Speaker’s corner
TALKING of cannibals… what? We weren’t? Well, we are now. I recently read the story of the Essex, a Nantucket whaling ship that, on December 20, 1820, was sunk in mid-Pacific by a huge sperm whale. The enraged bull twice rammed the 238-ton threemaster, stoving it in, leaving the 20-man crew stranded in three small boats.
They fitted the boats with masts and sails from the wreck, and stocked up with what fresh water and food they could salvage.
Afraid of cannibals they decided to steer clear of the Pacific islands and gamble on sailing south for almost 5 000km to pick up the easterly trade winds and then head for Chile 6 500km from their present position.
The book, in case you want to buy it, is In the Heart of the Sea – the Tragedy of the Whaleship Essex, by Nathaniel Philbrick (Penguin), first published in 2000. It was adapted into a film of the same name, which came out in 2015, starring Chris Hemsworth.
They managed to stay within hailing distance for days, even during violent storms, but gradually they lost sight of each other.
They survived by eating their shipmates. At first they ate only those who died of starvation – one emaciated corpse kept three men going for one week. But things grew worse. Finally, they agreed to draw lots to see who should give up his life to feed the rest. Then they drew to see who should execute him.
It sounds like one of those cheapo Greek holiday cruises.
To cut a long story short they spent months at sea. One boat disappeared forever and another, with three men, landed on a desert island from where they were eventually rescued.
The last boat was found after 93 days by a vessel whose crew at first thought the drifting boat was empty. As the ship’s master peered down into it he was startled two halfcomatose, hollow-eyed living skeletons, one being the Essex captain. They pathetcially clutched to them the human bones from which they were sucking the marrow. Detached human fingers were lined up next to the men.
I morbidly wondered whether they became connoisseurs and, if so, which bits they preferred – the rump? The legs maybe…? Ring. Ring. Hello, this is Speaker’s Corner, how may I be of assistance to you-hoo? Oh blimey it’s the E*D*I*T*O*R. Clarke! This is distasteful in the extreme. Distasteful, Sir? I’m sure they removed the fellow’s socks first and washed between the toes... Clarke, for Pete’s sake change the subject! Very well, sir. (Weak stomach, I bet.) Well, as they say in Parliament, what shall we talk about next, hey?
Threnody! (She’s my secretary – the one who files everything under M for Miscellaneous). THRENODY!!! THRENODEEEEEE!!! Ah, there you are, talking to your mother as usual. No, no – carry on – you haven’t seen her since breakfast.
Threnody, what’s on my diary today. Oh no! A finger supper?
A former colleague, Tony Davies, banks by internet. One day the Standard Bank website asked if he would update his “personal profile” and how would he like to be addressed so that they could “personalise” their service?
He said, “I did as requested. It asked how I would like to be addressed, so I typed, “Ass’ole”.
“Now whenever I sign on, the screen cheerfully welcomes me: Hi Ass’ole.
“Why does the bank pretend to offer a ‘personal’ service when we all know it’s not? The whole purpose of internet banking is that it’s utterly impersonal.”
He’s right. This insincerity gnaws at my gut. Oops!