Sorry, Mr Masefield - modern sailor's lament

michael_w

michael_w

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Sorry, Mr Masefield - modern sailor\'s lament

I must go down to the sea again, in a modern high-tech boat, And all I
ask is electric, for comfort while afloat, And alternators, and solar
panels, and generators going, And deep cycle batteries with many amperes
flowing.

I must go down to the sea again, to the autopilot's ways,
And all I ask is a GPS, and a radar, and displays,
And a cell phone, and a weatherfax, and a shortwave radio,
And compact disks, computer games and TV videos.

I must go down to the sea again, with a freezer full of steaks, And all
I ask is a microwave, and a blender for milkshakes, And a watermaker,
air-conditioner, hot water in the sink, And e-mail and a VHF to see what
my buddies think.

I must go down to the sea again, with power-furling sails,
And chart displays of all the seas, and a bullhorn for loud hails, And
motors pulling anchor chains, and push-button sheets, And programs which
take full charge of tacking during beats.

I must go down to the sea again, and not leave friends behind, And so
they never get seasick we'll use the web online, And all I ask is an
Internet with satellites over me, And beaming all the data up, my
friends sail virtually.

I must go down to the sea again, record the humpback whales, Compute
until I decipher their language and their tales, And learn to sing in
harmony, converse beneath the waves, And befriend the gentle giants as
my synthesizer plays.

I must go down to the sea again, with RAM in gigabytes,
and teraflops of processing for hobbies that I like,
And software suiting all my wants, seated at my console
And pushing on the buttons which give me complete control.

I must go down to the sea again, my concept seems quite sound, But when
I simulate this boat, some problems I have found. The cost is
astronomical, repairs will never stop, Instead of going sailing, I'll be
shackled to the dock.

I must go down to the sea again, how can I get away?
Must I be locked in low-tech boats until my dying day?
Is there no cure for my complaint, no technologic fix?
Oh, I fear this electric fever is a habit I can't kick.
 
Re: Sorry, Mr Masefield - modern sailor\'s lament

Maybe if Mr Masefield were around today his version might have gone like that. Brilliant take on the old salts classic.
 
Re: Sorry, Mr Masefield - modern sailor\'s lament

said earlier - best post for ages - made me laugh till I cried bittersweet. This is one for my poetry corner at work - perhaps it will travel with me this summer?!

Thanks so very much, Mike

Susy
 
Re: Sorry, Mr Masefield - modern sailor\'s lament

And here's the original, for those that don't have it to hand:

Sea Fever

John Masefield

I must go down to the sea again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a gray mist on the sea's face, and a gray dawn breaking.

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
All I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the seagulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way, where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And a quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.
 
Re: Sorry, Mr Masefield - modern sailor\'s lament

I have a confession. I didn't write it, just thought it was brilliant and needed a wider audience.
 
No-go area

Thanks for bringing it all into perspective, very good! /forums/images/graemlins/smile.gif

But you can't get away that easy, there's always some picky pedantic git. Now when I went to school, the first line read:
"I must down to the sea again", ie no "go".

I often wondered if it was a typo.
 
Re: No-go area

Overloaded British cruiser with a sunbleached mainsail
Reaching back from Cherbourg in a gentle breeze.
With a cargo of good wine, cheap beer, French perfume for you dear
Five thousand fags, two Hermes bags and twenty pounds of cheese.

Shiny brand new Predator belting through the Solent
Thirty five knots and a cloud of smoke
With a cargo of dolly birds and alcopops, loud music that never stops
Pink Burberry, bling jewellery and thirty grams of coke.
 
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