Why I won’t tour the ships
The fleet has come to port. Lock up your children and pets. That’s not really fair; I don’t know anything about naval personnel other than the stereotypes presented by hundreds of years of literature and dozens of years of cinema, but the local wharf has a king’s ransom in expensive military yachts tied alongside. There’s an open invitation to go and tour, but the thought of standing in line with thousands of others for the chance to walk up and down some metal stairs is hardly a drawing card; I’ll abstain.
Besides, the warning on the news to leave your backpacks at home seals it. Going out, in public, without a backpack. Can’t do it, won’t do it, don’t believe it is worth the sacrifice. After all, a knapsack is a statement of preparedness. Think of a superhero with a great utility belt. I don’t want that much weight around my waist, but I do want access to the hardware that means I am READY.
On a typical day, you might find a flashlight, or a pair of pliers, or several dollars in coffee change. Throw in some bus books, a tuque, the carefully researched family tree of someone else, the remains of a bag of potatoes, an imported nametag, some carabiners, a bus routing map with assorted schedules, and probably some other long lost articles. The idea that I could tour a foreign military vessel without such stock is unthinkable.
Sorry, navies of the world. You’ll have to sail away without my blessing. Sail well, before the wind. I, for one, intend to keep my sack on my shoulder.
