Daily Report #57

Harikato, readers,

The first thing I do in the morning when I get out of bed is go to the toilet. You know, for Mother Nature's direct and aggressive call to apply relief to watery suffering. There are quite a few expressions for it. I find tinkling funny, although it is more applicable - perhaps - to women who try to alleviate the need. In tough sailor language; lenses on the forepeak.
So uncertain on my feet, not so much from the recent awakening as from the still-rolling ship, I enthusiastically pull open the door of the privy.
Immediately a bad smell hits me in the nose. An olfactory blast in the face. Just like my hands smelled after that great massacre on the quarterdeck that killed a Merlin. And picked up. Nice.
On the floor of the toilet, just in front of the door, two relatively large eyes look at me lifelessly. I notice a red dot on the forehead and a broken left fin and the characteristic open mouth that apparently still hadn't finished gasping for air.
Rigor mortis was a fact and I thought I was at the fish market. Scales everywhere. Not just on the body. This beast had made its last flight and had made a mess of it in its agony. Who would not want to leave the earthly in such a heroic way? Not me.
First I called Mark to see things and try to answer the pressing question, ignoring the call of mother nature. How did this beast get here? The only access hatch is open a crack and a garden hose from the deck shower runs through it.
Further forensic examination has revealed that this projectile, spurred on by kamikaze-like zeal, was probably a Japanese flying fish that had not yet been notified that the war had long since ended. He probably jumped up from behind the ship during his attack, flew into the slightly ajar gate and with his slender, flexible, almost hungry body through the crack -almost in the pot- but certainly landed on the floor- to scale his cargo there, mucus, stench and victory look in our toilet.

Every win counts.