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Bosun’s Last Run, The Story Of My Sea-Going Pussycat

“What’s this?” you might say . . . “a story about a pussy-cat? That doesn’t sound like a travel tale.”

Bear with me a moment . . . it really is . . . a story of one of the many travels I had when I was young and foolish, and had a small cat for company on my fish-boat, on which I traveled the coast of BC, trying to make a living by catching fish. The full version of this adventure was first published as “Night Run” in a fishing magazine many years ago. This is the poetry version of the same event. I hope you enjoy it, again, a true story!

BOSUN’S LAST RUN, THE STORY OF MY SEA-GOING PUSSYCAT

Bosun, my cat, was a great little sailor; pretty good at fishin’, but at swimmin’ a failure.

My bunk up forward her favourite place to sleep; late in the morning out of the cabin she’d creep for her breakfast I had saved for her to eat; of salmon nibbles and other pussy cat treats.

One day we headed past Texada with a wish; that somewhere near the coast there might be more fish.

We left Westview next evening as a sou’easter calmed down; up the coast to Lund, another small town.

Three boats together was the way we would start, ‘til a nor’wester squall forced us apart.

The spray o’er the foredeck caused it to leak; onto my bunk, disturbing her sleep.

She moved further aft, until the next wave came; poured in a small window, much to my shame.

I was fighting the squall, with all of my might; as the waves grew larger, we were both in a fright.

Bosun’s choices below were limited to try; with nowhere to go in hopes to stay dry.

My old Easthope had a dangerous flywheel; turning down into the bilge, it was made of steel.

The boat leaked bad as the engine chugged away; the flywheel sent bilge-water up with a spray.

As things got worse, Bosun moved closer to me; until a window crashed in, letting in some of the sea.

We finally made port, feeling we actually did win; so I cleaned up the cabin and at last turned in.

The next morning we all headed up the dock; to look for coffee and food, so we could all talk.

Bosun followed us, as she usually came; glad to be out of that boat, I could not blame.

The last I saw of her, her backside all wet; heading up the road, as far away as she could get.

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Considering my claim that most of the content of my stories are based on true events, some of my readers have challenged me about this section of Westcoast Bounty.  “Did that really happen?”

During an international environmental conference in Los Angeles, forty-three people die horribly and mysteriously on a local freeway by what initially appears to be a poison gas attack. Suspecting environmental terrorists

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“A book is a gift you can open again and again.”—Garrison Keillor

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Ian Kent

A writers quill used by Ian Kent the Author

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Ian Kent author
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