scapegoats sailing boats

The ship an upturned mess of ribs and boards. A bared back skeletal frame claiming its salvation from the sea by pounding the rocky shoreline with its unassailable carcass. People scattered in the water desperate to once again feel the ground beneath them while they kick and thrash at the sea that tries to reclaim them, tokens of the scuttle. A warning to all who should tempt the waves and a show of forth, wrath be the carnage that the deep waters are free to disperse, if the wind so allows. The lucky trudging off up the sandy bay into the arms of an ever embracing township. They were fools to think the enclosed cliffs were anything but there to kill them. But once again the ritualistic sacrifice of a ship full of idiots was generously shunted towards them; hope more than anything that this time was more than just different. Back to the local ale house to salt wounds and drown in a more pleasant manner, under the golden sway of ale and scotch. This was the way man was supposed to destroy himself, self loathing and self destruction with an upside. A reminder of why fateful journeys were planned and lost in a too frequent cycle to be considered even on par with foolish. The halcyon days had dwindled along with the stocks of this favourite of poisons. The town was running out of drink and the only known source was beyond the breakers. A land of barley and hops or so assumed. They cared not to dream of a distant place of beauty; everyone here was trying their hardest to forget where they already were. A time honoured tradition dyed in the wool of all that dwell within this cove. Isolated by the geometry of the valley that it fills and the general distain for ship building that it had built up through its lively history. A new face arrived amongst the last batch of survivors that had saved themselves from the waters. Under the salt and sand that crusted his clothes he appeared to be dressed like someone of note. The usual mob got hold of him though, accused of witch craft or alike, no one is allowed to just turn up in this town. Omens as they were of why the ship went down. A short fumbled inquiry led us to the fact he had actually caused the wreck, sailing a smaller boat directly into our flagships path. My amazement at his ability to pilot ship from foreign lands to not quite our shores amazed me but I was at odds with a town with a penchant for witch hunts, and this one was open and shit as he piled the evidence against himself with his own testimony. Tomorrow he would burn but tonight he was my guest. A fact I’d forgotten to have relayed to my wife. Why can’t we share this house with him? Purposefully overlooking the evidence that justified my lady’s opinions being yelled carelessly from the street. He could build a descent ship to get us all out of the corner we have backed ourselves into. My claims unsubstantiated and her a wily one with a penchant for an over enthusiastic pout he was banished to the barn. The argument I had such a tight clench on released and idealoligy turned to the wind he was left for the roughians to deal with after last drinks. I dare not break the news to him; he was probably still looking forward to having a tomorrow.