The Agrinautica

Person: Do you have any ordinary honey?
Me: This is all ordinary honey
Person: No like, regular honey
Me: This is all regular honey
Person: Like unflavored honey
Me: No flavors have been added to any of this honey
Person: Well like, how do you add the avocado to the avocado honey then?
Me: Bees visit avocado trees sir ::smiling sweetly to disguise my heart that is black as coal::

   It's always a shock to me, perhaps having slipped too deep into the honey to see how it looks from the outside, that people think there's a "normal" "plain" "unflavored" honey. One analogy I use to make the point is asking for "plain" honey is like going to a fruit stand and asking for "the regular fruit." The what?! the seller would understandably exclaim, correctly regarding you as some kind of lunatic. Honey is always something, and that something comes with a wide varieties of colors, flavors and other attributes.

   It's strange really, in teaching marketing to beekeepers, I stress that more information conveys more value. Don't just slap "HONEY" on a label and call it a day. Few people do just that but many stop at adding the word "LOCAL" to honey and calling THAT a day. "Local honey!" But give that same honey a specific location, ideally in an evocative manner ("from the bluegum forests of the north Otways" "from the sugargum plantations of historic Mooleric homestead" (Mountain honey from Sanpiring Village, a proud result of my teaching (:) ) and identify as nearly as you can the predominant floral source (eg "coastal sage," "clover" "Califorina chaparral" ... or if you're in Australia maybe "red gum," "yellow gum" "salmon gum" "rainbow gum" (these are all real trees)), and the perceived value to the customer is significantly increased (especially if you also put it in a glass jar instead of a plastic one, congrats you've doubled its perceived value by now).
   And yet, and yet. I regularly have customers coming in, when I've worked selling honey direct to customers, that seem to really really want "the normal honey." There's this desire to want whatever is just the default.
   I think it might be a panic response to menu anxiety when presented with a panoply of options that overwhelms the ability to make a choice.



   One thing I've found really helps people make a decision is a good description. Unfortunately, I feel a bit blind when it comes to this. During three years working for the last honey company I worked for I never did come up with any good ways to describe the honeys. They definitely taste different from one another but putting that into words is a very special skill.
   I recently had the opportunity to take a honey sommelier workshop (picture above). With very careful guidance I was able to describe for example Jarrah honey as "smooth thick-viscuous orangey-amber slightly opaque, toffee flavour building to spicy aftertaste." That was my best one (and it helped that the sommelier-teacher spent the most time dwelling on it), my other descriptions were less involved, with blackbutt as "pinky-amber, finely opaque, cinnamon-rum-raisin flavor," wandoo as "hefeweizen pale yellow, extremely viscuous, bit of a warm grass smell, christmassy frosting lactic melon flavor" (!?) and marri as "yellow-sunrise-amber, flowy musky squeaky slightly licorice?" Are you slavering to try it yet?
   I'm not actually sure I'll be able to effectively make use of that as translating my taste impressions to words doesn't seem to come naturally to me, but it was fun and interesting. What I've found DOES work for me is stealing other people's ideas. By which I mean, earlier I spent a summer selling honey at my friend's booth at the Orange County Fairgrounds in California. We had sixteen types of honey (the picture at top), offering everyone that came by taste tests of as many as they could stand until they were honeyed out. I found, if I _asked_ someone to describe the honey they were tasting they would tell me some generic cliche description, but if I just bided my time sooner or later someone would volunteer some absolutely enlightening revelation of a description of a honey. I would then taste the honey and to confirm the brilliance of the description. It was invariably simple, usually one word, not highfalutin and convoluted like the above Jarrah description, that would just strike right at the heart of the matter. When you repeated this one magic word to a customer the moment they put the spoon of the corresponding honey in their mouth, you would see enlightenment dawn upon them in an instant, and they would become very likely to exchange their filthy lucre for a jar of liquid enlightenment.



   In this manner I gathered the following list:
The avocado, a dark rich molassesy honey, was by far the best seller.
My favorite was the cilantro honey, which mainly tastes like licorice for some reason but with a fore and after taste exactly like cilantro.
I also liked the blueberry, which actually tastes a bit of blueberry (and later at home confirmed it is delicious on pancakes),
and the California wildflower from Ventura county that tasted of cinnamon.
Other honeys we had tasted like oranges (NOT the honey from orange trees, which tastes kinda zesty but not like oranges - I no longer recall which one that wasn't oranges tasted like oranges),
What we, in California had labeled "eucalyptus," (which "eucalyptus?" I suppose "the regular one!") was definitely "butterscotch"
The meadowfoam flower definitely makes a distinct bubblegum flavored honey,
and this dark dark ("black as my heart!") buckwheat ("can I have the buckleberry" people would for some reason always ask) which tasted like soysauce.

   The problem is, since I at least find it very tedious to try to come up with a good description on my own, and people don't blurt out enlightenment on cue, how does one get good descriptions? I thought I'd see if I could find them pre-existing on the great wide internets. Let us choose, for no particular reason at all at all, say, cherry, apricot, peach and plum.
   The best peach honey description I can find is certainly flowery but manages to do that thing where it uses a lot of flowery words to say nothing particularly unique and distinct: "Delicate and Fruity: Peach flower honey is known for its gentle, sweet, and fruity flavor, similar to ripe peaches. It has a subtle flowery scent , which adds to its overall flavour. Smooth viscosity: This honey's smooth, viscous viscosity makes it simple to spread and combine into a variety of meals."
   A whole webpage dedicated to cherry honey, and they have this description: "It tends to have a rather liquid consistency and a straw-yellow colour, but can vary from a light amber colour to a darker shade with reddish highlights. Crystallisation occurs slowly, changing its colour to a greyish-white shade. Taste reminiscent of cherry." Seemed promising in the color description but taste "reminiscent of cherry" sounds like a cop-out to me (and in my experience honey rarely tastes like the fruit associated with the flower except a vague aftertaste on the exhalation)
   Plum honey has proved more illusive, it took me to the third page of google search results before I found a page that appeared to have a description of "apple-plum" honey and I guess that'll have to do: "The flavor of this honey is light and refreshing with a fruity aroma that is reminiscent of the blooming apple and plum orchards in spring. It has a light golden color and a smooth texture" - which, again, I really wonder if describing it as the fruit themselves is a potentially inaccurate cheat.
   Apricot also took me to the third page (rife with apricot INFUSED honey which I'll get to in a moment), and even then the best I could find was "Very rare and unique honey variety with unforgettable taste and aroma.Taste: Medium sweet apricot taste with a long aromatic finish" ::eyeroll emoji:: But also one my most successful meads has been an apricot mead (made with the fruit, and "regular" sugargum honey). I called it "equinox mead" because I found myself making it on the day of the winter equinox and it seemed like a nice name. But in a stunning coincidence, one of the descriptions of apricot honey I just came across is "Hunza Delight collects Apricot Honey in the awakening early spring, from the mesmerizing equinox of apricot blossoms." Pure coincidence or are apricots somehow tied to the equinox in our subconscious for some reason?



   One last subject on honey. This above picture. Makes me so mad. Infused honey is a thing. Thats the adding of flavors to honey, after the bees have finished with it. That's not illegal, and it can reportedly be quite good. But even when appropriately labeled as "infused honey" consumers tend to not notice that and end up thinking one or both of two things: (1) that this "orange" flavored honey is actually what honey from orange trees tastes like (sadly for this reason we often have to label genuine real honey from orange trees as "orange blossom" honey to make it clear its not orange-flavor-infused); and (2) they conclude that all honey has had flavors added and thus there must be some mythical bland base honey. And I say "appropriately labeled" but as you can see, the above pictured honey (which isn't from the wilds of the internet but a friend saw in person and sent me the picture because they knew it would make me mad) does not say "infused" on it anywhere, and the "made by bees" seal while cleverly not actually saying so, would seem to _imply_ it's genuine honey. If it weren't that I happen to know strawberry honey is NOT red like that and chocolate honey (which could I suppose theoretically exist, I've seen hives in chocolate plantations in Uganda) is also not brown and not likely to be found here where there are no chocolate plantations, one could easily naively think this must be as "real" as honey gets.


   A more positive question I sometimes get asked by people daunted by honey selection is which is the "best" honey. This is a much better question, but of course it too is unanswerable without knowing their personal taste, but we can get there. Do you know if you prefer a sweeter or more savory honey? Lighter or thicker? Are you putting it on toast or in your tea?
   So what's your favorite honey, and how well can you describe it?

   Once upon a time, there was a bloodthirsty reptile. He may have been a man once, but he rose to the top in a den of vipers by being the most cold blooded of them all. He swam through the darkness of a world where you never show weakness. Empathy was weakness, and the strong eat the weak, and the cunning backstab the trusting. The only thing you could trust was that those around you are only to be trusted in as much as you make their best interest your best interest, and their best interest can be trusted to be to exploit those under them as much as possible.

   By and by he had become a full grown dragon, lording over vast expanses of desolute tundra. He amassed unimaginable wealth and then he sat contentedly upon his hoarde.

   But there was a problem. He felt unsatisfied. More wealth than he could possibly do anything with and unrivaled power wasn't enough, he hungered for more. He began to look around for what more he could take. He opened his fanged maw wide and embraced the a delicious morsel of land called Abkhazia with it. It slide satisfyingly down his gullet. His hunger now whetted he then took a huge bite out of the kingdom Abkhazia had formerly belonged to.
   With every bite he felt himself only getting hungrier. He slithered around another neighboring kingdom, hissing threateningly "transssssnissstria." But he was a bit afraid,there were other powers out there possibly even more powerful than him, which if roused to anger could end his reign of of power. He tried to bide his time and entertain himself. He dabbled in farming trolls, and for awhile was able to play puppet master with an animated flesh golem that for awhile was worshipped as a god by a surprising number of people in the most powerful kingdom of the world, but that fell apart after awhile and he was bored and hungry again.
   He took a nibble of the neighboring country. It tasted delicious. He took a larger nibble. A powerful foreign king declared that to nibble more would be crossing a red line, and he best not do it, or else, OR ELSE.
   With a sly smile, while looking the foriegn king right in the eye, he pointedly took another bite... and nothing happened. He couldn't help himself then, in a bloody frenzy he tore off a large piece.
   This gave him enough to chew on for awhile. He smacked his lips loudly while chewing it, and casually discussed business deals with various other leaders to enrich them all. In fact, the dragon was pleased to see that not everyone hated and feared him the way he'd given them every reason to. No, a greedy avarice shone in the eyes of both wealthy boyars around the world, and even among hopeless serfs in red hats. Against all sense they looked at the autocratic power of the dragon and they loved it. Maybe they saw themselves somehow becoming a similar dragon, or maybe they craved the absolute order such an iron rule could impose -- entertaining multiple political opinions is such a bother after all. Or maybe, they imagined the ability to devour nnd destroy people unlike themselves and hoped such a dragon would do so. Probably, all these factors live in the hearts of these people who so admire the dragon.
   He spent awhile biding his time, even taking nibbles of foreign countries wasn't satisfying any more, it was too small, and too easy. He licked his lips and eyed the golden belly of the neighboring land. What if, just what if.. he took it all? The whole thing? No one had ever stopped him before, and he was so very very hungry to take literally everything he could. Finally he couldnt' stand it any more and threw himself suddenly through the blue sky and golden fields of his neighbor, lunging right for the neck. He got his teeth around it but.. he somehow couldn't swallow it. To his shock an undaunted bogatyr was standing against the odds, telling him to fuck himself, and gouging him painfully with a trident. He let go of the neck and hurriedly withdrew his jaws, leaving a third of his teeth scattered across the ground. He nervously looked up and all around the world people who had formerly feared him were laughing. He angrily dashed cities to bits but it didn't seem to help, as stingers pierced his scaly hide in hundreds of places, leaving him shuddering and feeling for the first time the animal terror of potential defeat. He withdrew growling to a corner of the land and prepared to fight for his life. Well, for the life of the locals really, since no one was threatening his home, but he was by now so madly rabid he could barely conceive of slinking away.
   But how will it end from here?

[About a week prior to last entry in this series]

Sunday, August 13th, 1214 BC – “I think we can hide the Argo in these reeds here” Argus whispered to Jason, indicating a thick reed-bed to their right. Jason judged the distance to the faint orange glow of the city up the river to be about a half hour's walk on land. He nodded to Ancaeus, the steersman, and he turned the large steer-oar. The oarsmen continued silently with their methodical strokes. The oarblades made a rhythmic splishing in the water, the river gurgled past the hull, and then they were hissing through the thick reeds.
   Deep amongst the reeds, they felt the keel slow against the resistance of the mud, and continued with a few more mighty strokes, with inadvertent grunts, until she was firmly in the hold of the muddy bottom.
   “That's well.” stated Jason, quietly, and the weary men finally rested their oars after a long day of working their way up the river. At the bow the anchor stone was heaved over with a splash that felt terribly loud in the still night. There was a muffled clatter of the crew getting up from their benches and stretching, and then all eyes turned to Jason.
   “We're here!” he announced quietly, brimming with pride. The crew grinned back at him. With a flourish he produced a golden goblet, and poured a honeyed-wine into it from a wine-skin.
   “To the souls of dead heroes, may they grant us their grace, kindly aid, and favorable omen” He held up the goblet as if a toast, the men murmered their agreement, and then he tipped the libation into the river.
   “We have reached the Colchian land,” Ancaeus addressed the crew and Jason, “and it is time to take counsel. Shall we entreat with Aeetes to give us the fleece willingly through some negotiation, or shall we attempt to take it by force?”
   “My friends,” said Jason to the attentive crew, “this is our common task, and I welcome all your thoughts and counsels, but for my part I think in the morning I shall go to Aeetes' palace with the four sons of Phrixus and two others. I will meet him and see if he will be willing to give up the golden fleece for friendship’s sake or not. Then we will consider whether we shall meet him in battle, or some other plan shall avail us,” He paused to gauge his audience, and seeing that no one disagreed, he continued “But let us not assume the battle-cry before putting words to the test. First it is better to go to him and win his favour by speech. Oftentimes, I ween, speech accomplishes what prowess could not. Remember, he once welcomed noble Phrixus, a fugitive from our lands, out of reverence the ordinance of Zeus, god of strangers.” The crew nodded and mumbled their assent.
   After a quick cold meal, the crew bedded down wrapped in their blankets in their customary spots among the benches. Around them a chorus of frogs provided a steady background noise. As Jason lay in his blankets looking at the stars above, a blueish shooting star arced across the sky.

Monday, August 14th, 1214 BC – Jason awoke just as the sky was beginning to lighten with dawn. A thick mist hung over the reedy marsh and every surface was damp with dew. Wrapping himself in his cloak against the morning cold he awakened his six chosen traveling companions, Phrixus' sons Argus, Phrontis, Melas and Cytisorus, as well as Telamon and Augeias, and they ate a quick cold breakfast of ship's biscuit.
   They lowered a small goatskin boat into the water to paddle ashore in pairs since the water was waist deep around the Argo. Frogs still croaked sleepily, and some startled ducks startled Jason and Argus in turn just as they were fumbling their way to the muddy bank.
   Once the seven of them had assembled on the shore, they pushed inland until they found a fishing trail and followed it in the up-river direction among willows and osier trees. The Phrixus brothers, who had grown up in this area soon began to recognize landmarks in the morning fog. They explained also that the Golden Fleece was actually kept on the other side of the river, where it hangs from a mighty oak tree in a sacred grove dedicated to the war god Ares, guarded by a giant serpent.
   “What are those bundles hanging from that tree?” asked Telamon, pointing to some hanging bundles high up in a tall tree just barely visible in the mist.
   “The Colchians consider it an abomination to burn dead men or to bury them,” explained Phrontis, “so they wrap them in untanned oxhides and hang them from tall trees far from the city.”
   Augeias shuddered, and Jason felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. They hurried on.
   Presently the mist burned off, revealing thatched farmhouses around them with woodsmoke curling above them as the locals no doubt made their breakfasts. Cows lowed among the fields and a few farmers could be seen already about their morning tasks. In front of them jutted the jagged peaks of the Caucasus mountains, glowing starkly golden in ruddy light of the low morning sun. The stone walls of the city of Aea sat atop the first small foothill, just beside the broad Phasis river.
   They steered toward a dirt road leading from the farms to the city walls, and up the broad stone ramp into the open gates into the city. In the square just inside the city walls they marveled at a fountain that resembled four bronze bulls with clear fresh water continuously pouring from their mouths into a stone trough, and all around them garden vines and green foliage covered in blooms carpeted the walls.
   The Phrixus brothers confidently led the group up the cobbled street to the inner-court in the center of the city. Several grand lofty buildings of multiple floors overlooked the central royal square, and well dressed servants and handmaidens hurried about their business. Suddenly there was a cry of happy surprise and an older woman dressed in royal garments came running towards the group.
   “It's our mom!” Melas happily explained to Jason before joining his brothers in hugging their mother.
   “She's the princess Chalciope I believe” Augeias reminded Telamon.
   “I thought you had departed to Greece never to return! What fate has turned you back?” their mother cried. As they began to try to explain their return – having been shipwrecked and rescued by the Colchis-bound Argonauts, they noticed all the palace servants had stopped their work and were looking at the loftiest edifice. Descending the palace steps was an old man in magnificent robes, with a golden crown upon his head, accompanied by his equally elegant wife.
   Jason noticed another royally dressed young woman in the palace doorway, with beautiful golden curls. They made eye contact for a moment before she shyly darted out of sight into the building.
   “King Aeetes, your majesty, and Queen Eidyia,” Argus addressed himself to the king, “this is Jason, son of Aeson, of Iolcus, and his companions Augeias of Elis and Telamon of Aegina”
   The king's craggy face looked suspicious but he nodded slightly and said “Welcome to Aea, You'll have to feast with us today and regale us with the tale.”
   Jason was pleased to accept on behalf of his companions.
   “You must be tired from your journey, I'll have some servants prepare a bath for you and clean your clothes, please make yourselves comfortable.”said the king, waving over a nearby servant .


   “Sons of my daughter and of Phrixus, whom beyond all strangers I honoured in my halls,” Aeetes addressed the brothers few hours later, sitting at the royal banquet table, “why have you come returning back to Aea?” and without pausing for an answer he continued, “Did some calamity cut short your journey in the midst? Ye did not listen when I set before you the boundless length of the way. But what pleasure is there in words? Tell me plainly what has been your fortune, and who these companions of yours are.” He finally stopped to eat some grapes.
   Argus, the oldest, answered carefully:
   “King Aeetes, dear grandfather, our ship was torn asunder by stormy blasts and we, clinging to beams, were cast onto the beach of the isle of Enyalius in the murky night, preserved by some god.”
   “Is that island not haunted by murderous birds?” asked the king
   “These men had driven them off the day before, it seems” Argus answered “And they took us in and truly Zeus was smiling on us for it happened they were bound just here”
   “And why were you bound here?” asked the King looking askance at Jason, “you don't look like merchants”
   As Jason had just taken a bite of food and Argus hoped he could best manage his temperamental grandfather, he answered for him:
   “A certain king, vehemently longing to drive this man far from his fatherland and possessions, sends him to voyage hither on a bootless venture; and asserts that the stock of Aeolus” --here naming a common ancestor of both Phrixus and Jason-- “will not escape the wrath of Zeus due for Phrixus until the fleece comes back to Hellas. But” he hurried to add as Aeetes' eye appeared to be popping out “as thou dost please, so shall it be, for he cometh not to use force, but is eager to pay thee a recompense for the gift. He has heard, for example, from me of thy bitter foes the Sarmatians, and perhaps if he will subdue them to thy sway...” At this point he trailed off, realizing that the kings face had become red and everyone was looking at him fearfully.
   “Begone from my sight, felons!” he roared, pounding a fist on the table, “straightaway! You and your tricks! Banded together with your friends from Hellas, not for the fleece, but to seize my sceptre and royal power!” The brothers had turned white but dared not interrupt the outburst, which continued: “Had you not first tasted of my table, surely would I have cut out your tongues and hewn off both hands and sent you forth with your feet alone! And what lies have you have uttered at my table against the blessed gods!”
   Telamon, was about to make a sharp rebuke but Jason, beside him, put his hand on his shoulder to quell him and answered calmly:
   “Your majesty, I assure you it is only as suppliants we come to you, to beg this favor. Allow us to subdue the Sarmatians or some other people for you and we will proclaim your glorious fame throughout Hellas!”
   The king seemed to calm down slightly, but despite Jason's flattering tone, the king glared at them and secretly brooded as to whether he should have them all put to death on the spot, or should make trial of their might. But it could bring a curse upon him to kill people he had treated as guests, so he concluded to give them an impossibly dangerous task.
   “Stranger, if you are in truth of so great a lineage,” he began slowly, picking his words, “I will give you the fleece to bear away, if you wish, when you have proven yourself. For against brave men, I bear no grudge. And the trial of your courage and might shall be a contest which I myself can compass with my hands, deadly though it be. I have two bulls with feet of bronze pastured on the field of Ares, breathing forth flame from their jaws; I yoke them in the morning and drive over four paddocks of stubborn soil in a day. I seed the furrows with the teeth of a dragon, and they grow into armed men; whom I slay at once, cutting them down beneath my spear as they rise against me on all sides. If you can accomplish such deeds as these, on that very day shalt you carry off the fleece; ere that time comes I will not give it, expect it not. For indeed it is unseemly that a brave man should yield to a coward.”
   Aeetes finished his challenge, quite pleased with himself, and cheerfully set about cutting himself another piece of meat with his bronze knife. Everyone around the table sat in silence.
   “Well,” spoke Jason after a moment, “that sounds like a monstrous undertaking, but I was obliged to pursue the fleece at the command of a king, and I have no choice but to accept the challenge,” and thinking to impress the king's beautiful young daughter at the far end of the table, to whom he hadn't yet had a chance to speak, he added melodramatically “even if it means I will die trying.”

   “Go forth now, since you are eager for the toil; you shall try the task in two days hence; but if you shouldst fear to lift the yoke upon the oxen or shrink from the deadly harvesting, I hope it will be a lesson to men to shudder to ask such things from those who are better than he.” and he waved his hand dismissively.
   Jason, Telamon and Augeias were obliged to get up, even though they all still had food on their plates and in fact Augeias had been about to take another bite of steak when the sudden dismissal came, which he reluctantly put down. The Phrixus brothers also made to get up, but Argus motioned for his brothers to remain and only he accaompanied the other three Argonauts. They bowed briefly to Aeetes and made their way to the exit with as much dignity as such an abrupt dismissal would allow. Before leaving the room Jason cast a quick glance toward the golden haired daughter at the end of the table, and felt a bit embarrassed to accidentally make eye contact with her before looking away. The four Argonauts with quiet dignity made their way down the palace hall, descended the grand staircase and exited into the fresh afternoon air of the royal square. They didn't begin to talk about their indignation at Aeetes haughty and arrogant manner until they were safely out of the city, but this topic then occupied them all the rest of the way to the Argos in its reedy hideaway.

July 2nd, 2009 -- In the rolling golden hills of Riverside County, California, my boss parks the pick-up truck in the middle of a large square of which rows of beehives make three sides. Upon opening the door the oven-like heat of Riverside County immediately hits us. I stretch after the long car ride, but one doesn't want to look idle for more than a few seconds with my high strung boss around, so I walk to one end of the rows of beehives and start walking along the row looking at the entrances. This is the first thing I always do, a quick look at all the hives to see if any have no activity, a pile of dead bees in front, or something similarly alarming.
   A bee stings me in the hand, but I casually scrape out the stinger with my thumbnail as I continue walking. The hives are stacks of boxes painted either white or pastel blue. The blue had originally been a mistake, having bought cheap paint from the "oops" bin at the hardware store we had only found out when we were ready to paint that it was blue. We decided to go with it, and as a consequence, the bee yards now rather reemble a smurf village. Another be or two stings my on the arm as I walk along the second side. So far everything is good, all the hives are buzzing busily with no dead hives.
   Any time a bee stings you, it releases not just more of the "alarm" pheremone, but the stinger that is stuck in you like a harpoon is emitting a "sting here" pheremone. I always picture it like some scene from a war film where they've managed to mark a target for airstrike with flares. As such, the number of stings you receive tends to go up exponentially as each additional sting encourages more. As I reach the end of the second line of hives I'm hving to constantly scratch off stings, it's becoming quite a nuisance. So I decide it's time to put on some protective gear. I look towards the truck, upon which I will find the suits, but it is not there. My boss has evidentally driven down to where there's a water pump at the other corner of the property, to get water for the bees.
   No worries. I calmly start walking towards the middle of the square. Walking at a brisk pace is usually sufficient to keep the bees mainly behind you. I've never seen any research on it but anecdotal evidence and my own observations tends to indicate bees are more likely to become agitated if you lose your calm. Certainly swinging arms wildly trying to swat bees is entirely ineffective and does seem to convince surrouding bees that you truly deserve to be stung. If I were to run I might trip and hurt myself, but moreover if seen by my boss I would bring professional shame upon myself worse than any amount of bee stings. So I calmly walk to the middle of the square, while calmly but quickly scraping off what stings I do receive. When I get to the middle and my boss has not yet returned, I commence walking in a broad circle to continue to leave the bees mainly behind me.

   And then it happens.



   Something that had never happened to me before.

   You see, it turns out, bees fit perfectly inside your ear canal. Suddenly I can hear every bristly hair of a bee, as well as the papery crackle of its wings, the scrape of its six legs against the interior of my ear. And of course, I can also feel six little scrabbling legs. The sound of anything else in my right ear is suddenly obstructed as if I had water in my ear.
   My professional calm is suddenly cracked by this psycological terror. There is a bee in my head! It is traveling inward towards my brain. For a moment I'm unable to think through it being stopped by my eardrum or whatever, I just know there is a large insect in my head.. I think there's something deeply subconciously terrifying about the buzzing of angry bees. Otherwise brave people find themselves running in terror from a single bee. As a beekeeper you train yourself to overcome this gut reaction ... but when the bee is actually inside your head it's all of a sudden once again not something you've prepared yourself for.
   There wasn't enough room to get my fingers in my ear and pull the bee out. I felt helpless to remove this terror boring into my brain. I imagined it stinging me inside my ear, thus dying in there are my ear swelled up around it. That seems like something that could cause some horrific infection, possibly requiring surgery.
   Because it felt a bit like water in my ear Ii tried to do what I would do about water in my ear -- I tilted my head so that side was towards the ground and hopped up and down on one foot. The bee continued to scrabble in my ear, its hair and wings making crinkly cellophane noises in my head. It didnt' want to be there either but it couldnt' turn around, and it's six little legs gave it more than enough purchase to note be knocked out of my ear.
   After a vigorous hopping proved quite ineffective, I had to stop for a moment and try to clear my head. Clear my head of the thoughts anyway, so I could maybe proceed to clear it of physical bees. What did I know about bee behavior that could solve this problem? Other bees buzzed angrily around me but I by now didn't notice them at all. Bees usually climb upwards if they are stuck somewhere. So I resolved to do the counter-intuitive thing. I stood perfectly still and tilted my head so the bee-ear was upward. I tried to relax my jaw and other face muscles, so the muscles around my ear wouldn't be constricted. And I stood there, motionless and as relaxed as I could make myself. Bees droned around me like little warplanes. They stung my on the arms, they stung my on the cheeks. I didn't scrape them out. I didn't swat at them. I didn't clench my jaw. I closed my eyes and took deep calming breaths.
   this is like some fucked up zen exercise I thought to myself, picturing a scrawny bearded zen master telling me to be calm as bees sting me. Miraculously, I felt the bee backing itself out of me ear. up, up, and it was out! It flew off much to its own relief no doubt. I looked around, the truck was trundling back up the hill. I commenced walking in broad circles.

   All the rest of the day I could still feel those six little legs scrabbling in my ear.

   Once upon a time in a magical land far away, there was a village of cute little houses with thatched roofs, and a large windmill that slowly turned, picturesquely. Just a little bit out of the village, down a path of smooth flagstones, there lived a beekeeper named Knut in a quaint little cottage by his beehives. He had a pointy red beard, 1,074 friends, and a pet troll. The 1,074 friends lived in the village, the troll lived under some horrid rock, and the beard of course lived upon his face.

   Knut's friends were fond of coming down to chat with him on his porch. They would talk of many things. Often they liked to criticize the incredibly incompetent king of that land, Donaeld the Unready, for in this kingdom that was permitted.
   "Donaeld is ruining this country" they would say. But just when everyone was nodding their agreement, the little troll would burst from the hedge
   "No he's not you libtard!" he would shriek, "you probably like soy lattes!"
   Sometimes people would back away slowly. Sometimes they would argue with the troll, which only seemed to invigorate him.

   "Hey look at this graph demonstrating climate change with great scientific rigor!" a friend of Knut's says one day, arriving with a graph, "mind if I put it on your wall?"
   "Certainly go ahead!" Knut says, because he is a great fan of not dying in an avoidable climate catastrophe.
   "Hmmm, yes, clearly we are all going to die in an avoidable climate catastrophe" his friends are saying as they examine the graph. Suddenly the troll leaps out from a nearby drainpipe:
   "Climate change is a HOAX!" he squeals venomously, "you've all been brainwashed by the liberal media!!"
   "But 99% of scientists agree--" Knut's friend Fitzroy begins to say
   "All scientists are biased!" the troll insists with great earnestness
   "What, how" Fitzroy asks
   "You only become a climate scientist if you have a climate AGENDA!" he shrieks
   "That makes no sense" Fitzroy says, "scientists only report what the data they find indicates and they're always trying to disprove eachother"
   "I went to an IVY LEAGUE school, and I make a lot more MONEY than you" says the troll, "you're just a snowflake libtard who probably went to a liberal arts school how's that working out for you??"
   "Actually..." begins Fitzroy, explaining his hard science degree, but the troll is thirlled and invigorated that Fitzroy is engaging with him.

   "Why do you keep him around?" Throckmorton later asks Knut. But Knut, who gets stung by stinging insects for a living, values free speech and a diversity of opinions. The troll is obnoxious but it would be bad for his friends to forget that there's people like him around, and moreover it would be against Knut's principals to axe someone for a difference of opinion.

   One day a plague was sweeping through the land and tensions were running high.
   "King Donaeld is firing all 7,300 of our kingdom's international volunteers!" Knut announced in dismay to his friends, who were properly socially isolated one condor-width away from one another.
   "They could not be more non essential!" shrieked the troll climbing out of the trash can, "we no longer need them to sing kumbaya, they need to find a pragmatic job!" the troll twitched a bit.
   "Kumbaya huh?" asked Bolderic who had been one of these volunteers in his day.
   "ZOOOOOOOOOOONK!!!!! said the boy" said the troll "whose hippie parents exposed countless children to sexual abuse because they screwed up real bad," and that's an exact quote.
   People backed away, Knut quietly reached for his axe, the troll continued to paint repugnant insinuations involving sexual abuse.
   "Hey this has veered pretty heavily into completely off the wall insults" Knut, who usually doesn't get involved, asked, hoping to give the troll an opportunity to at least confront directly the person whose front yard he was besmirching, but the troll declined to respond.

   Knut is inclined to deal with things head on, but there's only one way to deal with trolls. You don't try to argue or talk to them. He had given the troll an opportunity and that was all he'd get. A little later, he came up behind the troll while it was admiring a picutre of Donaeld that it had, and without a word, he struck off its head with his axe. He then posted the head on a pike and left it on display in front of the house, so everyone would be reassured that the troll was no more.

   When the people came back, Knut was touched by the compassion they showed even for the horrid troll.
   "He was obviously very troubled" they all agreed.
   "Was he abused growing up? His insults got very specific in a very disturbing way." Fitzroy pointed out. And they nodded sadly.
   "Probably the plague was stressing him out, but he couldn't admit it, which is why he lost it more than usual today" Throckmorton surmised
   "It seems he thought money was the meaning of life but now he has a soulless job and no love life or family and he's struggling to hold it together. Insulting people was probably the only way he could connect with people" said another. They all agreed it was better he was gone but they hoped he'd get help.

   Later when someone put a graph on the wall showing their kingdom was doing much worse in the plague than the other hard-hit kingdom of Pizzerialand, some actually even wished the troll was there to offer some laughably preposterous defense of King Donaeld's handling of the situation.

   But the troll wasn't done yet.

   You see, trolls are famous for not quite being dead.

   The next morning as Knut was just stepping outside to stretch, the troll's head upon the spike spoke to him. It said
   "Get this off your fucking yard dude. Be the bigger man, this is tacky as hell. You know some of us talk about your scam artist refugee fiancee obviously taking you for a ride"
   Knut narrowed his eyes, for just a moment, at his sweet Dulcinea being brought into this, but then he laughed, and laughed and laughed, for he realized, the troll had inadvertently given him one last gift. In what was left of the troll's decaying and rotten mind, perhaps he pictured Knut trying to justify himself to him, them getting into an argument in which he could enjoy slinging wild paint-peelingly caustic insults, but he didn't take into account that all Knut had to do was not dignify him with a response and he just came across as a sad pitiful wretch who couldn't bear even a light insult. A snowflake you might even say. Sometimes by saying nothing at all you can indeed get the last laugh.

   Danny couldn't help but notice the man seemingly casing the small seaside house. The beach was almost entire deserted as Danny slowly walked along, enjoying the the feeling of his feet sinking into the wet sand. Ahead was one man, looking not at the seat but at the house among the palms ashore. The man was wearing a white linen shirt and a straw hat, and slowly walked back and forth to examine the house from different angles. Danny had plenty of time to surreptitiously observe him since he was already walking in that direction. As he picked his way over strings of seaweed he kept an eye on the man. Conveniently he would pass close to him anyway. In fact the guy wasn't even trying to hide his interest in the house, to the degree it wouldn't be strange to ask him.

   "Thinking of buying that house are ya?" the man in the hawaiian shirt asked Charlie. He had just been casually walking down the beach.
   "Haha, well, not really" Charlie laughed.
   "Oh?" asked the other man, encouragingly. He was muscular, but friendly and earnest looking. He wore a gray baseball cap.
   "Well," said Charlie with a sigh as if beginning a big story, "it's my brother's house, but he's in a sort of Catch 22 because he's been arrested for a crime he didn't commit, the evidence that will prove his innocence are in this house, but the court won't grant access to his property."
   "I'm sure the investigators will find it" assured Danny.
   "But this isn't a crime scene, they'll never come here, and the other side's lawyers are too good at keeping our access denied here." explained Charlie as the two of them them made their way around the house. Out beyond the wave-lapped wet sand the sand was burning hot on Daniel's bare feet. Charlie was wearing sneakers. The house was a cute little house, probably a vacation home. It was mainly white with blue trim, and a pink tiled roof. The doors were locked and the windows secure. Charlie, a bus driver by occupation, felt totally out of his element trying to break into a house.
   They conversed about the situation a bit more. At last Danny seemed to reach a decision. He scanned the surrounding area but there was no one else in sight in this remote area. He nodded and pointed to the roof.
   "We can probably remove some roof tiles and get in through there."
   Charlie hadn't thought of that, he was excited about this idea. Around one side was a small water tank which they were able to climb onto and then onto the rounded clay tiles of the roof.
   "Only put your weight on the center of the tiles so they don't break" cautioned Danny.
   They carefully crept up the roof to a place midway up the side facing the remotest part of the beach. The tiles were warm under Danny's bare feet. Charlie jiggled a tile until it slid carefully out from under the one above it revealing a hole into the attic. Charlie carefully placed the tile on the roof beside them, making sure it wasn't about to slide off, and then they carefully removed more tiles until they had created a hole between the lattice of supporting beams under the tiles, through which they could descend into the house. Charlie carefully lowered himself down onto one of the beams above the insulation "floor" of the attic and then got out of the way for Danny. Danny was very careful not to step on any exposed nails with his bare feet.
   It was very dim in the attic, though plenty of light came through the cracks in the tiles. Charlie produced a small flashlight from his pocket and shined it in the direction he thought the trapdoor to the rest of the house was, quickly finding it. He pulled it open and was about to drop below when Danny whispered to shake all the sand off his shoes first. They both realized there was no reason to whisper but it felt appropriate. They then carefully dropped down into a hallway.
   The house was sparcely but nicely furnished, as befits a vacation home. They entered a back room with a desk and a bed in it. The blinds were closed , so the room was dark except for the flashlight. Charlie was about to flip the lightswitch but Danny waved him away. Charlie was shaking a bit with nervousness but Danny seemed calm and composed, almost in his element. Charlie passed an expensive watch on a shelf a he approached the desk, and then quickly glanced back to see if Danny would pocket it but he similarly ignored it. Charlie sifted through the folders until he found the one he was looking, which was labeled "McGuffin."
   With an air of authority Danny gently took the folder from Charlie and leafed through it's contents. It was as described, records and correspondence that appeared to exculpate Charlie's brother. He handed it back to Charlie.
   The main mission complete Charlie finally had time to reflect that he was now alone in a house he'd just broken into with a muscular man he knew nothing about. One who seemed strangely in his element in these circumstances.
   "You seem pretty calm for someone who's just broken into a house" said Charlie with a forced chuckle, hoping Danny would confess to being a lot more nervous than he looked. Instead Danny laughed and said
   "Oh, just another day in the life, you know," which didn't make Charlie feel better at all. As Charlie begin to look visibly nervous Danny grinned at him wolfishly for a moment, and then continued
   "I'm a police officer."
   Charlie turned pale. This was terrible in a totally different way. But then Danny winked and said "Come on, let's get out of here"

This was posted last week to my other account in "second chance" idol, but since apparently getting knocked out of main idol automatically sends you to second chance there's no point in continuing a second account over there, and I wanted to move this over here to be with the other Argonautica stories.

   The turquoise sea sparkled in the sun, seagulls circled overhead, and the large square sail pulled fitfully, propelling the ship along. The crewmembers relaxed at their oar benches, trying to enjoy every moment of not rowing to the utmost. Jason stood near the steersman in the stern, watching the green hilly coast slide by to their right. He enjoyed the fresh salty breeze and warm sun. They sailed past a series of forested islands, and shortly they began to discern the great gap in the coast up ahead, where a great channel of the sea led through to the hills to the further sea beyond. As they approached the entrance, one thing was clear to everyone: the wind wouldn't suit, they'd have to resume rowing. Some crewmembers began to stretch in preparation, others took the last opportunity to grab a quick bite, others rested their head on the gunwales with every appearance of being asleep, trying to truly eke out the very maximum of rest before it was time to get to work.
   Jason observed a small cluster of huts on a mound near the nearer point marking the entrance to the famed Bosphorus channel.
   "Alright lads," Jason announced, "let's get the sail down." The experienced volunteer crew knew what to do, and in a trice the sheet-lines holding the lower corners were cast off, the sail was furled up, and the yard and mast stowed safely amidships. The gentle flutter of the wind in the sail was soon replaced by the rhythmic grunts of the crew pulling their oars in practiced unison and the creak and thunk of the oars in the greased oarlocks.
   White-bearded Idas, standing in the stern beside Jason, pointed to a broad inlet on the far side of the Bosporus entrance. "We should shelter there for the evening, that's where I believe we will find Phineus." Jason pulled the brim of his straw hat low to shield his eyes from the glare, as the late afternoon sun reflected from the water in the inlet with golden brilliance.
   "Okay," he agreed, and he nodded to the helmsman Typhis, who was beside them with the steering oar, and they turned to larboard and made their way into the golden horn-shaped inlet. There were a few more huts among the trees on the left side, but Idas pointed to the right side, saying
   "By those fig trees on the far side."
   They sighted a sandy beach by the fig trees and rowed hard directly for it.
   "Now boys!" Jason called out, and the rowers leapt from their benches to rush aft. The bow consequentially rose up, and as the crew braced themselves the boat lurched as it hit the beach, but smoothly slid up the sand with a guttural hiss to come to rest half out of the water. The crew jumped down to the beach. Some locals came from the huts to cautiously greet them.
   "Ah Phineas, he lives up there" a man who had introduced himself as Paraebius said, pointing to a larger stone building on top of the hill. "I believe he's been expecting you."
   "Ah yes, he's a renowned prophet" mused Jason. "Butes, could you hand down some of the fruits we picked up in Amycus we need to bring Phineas a gift!"
   "Uhh," Paraebius held up a warning finger, but then reconsidered, lowering it, saying "you'll see."

   As the crew approached the stone house on the hill they could see it had once been grand but had fallen into serious disrepair, it's walls cracked and unpainted. An old man hobbled out the front door as they arrived, he was extremely emaciated and stared about with blank sightless eyes, but greeted them:
   "Bravest Hellenes, long have I awaited your arrival, for it is foretold that you shall deliver me from my miserable fate!"
   "What is that terrible fate?" asked Jason, and continued "by jove you look like you haven't eaten in years, please, take this food we have brought you!" and waved forward the men with the baskets of fruit. The men began to come forward, but then
   "SQUAAAAK, SQUAAAAAAKK" there was a great shrieking and flapping, startling everyone. Two hideous bird-like creatures with the heads of human women had suddenly swooped into their midst! They grabbed the baskets of fruit and swooped off low over the ground along the ridgeline to the northwest. In the silence that followed a single pomegranate could be heard bouncing down the hill, and a repugnant smell hung in the air.
   "You see" said Phineas, "Zeus has punished me for revealing to much of the future by taking away my sight and sending down these two harpies to steal almost everything I attempt to eat, leaving me just enough to keep me barely alive."
   "Hmmmmm" said Jason. "Well. I guess we'll entice them back, but this time we'll be ready."

   Four crewmembers came up the hill, each pair carrying a fat freshly slaughtered sheep between them. The rest of the crew had secreted themselves behind bushes around the house or just within windows, ready to leap out. They all had their weapons at ready, gleaming bronze swords, sturdy spears, or ready bows. Just as expected as the sheep reached the house the harpies came shreeking in. Everyone jumped from their hiding places but even having been prepared they weren't quick enough to land a blow on the harpies, nor to hit one of them with an arrow. Jason watched them swooping away, barely over the tops of the grass weighted with their heavy loads. He was about to cry out in rage when he saw Calaïs and his brother Zetes sprint after them, each with a small bronze sword. They disappeared after their quarry over he next ridge.
   "They are fast and enduring like the north wind" Jason told Phineas. They will surely catch those harpies.

   Sure enough, by that evening Phineas was enjoying a feast of turkey and delicacies, and telling the party about their journey ahead (though careful not to go into so much detail as to anger Zeus once again.

  Doug stood on the dock gazing out at the glassy water of the pond. On the shore nearby people were laughing as they tossed bits of bread out to the ducks. Doug contemplated the peaceful scene as he took a long pull of his delicious milkshake. They wouldn't be cheerfully laughing if they knew the dark secrets of the lake. He looked out across the smooth dark waters; at the far side cliffs reflected in the mirror-like water. Green forests surrounded most of the pond except here at the town park where people were feeding the ducks. Wood ducks! He hated wood ducks. He felt the blood thumping in his head. Did he really hate them that much? Oh wait, he was just getting brain freeze from drinking the milkshake too fast. He took a break from the shake and his blood began to feel harmonized again.

   His phone pinged, a text message. From that girl Aix whom he quite rather fancied.
   "hey, want to do something this evening?" she asked.
   Hmmmm, damn, this would not do. He eyed the place in the sky where the moon would rise anxiously. This would not do at all. Probably can't tell her to meet up tomorrow because the effect usually lasts 24 hours. Will have to suggest next week. He sadly started punching in the message.
   While his phone was out he checked the time of the moonrise again. He still had about an hour until the full moon would rise. Somewhere in the distance a wolf howled, startling a nearby couple. If only they had any idea, thought Doug, shaking his head as he walked away.

   He tossed the empty milkshake in a trashcan and wandered into the forest. Following his favorite secret trail, ducking under branches and winding through thick foliage until he came to a little glen on the far side of the pond, across from where the moon would rise. The sky was turning a dark blue, the sunset glowing somewhere behind him. He checked the time on his watch, and then took it off and carefully placed it under a thick bush. He then removed his clothing and carefully placed it under the bush as well. He sat there shivering with goosebumps in the evening air. This was a bit awkward but he'd found it to be the best way to do it. There had been some awkward moments when the moonrise had caught him in town. He cursed his luck for that fateful duck bite he'd received a year ago. Who would have guessed...
   Suddenly he felt it happening. Suddenly he was quivering all over, quaking.. quacking. He regained his composure, feeling a bit embarrassed about that inadvertent outburst. He waddled to the water's edge and looked down at his reflection. The prim green head of a mallard gazed back at him. He recoiled, he would never get used to this. He took another few moments to steel himself to his fate, and then hopped in the water, which actually felt quite comfortable, and paddled off to where the other mallards hung out. He'd have to tell them about those damn wood ducks.


The Next Day:
   With a tremendous splash Doug came down into the water and skidded along sending up a spray, bowling right in amongst the wood ducks, followed by two of his mallard friends. Immediately he set about wildly flapping his wings and quacking wildly, setting the wood ducks to flee.
   "Hah!! Take that you wood duck bastards!" he exclaimed happily in duck, which sounded like a very self satisfied "quack quack quack" to the nearby humans. The ability to do those splash-down landings made it almost worth having this strange were-duck curse. An elderly woman tossed a piece of bread right in front of him. Ugh, it's that cheapo wonder-bread he thought to himself and turned away. One of his companions gobbled it up though. Some guys have no shame.
   He decided to waddle ashore, he was getting that bloodthirsty urge to peck at people's heels. As he was waddling about looking for a likely victim he noticed what looked like a milkshake cup from his favorite cafe, sitting upright on the ground. "Hmmm, I wonder..." he said out loud, which sounded like a quick contemplative "quack?" and he waddled over to it.
   It was half full! Someone had just... abandoned half their delicious milkshake?? He knew he would never demean himself to finishing someone else's milkshake as a human, but he couldn't help that being a duck somewhat effected his senses of propriety. He carefully took the bent top of the straw in his bill and attempted to suck down the delicious contents. It took a bit of trying, not really having lips and all, but eventually he managed to make it work. Ahhhhhhh he closed his eyes and enjoyed it.

   "HEY LOOK AT THIS!!" he was abruptly broken from his reverie by some loud young man. He opened one eye to see the young man pointing at him.
   "Guys, guys! This duck is drinking a milkshake!!" the guy was getting out his camera-phone. Oh great he appears to be taking a video. Doug's first impulse was to storm off or maybe just start acting like a totally normal bird brained duck but then he got a better idea. As he kept slurping down the milkshake the man got closer and closer with his video.
   Yessss get closer Doug thought to himself nefariously, and I'll show you a surprise!!!

   Once upon a time there was a solution for everything. Sail blowing out of it bolt-rope in mid gale? No problem. Just enthusiastically signal to your captain that you've got it in hand, pretend not to notice the look of relief on your watch-mates somewhat green faces, and head down the bounding deck. Resist the urge to jump or run, as the deck is unpredictable and may suddenly fall out from under you or bound up to hit you in the face. You will probably have to keep one hand on a rail. You may have to time crossing the main deck to avoid roiling waves pounding across it. Cross to the lattice of thick black lines that rise from the ship's side like a ladder leading to the top of the mast. Make sure you're on the "weather" side of the ship, that is, the side the howling wind is coming in from. Since you'll be climbing up the outboard side of these shrouds, the wind will be pinning you to them from this side, whereas it would be trying to pluck you off from the other. You can easily get on the shrouds with a small hop at the moment the ship is at the top of a roll, then the deck will fall away beneath you and a quick pull brings your now levitating body to the shrouds, assuming you were holding on to them. You were holding on to them right? If not, you could be anywhere by now. The horizontal "rat-lines" are secured to the vertical stays by wrapping of a tarred twine called "seine twine." In fact the verticals themselves are also wrapped in a protective layer of seine twine all the way up. Hopefully this is all very secure, but just in case you'll be holding on to the verticals since they're more dependable than the horizontals. And up you go!
   Now the ship is of course bucking and wildly and swaying in a manner that gets increasingly magnified the further you are up the mast. Sometimes you'll be pinned to the rigging, sometimes gravity will be pushing you up itself. You'll have to actually climb upside-down up the futtocks-shrouds to get out on the yard, but that's the fun part. Here in Australia they make you clip a caribiner into a fancy nylon safety line the whole time you're doing this, which takes nearly all the fun out of it. Now you walk out the yard (mistakenly called the yard-arm by many non sailors, but the yard-arm is just the end of it), balancing on just one foot-rope. At those point you are flying wildly in just about every direction, left right, up and down. You just learn not to take the downward pressure of gravity for granted and hang on. It's really quite exhilarating.
   But now here is where the sailor's magical fix-all comes in. As a sailor, you will at all times have several lengths of this tarred twine hanging from your belt. Some will be about a fathom long, which is to say as long as your spread arms, and you wear them in small coils. The half-fathom pieces one just hooks to one's belt with a simple cow-hitch, like attaching a luggage tag, and the strands dangle towards your knees. Do not forget about these when you go in the engine room or it might end very badly. But you're not in that black hot stuffy nauseating abyss, you are flying around in extremely fresh air! So in this scenario the sail is threatening to come loose in the blasting gale which will cause it to rip itself to shreds and maybe take things it's attached to with it. The piece of sail which has come loose is flapping so wildly and strongly it's making a sound like distant rumbling thunder and you might lose a finger if you just try to grab it. But it must be gotten under control with alacrity! So you grab one of those "nips" of seine twince and pass it around the blown out sail, tying a contrictor hitch on the back side of the yard so you can tighten it to bring the wild thing under control. But constrictor hitches can slowly slip again so best to follow that up with another nip with a round turn and a half hitch. Later when the weather moderates the sail will have to be taken down, repaired, and reattached... with seine twine "robands."
   Meanwhile while you're up there maybe you notice a block (pulley) that's banging around, that's okay, you've got another nip of seine twine on your belt! Once you've secured everything you can plausibly do up there it's sadly time to go back down to deck before the captain accuses of you skylarking.
   Back on deck everything from the deck boxes and small cannons to small personal gear in the bunks is lashed down with, you guessed it, seine twine! When we aren't securing things with seine twine, marlinspike sailors are often putting fancy decorative patterns on things with seine twine. In fact one of the primary ways sailors of ye old timey traditionally rigged ships recognize eachother anywhere is they often have a permanent irremovable braid of seine twine around their wrist. I've been randomly recognized for a sailor in airports, on trains, and once very unexpectedly on a bus in the middle of Africa between Kenya and Tanzania by a red cross volunteer who also it turns out has a habit of sailing on tallships.

   Last April my current vessel, the honda civic USS Trilobite, was collided with right on the broadside. As a consequence the passenger side door would not close and threatened to randomly swing right out while driving, which would be quite undesirable. I may not sail much these days, but to me, there's still one solution for all such problems: seine twine.


a constrictor hitch pulled as tight as possible and then tightly "served" with covering coils of seine twine
(this was just super temporary for one trip straight to the mechanic I swear)



The seine twine fancywork on the handle of my favorite mug, as well as the turks-head on my arm and the roll of seine twine
(see also, this "french hitch" pattern makes a zigzag pattern on the handle. Golly these pictures make my thumb look huge)

   Colonel Mendez took a big bite of the hefty ham and cheese sandwich. It was maybe not quite the normal thing to have sandwiches for breakfast but he really enjoyed sandwiches. On the TV in the corner of his office the news was replaying footage of clashes between protesters and security forces that occurred overnight. It made him feel very annoyed but he tried to concentrate on the delicious sandwich his personal chef had made him from his personal stores. His phone rang, and he was prepared to ignore it but glancing at where it was laying on the desk he saw it was General Lopez, so he hurriedly swallowed his mouthful and put the sandwich down while picking up the phone and answering it, hastily muting the TV.
   "Yes sir?"
   Good morning colonel. We're expecting a lot more protests today so your brigade needs to be on it. You still have the south-east section of the city."
   "You can count on us sir"
   "I hope so. There have been some small-scale mutinies in other brigades, are you sure we can count on your troops?"
   "Absolutely sir."
   "Make sure of it. There's some isolated protests you need to put down this morning and a possibility of a march in your area in the afternoon, make sure you're ready for it"
   "Yes sir."
   "Okay. Be ready for anything else that comes up during the day. I'll let you know. Also make sure to work with the secret police, they may need you to move fast on something and we can't let this get out of hand."
   "Yes sir"
   "Okay. [click"
   The colonel scowled for a moment, and then lifted the sandwich back to his mouth. Just then there was a sharp knock on his door.
   "Yes??" he demanded with great annoyance. The door creaked open and the sentry, a skinny private, took a quick step in and stood at attention
   "Sir Major Sandrino is here to see you"
   "Yes, yes, send him in" Colonel Mendez growled. Was the private eyeing his sandwich hungrily? Under his withering glare the private quickly saluted and stepped back out. The major then quickly came in, his green uniform well pressed and gleaming. He made a perfunctory salute an then reported anxiously
   "Sir, we are almost out of teargas"
   "How 'almost out'?" Mendez demanded
   "We only have about a dozen canisters left"
   "We're going to need all we can get today Juan. Call central command, tell them we need it"
   "I did, it's stretched thin throughout the department, they say there simply is no more"
   Mendez groaned inwardly, and his eyes darted to the television, in which in the dark of night a street was illuminated by the flashes of fireworks being thrown by protesters. It made the scene look like a war-zone, though the fireworks fortunately didn't cause terribly much harm.
   "Any other bad news?" he demanded"
   "Sir, um" the major fidgeted, "two of the five water cannon trucks are inoperable and in need of repairs."
   The colonel suppressed the urge to shout. Sweat beaded on his forehead.
   "Why aren't they repaired?? I'll have the maintenance crew jailed for treason!" he threatened, raising his voice and curling his hand into a fist
   "Sir, there's no spare parts, I went over there last night to inspect the situation myself."
   The major did look a bit tired.
   "I trust you put the fear of god in them nonetheless?" Mendez demanded. Everyone needed to be fully motivated in his opinion.
   "Yes sir I actually ordered their arrest and let them beg until I was convinced they really were doing everything they could."
   The colonel puffed his cheeks out. Well, the major could be counted on.
   "Okay, Juan. Assemble the company commanders, I'll brief them on the day's operations in" he looked at his watch "twenty minutes."

...

   Colonel Mendez was feeling a little better after a few hours. A raid on student protests at one of the universities had gone very smoothly, the students fleeing as his troops clad in tactical riot gear came charging in wielding batons and clear plastic shields. The ring-leaders were handed over kicking and screaming to the secret police. As the unmarked van pulled away and his soldiers filed out of the university gate a report crackled through his radio that protesters had taken over a small government office in the sector
   "Captain Hernandez, take your company to the government office on 17th street asap," he ordered into the radio, "use lethal force if you have to, they must be made an example of." So far things were well under control but it was still morning and unrest would heat up as the day progressed. He carefully looked over the troops around him to discern if any seemed disgruntled. None would meet his eye but that was normal. Did those two just coming of the gate have something a bit depressed about their gait?
   As he rode down the broad streets of the capitol in his staff car he noted how little traffic there was. Very few people were out and about today. The FM radio was reporting that the arrest had been ordered of the leader of the national assembly, for treason and sedition. Colonel Mendez was glad that was not his sector, that would be a sticky situation. He tuned the radio to one of the pirate radio stations run by the opposition. A strident voice was declaring the recent election to have been a complete farce and citing the constitution that head of the national assembly should now be the head of state. Mendez turned off the radio and glanced at his driver, who was looking blankly ahead.
   "I can't believe anyone would believe that." Mendez said to the driver, just in case he thought he believed it.
   "No sir" the driver said.
   Mendez thought of his family and their nice house in the north-west of the city. If the opposition were to win, he'd lose it all. If the higher-ups doubted his loyalty, they had his family and house in the sector commanded by Colonel Douro, and he could be a right bastard.
   They stopped to inspect the troops stationed near a major intersection. The sky was blue overhead and the sun was warm but not too hot. A faint smell of teargas blew in on the wind. Well someone's using it Mendez thought to himself.
   The troops, mostly just 18 and 19, stood around in their black armor, chatting with eachother, their shields piled nearby. Several of them across the street joked with a group of girls who were hurrying by. Spirits seemed alright. Mendez consulted with the unit's captain about placement of the barricades and water cannon truck that had been assigned to this post. The water cannon truck looked like maybe a small black weaponized trash truck, square and blocky, beetley, with metal skirts around the base to prevent anything being rolled under it, metal grates over the driver's windows, concertina wire around the upper edge to prevent anyone climbing on it, and and a seeemingly small stubby firehouse nozzle on top protruding from a remote controlled turret. There was the sound of a series of small explosions in the distance. Probably firecrackers or fireworks.
   A call came in from the secret police, they wanted assistance raiding an apartment for someone they wanted. Mendez detailed a squad to help them. A call came in from the general's adjutant, a large mob was forming to march down one of the major streets. Mendez looked at the city map on the table in the command van, yes this march would lead to one of the intersections they were already preparing. He ordered one of the water cannon trucks to the intersection, the barricades to be realigned to completely block the approach of the march, and ordered troops to several of the side streets along the route so they could close in on the marchers from all sides once they were stopped. It was only two blocks from where he was so he had the driver take him there.

   They heard the racket of drums first, before the mob came around the corner. It would not do for a high ranking officer to suffer the indignity of having rocks thrown at him so he got in the command van which was parked behind the lines, to watch through the reinforced window. He had to admire the courage of the protesters, as they kept coming on to the line of black clad armored troops pointing guns at them. A sergeant bellowed at them through a loudspeaker to disperse, but of course they didn't. Mendez could see the protesters in the front clearly now. They had bandannas over their mouths and noses and sunglasses or goggles on their eyes. Mendez cast his eye over the troops at the barricade, they were looking steadfastly ahead, pointing their guns at the oncoming mob. The several that had the tear gas canister launchers had them ready in the firing position.
   "Hit them with the water cannon, we need to break up their momentum," he ordered into the radio coolly.
   "Roger" came quickly from the cannon truck operator, and then the stream of water blasted out, bowling over most of the center of the front of the mob. Like a startled school of fish the crowd pulled away in every direction, but the two sides flowed around the stream and ran at the barricade. Rocks and bricks pelted down on the shields of the troops. A protester on the left side received a teargas canister to the chest and almost somersaulted over. On the right side a canister hit the ground right amidst the oncoming protesters. Effective placement Mendez thought, as it obstructed the oncoming protesters on the right, but did the soldier intentionally not hit anyone?. Those that made it all the way to the obstacles were beaten with batons until they retreated. On the right side some troops began to push forward over the barricade to pursue their now retreating opponents.
   "Hold the line!" Mendez hissed into the radio and watched as a sergeant got the troops back in order. The cannon truck had shut down the stream after its blast, to conserve water, and now the crowd was reforming, pelting rocks at the soldiers. Something bright came hurdling down from above and broke on a soldier's black helmet spewing liquid flame over several soldiers. A molotov cocktail. The soldier affected stumbled backward out of line and rolling on the ground, while the other troops around him also backed out of line and slapped at the fire desperately. The pitch of the water-cannon truck suddenly changed and then a weak spout of water gushed out and fell right in front of the truck. Mendez was struck for a moment with a fear the pump had failed, but the pitch ramped up a little and the spout strength increased until it was landing right on the burning soldiers and Mendez realized the operator had throttled down the pump to put out the fire. Smart thinking! he thought proudly. The lieutenant was beside one of the tear gas men and was pointing to the window the molotov cocktail had come from. The man fired and got it right into the window. A good shot but because they dozen canisters the entire brigade had were spread so thin, he couldn't afford to be expending them like this, Mendez thought to himself.
   "Alright boys, let's break up this party, we're going to hit them with the water again, and then charge out there and break it up. We don't want a massacre but use lethal force if you have to. I don't care about the ones in the back but let's try to arrest everyone in the front. When I say go, go for it. Lieutenant Ortez take a squad in the building to the left and get up to the apartment they were bombarding us from. Water cannon NOW" he ordered. Some in the crowd realizing the cannon truck was occupied putting out fire had already started to come forward again, but the truck was able to quickly throttle up and fired again, a strong sustained stream that it worked from left to right repeatedly.
   "Okay, GO!" he ordered and the troops rushed forward into the still falling mist, bowling over anyone who was still standing with the batons or shields. Mendez watched the crowd break and begin to run, with satisfaction, and prepared to close the trap behind them.

   An hour later Mendez was at another intersection, similarly situated enjoying a roast beef sandwich in the command truck for lunch. It wouldn't quite help morale for the troops to watch him eat it, their rations weren't terribly great. But they should be grateful, at least they had food. Another larger protest march would be coming down this way soon. The general himself had called to say this was a major one. This time he'd taken the precaution to assign a sniper to watch the windows of the apartment buildings on either side. He'd wanted to have two of the water cannon trucks here but one was out of water and looking for a functioning fire-hyrdant to refill.
   He chewed on the sandwich very deliberately as he watched the crowd coming down the street. How could he hold back thousands of people with four tear gas canisters? He had seen the questioning way even the major looked at him some times, all he'd have to do is give the order and his entire brigade might switch to the opposition with him. Or if he didn't they might switch to the opposition without him. He thought of his wife and children, of the good food they enjoyed and the nice house. In Colonel Douro's sector. He chewed the sandwich very deliberately.
   This crowd had many signs with slogons which they held aloft, and a man with a loudspeaker, who called no the troops to join them and support "the rightful leader."
   Once again the water cannon fired first, bowling over members of the crowd like bowling pins. The man with the loudspeaker was interrupted mid sentence with a squawk. After the stream shut off the crowd quickly reformed and the now-dripping man with the loudspeaker immediately put it to his mouth and began again.
   "Hit them again!" Mendez ordered.
   The stream shot out briefly but then spluttered out. Causing the crowd to pull back and then quickly reform and jeer.
   "Shoot them!!" Mendez yelled into the radio.
   "Sir the pump has broken!" came the panicked response of the cannon operator, as a wisp of smoke appeared above the truck. The troops at the barricade seemed to shift nervously, several looking back. The crowd began to come forward
   "Tear gas!" ordered Mendez. First one canister was fired, and then another, they'd been told to use them sparingly. The protesters would stumble away from the choking smoke but there were always a few who would hold their ground (and presumably their breath) and continue coming on. As the crowd kept coming, a fourth one was fired. A woman in a red dress stood defiantly amid the swirling white tear gas smoke. She didn't even have a gas mask or goggles. How did she do it?? Mendez couldn't help but admire her courage.
   "Sir, we're out of tear gas" reported the lieutenant nervously. As the smoke from the expended canisters dispersed the mob reformed into a solid line and began to march forward chanting.
   "Shoot them. Live rounds" he ordered gravely. He didn't like to give the command but it had t be done. Hopefully the crowd would quickly see what was good for them.
   "Sir?"
   "LIVE ROUNDS! NOW!" he nearly screamed. He could see the Lieutenant looking back at him, the radio next to his face. A number of the troops at the barricade were looking back at the command truck as well.
   "Colonel orders live fire" he heard the Lieutenant call out. Some troops leveled their guns at the oncoming protesters but no one fired. The chanting crowd continued to approach, slowly, intractably. Mendez watched in horror as one of the soldiers lowered his gun. And then the one beside him did too.