...where the music is like water rushing through you ... your function is really like that of a hose



A new leaf had fallen, an inflated whim danced in Morton’s head of a possible excursion to a small and volatile speck on a map suggested by Mr. Kobich. There were options to weigh concerning a descent back across the pond with Portuguese smugglers, but nothing drew more anxiety than the thought of how stupid it was to follow a trek sponsored by his most erroneous friend Mr. Kobich. There were a thousand questions. His poised and pudgy body, which at the moment stood ferociously impotent at the demise of the pier, a sigh, he boarded the ship.

One step, two step, up one more time and his feet embraced the barren wooden planks of the AH-ME-GO. Not only were they smugglers, but they had a sense of humor. What the hell am I doing? He stood there as sheepish as a blushing panda bear. Everything was covered in grey, the mist rolled in off the Atlantic. With nothing more than the clothes on his back, his sea cocktail painting, a bit of British currency and an agenda to meet a friend in the land of Salvador. If he’s not were he says he is, I’m screwed.

A Portuguese man with creases of sin stretched across his face whispered to Morton, "Sit-down in de bhack, tortuga (turtle)," his voice faded out from what appeared to be years of abusing tobacco, liquor and a possible huffing rubber cement addiction. I've seen scarecrows with nicer wardrobes. Morton wondered how the man knew he was slow, but he obliged and walked like a tortuga to the back of the boat.

As Morton approached the rear of the ship an old skinny man appeared before him on a bench with a shirt so bright it made the sun look goth. Let me guess your name is Sunny and you smuggle peaches. With the precision of a blind matador Morton bent down to touch the deck of the ship as he tried to delay the greeting exchange that the old man silently, inertly demanded. Morton felt the damp grains of the prickly wood and returned to his standing position and examined his hand, wet with the moisture of grainy silt.

"This must be your first time on a boat young man," the old Portuguese man interrupted Morton's dumbfoundedness. He continued, "I remember my first time on de boat, I was five years. I too found the floor confusing!" He laughed at Morton and stomped his cane on the deck, "Ha, I only joke, I see you meet my son," Morton nodded his head, "He ain't worth a damn to a woman, the lying sack, but he be de good man that take dis ship where we go."

Morton stepped closer to the old man and took off his hat and asked the man if he could sit next to him. "Si senior, it's either you or de seagulls, so you might as well sit."

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