Run No: 432 - 16 Sep 07 - Boat trip to Kdnap Cove


Hash no. 432......Hello sailor!
Hares: Cap’n Pugwash and St. Elmo’s Fire

 Ship’s log for Sunday the 16th of September in the year of our Lord two thousand and seven.

A life on the ocean waves? Piracy on the high seas I call it, or I would if we had got anywhere near the high seas. In typical hash fashion, it all went swimmingly. We all went swimming instead of hashing, and instead of screwing on Sin Island we got screwed at Hengquin Island, and even then one of the screws broke down.

If I were a suspicious type, I would be looking for clues. Skipper saves a few MOP on diesel by spinning a yarn about water getting into the engine, and moors up for the day instead of making the passage across the South China Sea... Hares get credited for lolling around swimming and boozing instead of setting a trail... Hash Cash jets off to Singapore...

I’ll try to remember the events as they happened, which would be a first. 10 a.m. sharp we’re told to be there as the boat will definitely leave on time. 10.20 a.m. sharp, GM turns up and we can now weigh anchor. I’ll never understand why they don’t just weigh it once and save all the bother of weighing it again every time they set off, but that’s sailors for you.

Everyone was excited as we sailed through the harbour and out onto the tossing waves, with Constant Wanker feeling very much at home. That was a bit of artistic licence, the truth being that a number of hashers were trying to sleep off the effects of the previous night’s celebrations whilst trying to remember whether they’d actually been to the Irish Bar and what the f***k happened there. Vague memories swirled about of jigs and reels, Happy Birthdays and Tom Jones impressions - and that was just Mhona. Others were secretly trying to work out whether something was wrong with their brain to help them understand how the hell they were on hash no. 432 when they were sure they had already run no. 433 only the day before. It was just another day aboard the good ship Minnow.

Suddenly one of our props went down, a bit like Australia’s had against Wales the night before, and this was just as worrying. There we were, cast adrift on the open ocean with no land in sight if you ignored the airport runway half a league away, and the sun hung menacingly in a cold, watery sky. ‘This is a bad omen’, we whispered. Macau is just a pimple on the arse of China and we’d got ourselves caught up in a little flatulence when the wind dropped. We had heard of the doldrums, and were already having visions of drifting for weeks, mad with thirst and scurvy and having to eat Leadbelly, or maybe even Tittiana.

Anyway, there was no need to worry as we had a boat full of mechanics with us. Shit House climbed manfully down into the boiler room and spent the next half hour banging, crashing, effing and blinding and generally sorting the engine out, then he climbed back out again and we resumed our aimless drifting.

I couldn’t say it was all downhill from there, because there aren’t any hills in the sea. The Mismanagement went into a huddle and that’s when the plot was hatched. Nasi Turd decided that we were going around the bend yet again and the skipper charted a course straight around Coloane to Kidnapper’s cove off Hengquin Island, where we spent the rest of the day trying to rouse the hares into popping ashore and setting us free by pretending to set an impromptu trail.

The hares were clearly part of the plot. All we could get from them, in between sips of wine (I thought poofters weren’t allowed on the Hash) was ‘Arrh, me old matey, distances are much greater at sea than they might appear to you landlubbers. It might look like only a couple o’ hundred yards to you, but really it’s closer to 25 nautical miles, and who knows what may be down there? We’re safer where we are’.

So we all jumped into the water and had a nice splash about among the sharks, with St. Elmo, one of our reluctant hares, competing for the biggest splash and Cunter Ass showing everybody why he got his name. He did seem a bit reluctant to turn over and show us what the cold water had done to his Thompson. Keep the shorts on your head, Cunter, and if you’re reading this Mini Me, remember this tip for keeping your cell warm too.

Whilst everyone was distracted, a common condition on the Hash, three brave escapees took their lives in their hands and swam for the shore. Cunter Ass was among them, his shorts on his head, God knows what in his hands (oh yes, his life), and the others keeping their distance. Eight minutes later they had covered the 25 nautical miles and scrambled exhausted onto the rocks. My heart leapt when I realised that St. Elmo was among them, obviously planning the escape route and about to start laying a trail.

Unfortunately they had been spotted by the skipper, and a heavily-armed crew was dispatched to bring them back in. In fact they had 2 arms each, so they were able to row really quickly. Terrified for their lives, the escapees jumped back into the water, but must have got a bit mixed up with all of the terror and swam straight back to the boat.

After that we were all too frightened to try to escape. The skipper had already spent the day humouring us with grog and vittles, and now challenged us to drink him dry. This was obviously part of the plot, and I for one fully expected to wake up in a Vietnamese village next day sewing trainers for Reebok. Even terror won’t stop a man who’s mad for drink though, and nobody would listen to my warnings, and the Hash slowly descended into a maelstrom of drunkenness and depravity.

The pack was summoned on deck for the circle, and various miscreants were summarily lashed and made to walk the plank, or was it walk like planks and drink lashings of beer? Names were bandied about for christening the Shit family, with Piss-Pot, nephew of Shit House, and Portaloo, wife of same featuring among them. By this time the sun and sea-water had got to us and the Furies took over what remained of our fevered brains. All descended below deck, where Cap’n Pugwash freed himself of his sea-boots and practically everything else and led us in a pole dance of whirling dervishes with the skipper laughing like the very devil as he steered us to our doom.....

Next thing we knew we were back at the jetty and wondering whether it had all been a dream.

On on an’ shiver me timbers

Nancy Boy

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