Crossing The Line

 

As the ship drew closer to the line of the equator,

the sea king began to lick his lips in anticipation

of the celebration which would mark the occasion

and of the fat fresh tadpoles which Big O and his 

waiters would serve when he returned from the 

ceremony.

Of course, tadpoles that could swim in the ocean 

were unknown, 

but Big O knew that the frogs on board would have 

given birth long before the line was crossed.

Tadpoles were the king’s favourite party food and he 

had already a collection of shells to serve them in.

He had been training the waiters for some time.

He always did when they heard that a ship was 

approaching the line.

His octopuses were in great demand.

With eight arms they were the king’s waiters of choice

and he had more standing by ready to become wine waiters.

They would serve the rum that would be gifted when the 

king went on board and roared and waved his sceptre 

around a bit and struck the deck with three loud raps to 

signal his judgement on which tadpoles should become 

food for his homecoming party and which he could call 

his sons and trust to raise frogs to supply his future treats.

The octopuses waited, wondering how hard they must work 

before the king and his retinue were sated and sleepy from 

fat tadpoles and watery rum.

It would all depend on the bargain struck on board,

tadpoles for now or more tadpoles for later,

rum for the king, or more rum for the waiters.

Big O always tried to assess the king’s mood before he made 

his judgement.

It would be a clue as to how many shells would be needed

after the ceremony.

Small shells were easy for the waiters to collect, but the large 

ones to hide the rum for later were hard work and needed 

several arms to fill them and stash them in the sand out of 

sight for when the king and his followers slept.

As usual the sleeping king dreamt of octopuses dancing 

drunkenly on his table and was that Big O wearing his crown?

He woke, combed the weed from his hair, retrieved his crown 

from under the table and pondered.

Did he really see it on the head of Big O in his dream?

Recurring dreams were such a strange thing, he mused.

Then, puzzled, he surveyed the broken shells on the table.

He wondered how they came to be broken.

Had his dream come true?

He straightened his crown and looked for his sceptre to 

bang on the ground.

He really must speak with Big O.

Somehow, he thought, a line had been crossed.

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