continued on to our primary objective, which was to relax and deal with stress by imbibing. The noise of a familiar set of tunes drowned out any siren song. We set upon the hill and waited for the rest of our lives to appear. But the bitter point of our lives was a small step over the horizon.
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