The Golden Voyage of Barney Rubble, Part 10

That night I stood on deck next to Rubble at the rudder and read the stars above. I could clearly read the blue astral trail through the mysterious night sky and pointed the way. The night was clear, the breeze in our favor and we buffeted across the world ocean at a good pace. The morons loped around the deck on all fours, chirping and behaving like demented racing-monkeys.

I smartly decided to keep the booze intake down to a minimum to maintain my focus on the course that the God Who Whistles in The Treetops had set for us. That being the case, I kept myself entertained by singing old sea-going songs, like the following:

Whup hey ne who what, great globs of ocean!
Whup hey who who now, great slabs of land!
Whup hey ne who what, the boat’s in motion!
Whup hey who who now, meat in the pan!

Away we go sailing to meet the monsters!
Away we go sailing because we are brave!

Whup hey ne who what, I’ll sail in a circle!
Whup hey who do now, I’ll roam in herds!
Whup hey ne who what, I’ll shoot a turkle!
Whup hey who do now, I’ll shoot some birds!

Away we go sailing the broad sea of the calamity!
Away we go sailing because we are strong!

Whup hey who do what,
Whup hey who do what,
Whup hey who do what
HEY! Whup hey who do what,
Whup hey who do what,
Whup hey who do what
HEY! HEY NOW NOW!

It was so damned exhiliarating, scudding along over the World Ocean in the dim moonlight, tracing the blue star trail above me, Rubble guiding trance-like and bouncing with the rhythm of the boat over the main, the morons loping like a herd of dummies around and around and around…. Wow, man. This here was the Real Deal, I reckoned.

But, by the next morning we were in sight of land again and it was the same land where we had seen the scissor beaked beast pince the Megazebra’s head off. But, with the assurance of the God Who Whistles in The Treetops reverberating in my cranium, I bid the morons strike the sails and drop anchor till night revealed the path to us once again. We spent the day, lulled by the waves and slumbering like babies upon their Mamas’ ample bosoms.

The next 20 nights we sailed and sailed again and again the trail brought us to the same landfall of the Megazebra’s demise. I puzzled not the ways of the God Who Whistles in The Tree Tops. Had he not brought us this far? Had he not protected us from blood-thirsty monsters and other damages as he had forecast? I was convinced that everything was dokay.

And of course, Rubble and his famous pack of sea-going Morons were totally indifferent to our situation, Rubble in his non-verbal steerage trance and the morons in their bottomless well of abject stupidity. I alone could choose to be troubled by this turn of events, and I chose not to be troubled. I'se not be troublin'. No sir!

My centipede juice was holding up just fine, after all. I was keeping beveragizin' down to a dull (but emphatic) roar, what with my exalted position as Night Navigator. In fact, I think we could all have all gone on exactly as we were, sailing around and around and around and around, munching sea monster brain jerky, drinking centipede juice (or de-natured monster squeezings) and skedaddling our ship on the world ocean.

Yee Hah! Be diddly Bah!