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den. Old Honey, she say, Precious—
    Precious?
    Hon say to me, Precious, dat old sand ain’t never gone to do you one bit of good. I say, Hon, when all my money gone and I am old, I still have dat land, and it better’n nothin. Why, boy, if I knew den what I know now! You hear me, Athens? If I had bought dat beach before de Yankees got to it, I’d be a millionaire! (
sighs
) And now I gettin old, and I got nothin.
    Precious! Dat old whore never call him Precious in her life. Call him a lot of things but never call him dat! To hear dis fool run on like dis dat never owned a catboat, even, let alone de money to buy dat beach—
    Copm Raib?
    Oh, mon, de black mon dat woman took up with were ugly as a gorilla, and she a white woman, mon, so dis upset poor Vemon dere. Dat day in de Standard Bar, Vemon were drunk and usin his mouth de way he do, so dis black fella, he toss some alcohol on our poor old shipmate dere and toss a match after dat, to sot’m on fire, see if dat shut’m up. Well, it were shortly after Vemon left de hospital dat he ask to sail with me down to Honduras. He were very drunk dat day, too, and he told me he not goin to sail away from home without a case of rum, and after dat he told me dat he had papers, and dat a seaman dat had papers ought to get an extra half share, and I told him he could take dem papers—
    I hearin you, Copm Raib!
    Dass good! Might learn something!
    I had good jobs and plenty! Steamshippin! Had my papers, and I been to other parts! Stead of signin on with you, I’d of done better to go up dere to United States, see if dey couldn’t use a good mon up
dat
way—
    You
had
good jobs, dat is right, in de days dat you could still hondle yourself and call yourself a deckhand! But de only jobs you gone get now is with domn fools like me dat take you along just to give you a rest from your own self!
    I ’preciate dat, Copm Raib! I—
    You ’preciate dat enough to do your work? Cause no mon here gone corry you, by Jesus!
    A silence. Raib looks around him.
    Buddy? You standin de first watch tonight? Well, speak up, boy, you feelin seasick? Cause on watch you gots de men’s life in your hands, dey ain’t no lyin down. Dis here a empty part of de bleak ocean, but dey could be a trader goin across from de Windwards over to Belize, and dis vessel ain’t got runnin lights and all like dat to let’m know dat fools is comin at’m out de dark, you hear me now? You hear me?
    No runnin lights, no, and no fire equipment, no life jackets, no nothin—
    Hear de way he shout? He scare’m fore he learn’m.
    You fellas best listen here and stop dat mutterin! I gone tell you a old-fashion story about standin watch, and den I ain’t gone to speak about dis motter any more. In de days of my youth was dis turtle coptin, a MacTaggart, I believe, dat dey call him Fightin Mac. And dis vessel had a cargo of turtle for Port Antonio. And he speakin to his crew like I speakin to you now. So he say, dis is God’s own sailin ship, so when I gives an order, I don’t want to see no mon walk or run, I want to see him
fly
dere, like a angel. (
laughs
) Like a
angel
! But dere was dis little Miskita Indian, and dis Indian fellasleep durin de time of his watch. And dere come down a press of wind, and because dis vessel was not steered in de proper fashion, de bow was drawed under, and one of de crew was washed over de side, and drownded. Got a mouthful of sand, as de old people say.
    A long pause.
    A mouthful of sand.
    The Captain looks from man to man.
    Well, Fightin Mac, he made dis little Indian stand a forty-eight-hour watch, and all of dis time he beat’m with a knout of rope. So when dey come ashore dere, in Jamaica, dis little Indian, he went to de insane asylum—
dass
de kind of shape dat poor fella was in after his voyage with Fightin Mac … Now dat is a old-fashion story, and I hopes dat you fellas reap some sense from it. Cause I only sayin what is fair when I say you ain’t much of a crew. I got