A Whale of a Tale

T’was the Winter of 88, and me crew and I was sailing up past the Shetlands when an icy gale struck down from the Arctic, bringing snowflakes as big as your fist.

The crew batten down the hatches and prepared to ride out the storm below decks. Relieving the helmsman for well-deserved rest, I piloted the ship past Point Dundee, hoping to make a safe harbor at Arco Bay on the wayward side of the island.

Just after eight bells, the ship was buffeted by something enormous in the water. The crew rushed on deck, grabbing harpoons, thinking we had hit a Right Whale known to occupy these waters.

Tom Riddle rushed to the port side to see where the beast had gone when he suddenly turned back, his face white as a ghost, and started screaming about a sea monster.

Davey Lockhart brought his lantern to get a better view. He thought old Tom was spinning yarns again. He, too, screamed and fell back from the edge.

The ship was rocked hard to starboard, and then, as Davey Jones is my witness, a gigantic head appeared over the starboard deck. Its eyes glowed sickly green, and teeth the size of lampposts hung from its lips.

I threw the wheel hard to port and hollered to the crew to get below. T’was too late fer Bill Magiven, who was snatched up by the beastie.

The crew, seeing this, became enraged and rushed with harpoons to avenge their shipmate. Several throws hit the creature’s neck, causing it to veer away in pain. The lads secured the lines and prepared the ship to be towed by the monster.

And tow it did, why that beastie nearly dragged us under, but Lance O’Riely’s swift thinking saved us when he fired a cannonball into the side of the creature from the forward deck gun.

The cannonball’s impact enraged the monster, causing the ship to jolt. It threw me into the mast and snapped my leg clean in two.

Peter McGivens took the helm as Lance reloaded the gun. With the storm picking up, the gunner couldn’t get a clear shot at the beast’s head, causing the cannonball to hit the monster’s neck.

As the beast tried to drag us under, Jerry Thompson climbed into the crow’s nest to gain a better view of the monster. We knew we would see another day for the lookout called down “Arco Bay off the port bow.”

I signaled that the lines be cut, and the helmsman took us into the bay, where we anchored near the wharf. The lads lowered me into a skiff.

I was taken to a doctor who, being drunk at that time of night, ended up setting my leg wrong, giving me this limp and the reason I carry a cane.

Now, if you think I’m pulling your leg, next time you’re in Arco Bay, slip into the Rusty Bucket, ask the barman to point out the giant scale Timmy Jenson’s harpoon knocked off the monster’s hide, and you’ll know that this here tale was no fish story.