Aboard Ethan Allan

Thursday, November 28, 1929

210 miles today. Great day this Thanksgiving—brought lots of things to light. For one, a keg of alcohol brewing into a drinkable liquid—this a cooperative enterprise by Slim and his cabin-mates. The second, Skeexix, a boy down in the engine room, like Red from Texas. I seem to be taken for 19 or 20 or a8 as a rule—and though the burden of my advanced age (85 at least) rests lightly upon my shoulders, I find myself the old man. Of all the youngsters aboard the ship, 2nd mate excepted (who is 26 and has been to sea 4 years), I am the oldest. There’s Slim, 18, 1st voyage—Red Chatfield, 21, 1st voyage—Bartley, 20, 1st voyage—Roberts, about 21,—Skeexix, 19, 1st voyage—and McCary, 19, 4 years at sea.
Thirdly, Thanksgiving Dinner. The menu:
Soup au Grease
Dirty Silverware Greasy Plates
Roast Turkey – spirit of 1617
Onion dressing of Greece
Cool tongue a la dirty plate
Cold sliced baked ham of rock
Ant-mashed spuds sweet potatoes entière
Swimming peas
Mashed bug bread Butter a la copra bugs
Glue cake Acetic pumpkin pie
Ice cream de la nord
Coffee (dishwater brand)
Ice HOH (greecy cup style)
Salt, pepper and low wit served free
A grand meal, that. The gang was lined up at the galley fifteen minutes early, and when the bell rang the first few in the mess were well started before the last of the line crawled into their places. The heat has brought out the copra bugs by the thousands and they are almost unbearable in the mess. They fly about by the scores, lighting in your food or on you—they crawl about by the hundred till one is so exasperated from chasing them away he could almost eat them like the monkeys—the easier way. They are all over the food, especially on the bread to the tune of a score or more. You find them ground up and cooked in everything. And ants—well, they’re small and you don’t taste them.
Bridge at noon. No work today.

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