Steward's Log; May 11, 2014

On anchored chain we bob. For what has felt like a lazy fortnight, we have been moored from the coast of St. John in New Brunswick. Though our actual period of inoperation has spanned but four days, these have passed under trying circumstances, as the crew has access to no internet or social relief such as is afforded ashore. Each day presents a fresh delay, poorly communicated or otherwise unspecified whatsoever, a new promised time frame merely thrust upon us as we stew along the coast. I take no solace in the knowledge that several ships and fellow seamen share in our frustration. Each direction I face while anchored allows me to espy distant vessels, stoic and pristine along the horizon, not unlike a collection of burly gentlemen impatiently que'd for the one lavatory stall.

The encroaching land chides us from its near, though inaccessible, distance. Nightfall seems to share in this jest, as the city's twinkling lights whisper and tease us of entertainment and drink. These pleasures shall remain idle dwellings for the time being as we await our port to call.
While still burdened with slumber's tenacious shackles, I received a startling fright in the early day. As I began my morning duties, I exited the galley, passing my pantry's threshold, only to halt in unnecessary fright as I discovered that a small bird had invaded my work space. Of course, it posed no manner of threat to my person, and yet I found myself unsure of, or perhaps unwilling to proceed in its ejection from our wheelhouse. It is the nature of finding wildlife, however docile, within human confines that unsettles me. Such a creature surely does not belong, and my subconscious foolishly echoes this as though the very principle should prevent the chickadee's entry in the first place. My ever-vigilant co-man, the deafened Irving, shooed the poor jay, though it remained alight on our ship's deck for the day's remainder, and may very well be roosting with us presently. Some hawks were reported to have been on board (so to speak) as well, preying upon animals such as my hereto mentioned intruder. Deckhands anointed me with stories of ghastly discovery, as small birds' heads were appearing on deck, as the ravenous predators appear to not care for the skulls of their victims, as it were. I inwardly stifled a mild disappointment in not witnessing the larger specimens firsthand, as I find carnivorous birds to be most fascinating. Perhaps I will encounter one before my voyage concludes, though I admit that I would certainly not wish to see such a magnificent creature in my pantry.