Cursum Perficio

“Damn you!” screamed the outgoing Art Director as he stood on the bowsprit, one hand wrapped around the main jib line and the other clenched into a fist which he shook at the sky, “is this all you got?!”

Since the boat was still tied up to the dock at Sydney’s Fishmarkets on a beautiful sunny day, and since the harbour was like a millpond, the answer was probably no. It probably wasn’t all that the sea had in fact got.

The boots and I sat amidships with a beer while the Tech Editor ran up the Jolly Roger. The outgoing Art Director continued to rail at the heavens and shake his fist while the Tech Editor and I waited for Vic, the Guerrilla Gamer, and whichever of the contributors who had said they were going to show up actually showed up.

The plan was to sail the length of Sydney Harbour, under the Anzac Bridge, the Harbour Bridge, and then across the heads to Manly. At Manly we would feast on fish and chips while sitting on the beach and making fun of all the beautiful people while secretly wishing we were all one tenth as beautiful as them instead of in fact being various kinds of potato monster on account of how we were all gamers.

Less than an hour later and before the effects of the outgoing Art Director’s heatstroke could really combine with the effects of his beers, what could be best described as a horde of people appeared on the dock of the bay.

“Crapola,” said the Tech Editor, who owned the boat and was the only one who could sail her. “I didn’t think you’d all actually turn up.”

“Screw you,” said the Guerrilla Gamer in his way. He was wearing a gigantic Hawaiian shirt where the manufacturers had skillfully worked an offensive motto into the traditional flower patterns. “You invoke the Facebook invite, you reap the whirlwind.”

The gaggle of contributors, other staff and interns made agreeable noises. Some of them were eating barbequed octopus. The outgoing Art Director regarded the modest portions with some dismay.

“Damn you!” he shouted. “Is this all you got?!”

An intern shrugged as a final charred tentacle disappeared into his disgusting slippery maw.

The Tech Editor and I huddled amidships to discuss the situation. Our beer bottles clinked against each other with cheery conspiracy.

“Dude, how many people is this boat rated for?” I asked.

“Well,” said the Tech Editor. “Legally I can take eleven.”

From our vantage point at the waterline it was easier to count legs and divide by two.

“Maybe we can use some of the interns as ballast?” I suggested.

“Brilliant,” said the Tech Editor, clapping me on the back. He picked up the cricket bat we intended to use for beach cricket later on. “All aboard!” he cried.

Less than an hour and fifteen beers later, we’d untangled the sails from the Disc Editor’s fishing rod that he’d insisted on bringing, and were away. With exactly the sort of speed and elegance you’d expect from a 23-foot racing yacht carrying nearly a metric tonne of gamers, two hundred kilos of intern-ballast and a hull encrusted with (the Tech Editor kept insisting) ten thousand dollars worth of Sydney rock oysters, we motored into the harbour.

“Now here are the rules!” the Tech Editor suddenly boomed. Heads turned. “It is not acceptable to throw empty beer bottles over the side unless you’ve had six beers, and then you have to be aiming at something! If you’ve had ten beers, it’s acceptable to aim at the ocean!”

We waited for more, but that seemed to be it. Twenty minutes later the Tech Editor ran up the sail, whereupon the boom promptly swung around and clouted the Disc Editor square in the forehead.

When he’d staunched the bleeding, he took out his wallet and offered the outgoing Art Director twenty dollars to swap seats with him.

“Damn you!” screamed the outgoing Art Director. “Is this all you got?!”

Three times seemed to be the charm: in moments the wind had picked up and the boat was clipping along at a pace that bordered on the acceptable. The swell rose to two metres or so, and the boat set up a sort of pitching motion that set skulls rattling against each other in the overcrowded bows.

Suddenly the boom swung back across and hit the Disc Editor in the back of the head. “Screw this,” he said, and went and joined the interns in the bilge.

“Yeah!” the outgoing Art Director was screaming into the wind. Well, breeze really. But still. “Bring it on!” he screamed. “Give us all you got!” he screamed. “From Hell’s heart I stab at thee!” he screamed, which took the Guerrilla Gamer’s classical sensibilities by surprise.

As the Disc Editor poked his head out to make some comment, the boom swung once more. This time, the Disc Editor was quick enough to duck. With a twang, the cable holding the end of the boom snapped and a small metal pulley shot forward with incredible force, wrapping the cable around the outgoing Art Director’s ankle, lifting him bodily into the air and flinging him into the harbour.

“Damn you!” he screamed as he flew. “This is too much!”

“This is a lot more fun than Virtual Skipper!” said the Guerrilla Gamer, aimed his beer bottle at the ocean, and missed.

This edition of Yellow Boots is dedicated to Glen Downey, Lost at Sea.