“Heads up there sailor!”

      When he peaked around the burdensome load he surprisingly spied a flying object souring straight for his head. Desperate, he dropped everything just in time to catch - a rugby ball. He looked at the ball then to its launching source, unexpectedly finding thirteen members of the Princeton University Rugby Club sprawled about the ship’s mess, sipping coffee and laughing. 

      Bart, thinking only he and Stanley were making the journey, was almost speechless. Almost. “Well, I’ll be a…”

      “…a monkey’s uncle?” laughed Chrisfield.

      “Well no. More like a real man at a little girls tea party,” corrected Bart.

      Objects of disagreement flew through the air from all around the mess at Bart who dropped the ball and tripped and fell over the baggage when he tried to dodge the borage. The rugby boys roared with laughter.

      “It’s nice to know there’s more than one fool on this boat,” laughed Bart as he lay sprawled atop the baggage.

      The rugby boy’s roar of laughter carried from the ship’s mess to above decks and topside where Captain Buckmaster and Stanley stood looking out over New York harbor. With the passing of the evening the harbor had gone to rest and the noisy clamor of the sea trade had yielded to the gentle lapping of water and distant echoes from the city.

      The Captain, teasing a little smoke out of a hand carved ivory pipe observed, “That’s an interesting crew you’ve got there, young Wellington.”

      Stanley smiled and nodded agreement.

      “They have any sailing experience?” inquired the Captain.

      “Most do.  But that’s not the reason they’re here,” replied Stanley.

      “I trust I’ll be informed of the purpose of this voyage.”

      “Of course, sir. As soon as we’ve cleared the Outer Banks.”

      “Not before?”

      Stanley offered no response and the Captain pried no further, taking the young man at his word.  Stanley turned and looked about the ship, sizing her up and becoming much impressed.

      “Say, I thought my father discarded all these sailing vessels years ago in favor of steamers.  Sold or traded them all off.”

      “He did.”

      “I don’t understand. She still carries the Wellington flag.”

      “She’s your grandfather’s favorite. He saved her. Purchased her aside from the company… on the sly you might say,” said the Captain with a confidential smile.

      “Of course. Sounds like something he’d do.”

      “I’m surprised you didn’t know.”

      “No reason to I suppose,” said Stanley.

      “But Mr. Wellington. The Crimson Glory is your ship. Your registry,” clarified the Captain.

      “What… What are you saying?”

      “You own this ship, sir. And everything about her. I’ve been in your employ for, oh nearly nine years now. And if you don‘t mind my bragging a bit, she‘s been fairly profitable in spite of her years. There‘s no expense to the wind, as your grandfather is fond of saying.”

      Stanley was set aback as he looked to the Captain then again over the ship with newly appreciative eyes.

      “Something tells me this is going to be a very interesting voyage. Interesting indeed,” laughed Captain Buckmaster as he slapped Stanley on the back. “Well then, I’m going to retire and leave you alone to get acquainted with the old lady. She’s well kept and well treated and you’ll find she’s old but she’s forgiving and dependable. Your grandfather would tell you that as well. He cut his teeth on this ship many years ago.”

     With that, Captain Buckmaster left Stanley alone on deck as he made for the hatch and below to retire for the night. As he did he turned and offered up one last comment.

      “We sail with the morning tide, Mr. Wellington.  I’d suggest you call your men to order then all of you get some rest. By what little I do know I suspect it’s going to be a long voyage.”

      Following Captain Buckmaster’s departure, Stanley turned, spread his hands on the ship’s rail and looked out over the harbor. He breathed deeply, closed his eyes then opened them to the New York City skyline where there rose above all else the Empire State Building. And to think, he mused and smiled, this all began with Bart wanting to see a silly monkey movie.

       A loud CLANG rang out when a large cast iron frying pan slammed against the bulkhead of the galley. Big Tiny Braxton’s eyes grew wide with fear as he ducked to avoid what would have been certain death in the form of that same lethal weapon when it passed nearby again, colliding with the passageway door and barely missing Bart who had just arrived and was about to enter.

      “Oh shit!” exclaimed Bart. “What the…”

      “I was just looking for a snack,” explained Big Tiny.

      The iron pan rose again, gripped firmly by the hands of a five foot nothing short wild-eyed crazed Chinese cook who babbled threats continuously in his native tongue. Bart entered the galley carefully, crossing and bumping into Big Tiny who was desperately backing away in the opposite direction and struck his head on the low entrance. Bart stepped in and threw up his hands as though he had just been cornered in some cheesy Western movie.

      “No no! Wait! Stop!” he pleaded of the Chinaman.

      The little Chinese cook stood his ground, continuing to express what must have been the Oriental equivalent of the entire unabridged international sailor’s profane four letter lexicon. In a quest for peace, waving his hands, Bart attempted to bridge the language barrier, which he had somehow quickly deduced was the crux of the problem at hand.

      “No no. You… You stoppee. You no can chop chop big man with big iron pan. You makee big man get dead. Captainson no likee big man get dead.”

      The cook grew silent but continued to hold the pan at the ready. Bart smiled, believing he was making progress.

      “Big man same same likee fuzzy little panda bear,” said Bart, patting Big Tiny’s belly to demonstrate his meaning and show Big Tiny‘s harmlessness. “He no hurt little China man. Little China man put down big pan now, okay. No more chop chop. No more whack whack. No good you hurt little fuzzy panda big man. You savvy?”

      The cook lowered the pan and stared at Bart for a long puzzled moment, then said finally, “I don’t know where the hell you learned your Chinese, pal, but I wouldn’t advise you use it in an Oriental restaurant. You’re likely to end up with a bowl full of pig shit and chicken lips.”

      Bart stared. Big Tiny stared. The cook tossed the deadly pan on the table with a bang, wiped his hands on his apron and extended one in greeting to Bart who continued to stare but eventually accepted with caution.

      “My name is Soo,” said the Chinese cook.

      “Sue?” returned Bart, quickly releasing the cook’s hand and looking to Big Tiny.

      Big Tiny shrugged his shoulders and subtly shook a limp wrist, his silent gesture of explanation regarding the cook’s feminine name.

      “No no, damnit. Not Sue. Soo,” clarified the cook.

      Bart stared. Big Tiny stared.

      “Soo Lee Min Jones. Everybody calls me Jonesy,” said the cook. “I’m the cook on this ship and I’ll kill anybody who farts around in my galley. Got that?”

      Bart and Big Tiny both nod understanding.

      “Good. Now get the hell out of here,” Jonesy instructed Bart. “I have work to do.”

      He then retrieved a large cleaver and turned his attention to a pile of vegetables on a nearby chopping block. The first victim was a head of cabbage as the cleaver came down with lightning speed and resounding force. The cabbage offered little resistance, falling over in two equal pieces.  Jonesy turned to Big Tiny and smiled. Big Tiny swallowed nervously as he unconsciously ran his hand across his neck.

      “And take that big fuzzy panda bear with you,” added Jonesy.

      Bart stared. Big Tiny stared. Then suddenly the culture lesson ended when it was interrupted by the entrance of a much excited Geoffrey Chrisfield.

      “Hey fellahs. Topside. It’s Lady Liberty,” announced Chrisfield.

      Bart, Big Tiny and Chrisfield arrived topside just as the Crimson Glory was sailing past the Statue of Liberty.

      “Say, Bart. What’s all this stuff about a curse and a monster?” asked Big Tiny.

      Bart squinted as he came into the morning light and looked up to Lady Liberty towering far above their ship’s mast and billowing sails. The prominent lady, standing there so very tall on her island seemed to offer Bart some kind of premonition of which he failed to grasp.

      “Monster?” answered Bart, looking up to the giant lady. “Oh, it’s no big deal.”