Imagine a four-headed know it all troll with a broad streak of arrogance at the helm of the Gray Pearl in the midst of the Perfect Storm, the End of the Known World dropping off into Nothing on one side, the whirlpool that almost got Ulysses on the other. If you were a hand on that ship and one of the heads screeched out:
and the others laughed, sneered, snorted and leered and then joined in the clamor with their own screams of :
What would you do? If this were a movie, you would look into the camera and connect with the audience in one of those “isn’t this ridiculous” moments that does so much to relieve tension and instill hope. Then while the troll screamed, the lowly deckhand would seize the wheel, “Fifty Men all lost at Sea …” on his lips and a flagon of ale dangling from his belt, and rip the Pearl through the Straits of Insanity into the calm periphery of the storm, where mermaids want to be girls and the Sea King looks like Yahweh.
And we would be saved.