December 16, 1966

Eight miles out of Mozambique, and isn't it meself. Captain Phineas O'Doome, and me with a raging sore on me starboard knee, God help that rotten mulatto queen if I ever lay me hands on her again, if the holy penicillin don't save me 'tis me for the Union Jack overcoat and the squid pecking at me bones, and ye can lay to that, 21° S by 37° W, no more wind than a flea's belch and the smell of a thousand ton of good Rhodesian shag rising from the forward hold fit to drive a feller mad, and every man-jack aboard on fifty a day, we'd be better off carrying a cargo of women. Judas save me pocky soul, if it's not me watching 'em every minute God gives, they'll be down below decks and rolling the little sweeties faster than a dago can spit. Praise the blessed saints, it's us for lovely Bombay in a couple of weeks, off-load the stuff in two winks, and O'Doome in the arms of beautiful Parsee Molly, God save thorn legs of hers and don't let the varicose get 'em before I do, it's little enough love a poor sailorman can find, and ye can lay to that!