A Story with a Number of Turns - Part II

This story of wrong turns comes from my seafaring days, navigating the shark-infested, treacherous waters of The Solent. We supped our special Captain Jack seafarer's ale in the warmth of Old Ma's secret tavern. They said it gave you "sea legs" even on dry land, and many a night I would make my way on board to captain the night crossing like a gyroscope - my head spinning, but body beautifully poised. Or was it the other way round? On this particular night, there was hushed talk of a coming storm. We sea folk are superstitious, we don't want to tempt the fates. We chewed our tobacco and spat on the saw dust floor, telling ourselves to remember the matches next time. Someone got out their dominoes, we were allowed to do that without reprimand in those far off days. No-one minded, every crossing could be our last. In time, I had to make my gyroscopic way to my ship. My men depended on me. I had a sense of foreboding, this was going to be a tough crossing. The wind was starting up, but I put that down to the pizzas. To add to our woes, a glutinous fog was curling across the black water like a blanket.

We made good progress to the edge of the harbour but once clear of her protection we were at the mercy of wind and waves. There was no moon, no stars, no hope, but my survival instinct kicked in like a wild horse and I screamed "Which way?!". There was no answer from the elements and I turned to starboard in a desperate attempt to seize control of ship and destiny. Hours passed by with no sight of land or light, long dark hour after dark hour of a journey that normally took one hour, There was much sickness and hunger among the crew, and the passengers were none too pleased either - the last of the sandwiches had gone. As dawn, er, dawned, we were in wide open ocean. Much consulting of enigmatic and cryptic charts - I told the navigator to get a simple nautical A to Z - revealed that we had crossed many sea areas during that fateful night - from Wight, to Thames, to Humber, to Dogger, Forties and finally Viking.  Bloody Viking, bloody Joe Leff! What a mess. When all hope seemed to have vanished, a graceful seabird alighted on the prow of the ship. It seemed to have a spiritual presence. We seafolk are superstitious, maybe this was our salvation. The bird took flight, looked back at us and dipped its wings as if to say "look, I can fly" or "follow me". I trimmed the sails and did  a number of other nautical things, and eventually we reached the safety of port in Cowes. We had been at sea many days, far more than normal for the Isle of Wight ferry,  and we truly had sea legs without the aid of ale. Our saviour was exhausted and richly deserved her reward. I contacted the Proverbial Farmer Giles whom I knew of old and arranged for the hungry bird to to be suckled by one of his cows. After all, one good tern deserves an udder.