Steven Hunley
03-21-2018, 08:31 PM
Midnight Rider
I saw Sonny on an off until after we slipped through the Panama Canal, then for some reason he’d disappear for hours at time. Figured I ask Captain Joe.
Captain Joe was one of those serious types, and had a grizzled Van Dyke beard, an impeccably clean uniform, and a career so ancient it stretched back to the Belgian Congo. Although I’d been introduced to him, we’d never really talked, and if we did it was only about the weather. I caught up with him in the wheel-house overseeing a mate polishing brass work on the G.P.S. system. He had an eye for detail and nothing escaped him.
“I’ve known Sonny for years. Met him on the gulf coast,” he confided. “He’s a Texan born and bred. His father’s was in oil, owned refineries. His mother died when he was born, leaving him sole heir to the estate. But Sonny would have none of it.”
“Really? He talks like a cow-puncher.”
“Don’t let the southern drawl fool you. He’s a college graduate in philosophy. He gave up the princely allowance his family set up for him, and started practicing meditation. This isn’t the first voyage he’s been with me. We first met while I was carrying loads of pipe and drilling equipment to one of the off-shore rigs."
“So what’s he do now besides babysit polo ponies?”
“You’ll have to ask him yourself.”
“I can’t find him.”
“He’s up on the aft deck near the fantail. You can’t miss him, try there.”
I didn’t recognize Sonny at first. He was sitting crossed-legged on a bamboo mat facing away from me between two potted palms. He’d jettisoned his Levis and boots and cowboy shirt with pearl-button snaps. He was shoeless, wearing white canvas pants, and a loose saffron-colored shirt. His hands were resting on his knees palms up, thumbs and index fingers making a loop. I know when a person’s meditating, so I sat down nearby and let him have at it.
“Let the cowboy get comfortable in the saddle of the cosmos,” I figured. “And rock the cradle of love.”
He couldn’t have picked a better time. The sea was ironed flat, the sun was mild, the only thing moving was the gentle throb of diesel engines, and even that wasn’t hurried.
I decided I’d get in on the non-action. I closed my eyes and assumed the position. Hard to say how many minutes go by when the only measurement of time stops because you’ve finally decided to put the brakes on your mind. The cradle of love don’t rock easily. It takes effort for the mind to find its off switch.
Finally he placed his palms together, opened his eyes and took a deep breath and got up. He saw me and smiled. I noticed an ant crawling on his shoulder and went to flick it off with my finger.
“Whoa, Partner,” he said. “No living creature will ever be sacrificed, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant.” He placed his finger next to it, and after it climbed aboard, he transferred it to one of the palm leaves. “Now, what’s on your cotton-pickin’ mind?”
“Have you any idea where we’re headed after we off-load the ponies?”
“No idea at all.”
“I need to get to the east coast and look for a passage across the Atlantic.”
“I reckon they don’t have many tubs like this one ferrying ponies across the Atlantic. Is there anything else you can do?”
“I do a few magic tricks.”
“Well, that’s a tough one. But here’s an idea. Can you make balloon animals?
“Just poodles, everybody can make poodles.”
“Then you look for a job as an entertainer on one of those fancy Carnival cruise ships or something like that. You twist and squeak and magic your way across the Atlantic.”
“Now that’s an idea.”
Most of the next morning was spent googling my prospects. I came up with nothing. Cruise ships aren’t what they used to be, the days of the Queen Mary are long gone. I closed the computer and fell back in my chair in a blue funk. Then there was a knock on my cabin door.
“It’s Sonny.”
There stood my partner, and his face was beaming.
“Buddy, hold on to your hat. I got news. After we dump these here polo ponies, Captain Joe is going to pick up a load of sugar cane and anise in Jamaica. Seems a company in France wants it to make Absinthe Supérieure, some kind of booze. Got some kind of secret formula they use to refine it, and only do it in France. No other place will do. From Jamaica we head north, hang a right turn somewhere out there on the Big Blue, and then on to Le Havre."
He started counting out money on my bunk.
“Now there’s what I owe you. I was ready to give you a bonus, but once the ponies are gone you’re out of a job. You were good at shoveling pony poop, a regular Hercules. So instead, I’ll give the bonus to Captain Joe for your passage.”
“Do you think we’ll pass the spot where the Titanic went down?”
“What do you want to do, take a picture or something? One piece of ocean looks mighty like another.”
“Well, not exactly…”
“The Titanic you say? That’s quite a poser.”
Sonny rubbed his forehead.
“Come on up to the chart room and let’s see what we got cookin’.”
Every league further north grew colder, especially at night. We’d stroll on the deck after dinner, dressed in our pea coats buttoned up to the top, stop in the shadow between two lights and talk, steam escaping with every breath. The stars were like diamonds sewn on the black canopies of Tamerlane’s tents. The Atlantic reflected them, but its clumsy waves broke them into a thousand pieces and scattered them like pearls.
“Sonny, do you believe a ghost can haunt you?”
“I got an ex-girlfriend, haunts me all the time.” He looked up at the heavens. “So why not a ghost?”
“Sonny, have I got a story for you.”
©Steven Hunley 2013
https://youtu.be/ItnG3jFErvo Gregg Allman LIVE - "Midnight Rider" | Back to Macon, GA
I saw Sonny on an off until after we slipped through the Panama Canal, then for some reason he’d disappear for hours at time. Figured I ask Captain Joe.
Captain Joe was one of those serious types, and had a grizzled Van Dyke beard, an impeccably clean uniform, and a career so ancient it stretched back to the Belgian Congo. Although I’d been introduced to him, we’d never really talked, and if we did it was only about the weather. I caught up with him in the wheel-house overseeing a mate polishing brass work on the G.P.S. system. He had an eye for detail and nothing escaped him.
“I’ve known Sonny for years. Met him on the gulf coast,” he confided. “He’s a Texan born and bred. His father’s was in oil, owned refineries. His mother died when he was born, leaving him sole heir to the estate. But Sonny would have none of it.”
“Really? He talks like a cow-puncher.”
“Don’t let the southern drawl fool you. He’s a college graduate in philosophy. He gave up the princely allowance his family set up for him, and started practicing meditation. This isn’t the first voyage he’s been with me. We first met while I was carrying loads of pipe and drilling equipment to one of the off-shore rigs."
“So what’s he do now besides babysit polo ponies?”
“You’ll have to ask him yourself.”
“I can’t find him.”
“He’s up on the aft deck near the fantail. You can’t miss him, try there.”
I didn’t recognize Sonny at first. He was sitting crossed-legged on a bamboo mat facing away from me between two potted palms. He’d jettisoned his Levis and boots and cowboy shirt with pearl-button snaps. He was shoeless, wearing white canvas pants, and a loose saffron-colored shirt. His hands were resting on his knees palms up, thumbs and index fingers making a loop. I know when a person’s meditating, so I sat down nearby and let him have at it.
“Let the cowboy get comfortable in the saddle of the cosmos,” I figured. “And rock the cradle of love.”
He couldn’t have picked a better time. The sea was ironed flat, the sun was mild, the only thing moving was the gentle throb of diesel engines, and even that wasn’t hurried.
I decided I’d get in on the non-action. I closed my eyes and assumed the position. Hard to say how many minutes go by when the only measurement of time stops because you’ve finally decided to put the brakes on your mind. The cradle of love don’t rock easily. It takes effort for the mind to find its off switch.
Finally he placed his palms together, opened his eyes and took a deep breath and got up. He saw me and smiled. I noticed an ant crawling on his shoulder and went to flick it off with my finger.
“Whoa, Partner,” he said. “No living creature will ever be sacrificed, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant.” He placed his finger next to it, and after it climbed aboard, he transferred it to one of the palm leaves. “Now, what’s on your cotton-pickin’ mind?”
“Have you any idea where we’re headed after we off-load the ponies?”
“No idea at all.”
“I need to get to the east coast and look for a passage across the Atlantic.”
“I reckon they don’t have many tubs like this one ferrying ponies across the Atlantic. Is there anything else you can do?”
“I do a few magic tricks.”
“Well, that’s a tough one. But here’s an idea. Can you make balloon animals?
“Just poodles, everybody can make poodles.”
“Then you look for a job as an entertainer on one of those fancy Carnival cruise ships or something like that. You twist and squeak and magic your way across the Atlantic.”
“Now that’s an idea.”
Most of the next morning was spent googling my prospects. I came up with nothing. Cruise ships aren’t what they used to be, the days of the Queen Mary are long gone. I closed the computer and fell back in my chair in a blue funk. Then there was a knock on my cabin door.
“It’s Sonny.”
There stood my partner, and his face was beaming.
“Buddy, hold on to your hat. I got news. After we dump these here polo ponies, Captain Joe is going to pick up a load of sugar cane and anise in Jamaica. Seems a company in France wants it to make Absinthe Supérieure, some kind of booze. Got some kind of secret formula they use to refine it, and only do it in France. No other place will do. From Jamaica we head north, hang a right turn somewhere out there on the Big Blue, and then on to Le Havre."
He started counting out money on my bunk.
“Now there’s what I owe you. I was ready to give you a bonus, but once the ponies are gone you’re out of a job. You were good at shoveling pony poop, a regular Hercules. So instead, I’ll give the bonus to Captain Joe for your passage.”
“Do you think we’ll pass the spot where the Titanic went down?”
“What do you want to do, take a picture or something? One piece of ocean looks mighty like another.”
“Well, not exactly…”
“The Titanic you say? That’s quite a poser.”
Sonny rubbed his forehead.
“Come on up to the chart room and let’s see what we got cookin’.”
Every league further north grew colder, especially at night. We’d stroll on the deck after dinner, dressed in our pea coats buttoned up to the top, stop in the shadow between two lights and talk, steam escaping with every breath. The stars were like diamonds sewn on the black canopies of Tamerlane’s tents. The Atlantic reflected them, but its clumsy waves broke them into a thousand pieces and scattered them like pearls.
“Sonny, do you believe a ghost can haunt you?”
“I got an ex-girlfriend, haunts me all the time.” He looked up at the heavens. “So why not a ghost?”
“Sonny, have I got a story for you.”
©Steven Hunley 2013
https://youtu.be/ItnG3jFErvo Gregg Allman LIVE - "Midnight Rider" | Back to Macon, GA