As a watchman of another sort, how quickly was I rotated, one night shortly thereafter, from one position to another, ever closer to where the Captain slouched in an elevated swivel seat on the starboard side of the bridge, with his feet propped up, while the rest of us humiliatingly acquiesced to his majesty’s every command. By the time I had reached the helm, I’d had about enough of this charade, and started responding to his commands with an obviously defiant tone of voice. For I hated standing there quietly in my place while he chitchatted with the officer of the deck who, in my eyes, deserved no more respect than the lowest man present, that is, than I did.
“Who did this gaunt weasely-looking old man think he was anyway—God?“ I inquired of myself.
Instantly, I knew in my heart of hearts, he was not man enough to take charge of my life, for I sought someone much wiser than this old fool to guide me. Warned by my soul not to yield to such hollow displays of worldly power, I was told to stand tall for what I truly believed. Having inherited the timidity and indecisiveness of my mother, I would need the strong will of my stepfather to combat the obstinacy of this old man.
“It seems,“ proclaimed the old man as we locked horns for one last time, “the new seaman is in need of a haircut.“
As he smiled after having almost gotten the better of me, I stepped back, for a moment, to collect my wits about my self. Determined to unseat the old goat, I returned the smile with the assurance it’d take more to subdue this Samson than a haircut, which sent him scurrying below—as I had the last laugh—for the cover of his own lair.
