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Captain Crazy

Posted on Wednesday, May 10, 2017

“Oh yea, Xander, by the way a guy from the port authority came by the institute today. The Captain wants you Tuck arrested because he said you didn’t pay him.” Larry, a fellow worker who was housing us, said this over a light afternoon lunch as if he was just reading an interesting headline in the sports section of the newspaper. “Huh…” was all I could manage to vocalize in perplexity. “No, Xander, this is serious.” Larry clearly wasn’t impressed that my reaction reflected the same nonchalant manner in which he delivered the news. “Well, I guess I’ll go pray.” I replied, carefully weighing an appropriate response.

                I guess being a wanted fugitive deserves some backstory. Tuck and I took a month hiatus from our normal lives to visit and work on a project in a neighboring field located on one of the most isolated islands in the world. Getting there required some creativity, like hitching a ride on a wooden Indian trading boat from another country into this one. After two days at sea and arriving to the island, it came time to pay the captain the sum we agreed upon for letting us stow away, but, to mine and Tuck’s surprise, the captain and his first mate both refused payment despite mine and Tuck’s persistence. “Oh well”, we shrugged, chalking it up to God’s favor, and waved a friendly goodbye as we disembarked from the ship.

                A week later, the same captain wanted us in the stocks. Tuck and I were just a little confused. Monty, our local friend and caretaker, was quick to act. “What happened?” he asked when I saw him hours later after receiving the news. He was clearly concerned, “This is shame!” he informed me with an edge to his voice. To Monty, the problem was not necessarily that this captain wanted us in jail, the bigger problem was that people would perceive Tuck and I as con men and dishonest, and, thus, be in a state of shame and dishonor before the local island population. We had to resolve this quickly, openly, and smoothly.

                Monty raced me to the small port that had initially been our gateway onto the island. We went straight to the port authority office, which in this case was nothing more than a tottering, tented shack about a stone’s throw from the dock. Monty and the authority began to argue (or, possibly, politely discuss) the matter in a mix of Arabic and the local tribal language, meaning, I understood little. Halfway through the discussion, the immigration officer who oversaw the whole island, named Fred, joined the fray. “How much do they owe?” he asked, “$150” Monty replied. “They’re not paying, they don’t have to.” Fred replied firmly. “They want to though”, Monty continued, “They made an agreement.” Fred took an aggravated inhale, “$100, make it $100” he countered. Monty and the port authority began to interject, “My word, my responsibility.” Fred declared and walked off. This finalization seemed to magically cause any other discussion from Monty or the port authority to cease abruptly.

                Shortly after Fred’s declaration the captain showed up. The port authority handed him his payment, noticeably $50 short of his expectation. The captain opened his mouth as if to object, “Fred’s word, Fred’s order” the authority interjected. This statement had the same silencing effect as before, and the captain’s objection turned into a hearty smile as he turned and shook my hand.

                I tried to hide my own cultural confusion, albeit, unsuccessfully I’m sure. I wasn’t going to jail, our shame was amended, and I still don’t understand Indian boat captains.

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