Come Hell or Highwater: Sir Sanjay Gupta to the Rescue!, Albereez [read ebook pdf TXT] 📗

steaming passenger ships to traverse safely the cold pacific waters from Scotland to Dunedin, New Zealand. Now the lighthouse is more of an undying monument rather than a guardian of the sea. Rarely do freighters travel this far south, yet there it remains in the off chance that a weather-beaten ship should lose its way in the tempest of the South Pacific Ocean.
Today began like every other morning for Sir Sanjay Gupta. Born into a delightful little coconut farm somewhere south of Tamil Land, Sri Lanka, his large extended family raised him with utmost love. For this reason, over the past nineteen years he would arise at precisely 0500 hours from a dreamy sleep of succulent coconuts and wavy palm trees. Quick to touching his furry feet to the floor, he'd spring out from the sheets like a jack-in-the-box and immediately he would carefully make his bed, taking extra care to crease the sheets at perfect ninety degree angles to the edge of the bed.
You see, he long had learned that perfectionism was an art worth holding on to, and he respected the harmony of routine.
On this blistery, bone marrow-freezing pre-dawn, Sanjay, after meticulously making up the bed, then proceeds to his little make-shift kitchen for breakfast. The brutal sea sees him and attacks the lighthouse with disdain. However, he hardly notices as his almost obsessive attention transfixes him to the wee kettle boiling on the burner.
Sir Sanjay Gupta is not a man to forget his toast served lightly toasted and buttered alongside his McGregor's decaffeinated coffee, imported especially from Lochshire, Scotland. Nor does he forget on this morning either. He brazenly removes a couple slices of Momma's fresh pumpernickel bread from his hoister sock, jamming them into the toaster.
His power bill is neither alarming nor relevant to this morning's events yet he keeps mindfully aware of his ability to attend to breakfast with the light off. With breakfast at hand, he abruptly kneels on his plush corduroy hassock and slowly gobbles down his aromatic pumpernickel toast.
After two sips of the pungent cup of joe, his mind carries him to the day's duties: triple check the valves on the spotlight, collect the afternoon weather forecast from the AM radio, mop down the brittle wooden floor, don his Inverness-issued snorkel gear and go coggeling for clams. Pondering of this sort excites him and his vegas nerve rapidly pumps norepinephrine out of his locus ceruleus and into the surrounding, almost necrotic, tissue. Everyday is like this: Routine Routine Routine. But what a wonderful routine tis!
CLACK CLACK crIckLY CracK! He springs up once again like a mad-hatter jump-in-the-box, this time startled out of his dreamy trance by the sound of his staccato-strap -- a device that only goes off when there is a ship at sea sending out a distress call. Only twice in three years had it alarmed, all three times(this being the third) resulting in a bruised head from smacking into the low wooded ceiling. Rubbing vigorously his portly head, he moves over to the light and cancels the autopilot strobe into manual.
Back and forth he shines the beam until he spots the weather-beaten vessel. Appearing to be a cargo freighter of the oddest sorts, Sanjay notes that it was nearly perpendicular to the rough waters jostling it back and forth across the white-capped froth.
Aside from blazing the blinding light directly into the ship's cabin, he could do nothing more along the means of help so he shrugs his shoulders and resumes his humble breakfast as his thoughts slide into memories of his youth selling pretty-colored clam shells in the Tamil fish bazaar. But then it suddenly dawns on him: "I am Sir Sanjay Gupta: Protecter of the high seas. I must attend to this distess call lest I forever drown in my shame!" With this new resignation, he jolts up and away, quickly slipping into his Inverness snorkling gear including Paddington bear flippers, and then leaps out the window like a frog on a hot stove. Rest assured, he does this every day anyhow when he goes coggling, never using the door, so he is relatively safe flopping into the choppy waters like this. And of to the rescue he goes!

Chapter 4

I am suddenly yanked into consciousness by something (or someone) ripping at my hair. To my great surprise, it is a furry old man with a raging mustache and deep-set eyes hidden beneath prominent eyebrows. These bushy, musk-like eyebrows are even clearly visible through the mask the man is wearing, unlike the hair which was hidden beneath a silicon swim cap with 'bubbles' on the decal.
My brain hurts. My skull reverberates to the aftershock of the thunder still rumbling up above, but at least now my vision is clearing up. The smoke and eeiry green flames are still present, yet I seem to have drifted slightly away from the oil sludging on the surface. Then the furry man speaks:
"Ahoy there, wee man! Looks like you've got zee self in oont mess. But don't worry I will save thee. Hang on to my neck and I will drag you to this boat that's sinking. Maybe we can find a lifeboat."
With my last ounce of renewed strength I reach across his hairy chest and grab his bulging neck. What a strong old man he is, I thought. With me in tow, Sir Sanjay violently flutter-kicks toward the sinking frigate.

...

Meanwhile, Kayle and her ambivalent men are boarding the smallest of the life rafts, a three person skooner. And down the raft goes, into the rough ocean where their fate awaits them. Two minutes later, Kayla yells out, "Guys look! Over yonder. See them? A pair of men amongst the wreckage of the other ship! They need our help!" And so the three direct their twin-turbine motor towards the swimming men.
"Gotcha!" screams out Dweezle as he reaches down into the violent water and drags into the boat both Sanjay and me.
"What will happen to our crew?" cries out Kayla, but then gasps in shock for she notices her brother hidden behind the snorkle mask. "Sanjii! I am so happy to see you!
"Yes, very good indeed," says Sanjay, surprisingly with indifference. "Greetings and what-not after we arrive to my lighthouse!" yells the furry man. The crew, with a great struggle manage their way to the pier.

...

Once in the lighthouse, Sir Sanjay says, "Come now. Quickly! Enter my boardroom and change out of your wet clothes. I will give you all a bite to eat afterward." The boardroom was merely a 5x5 meter room below the main quarters with a couple of cardboard boxes for furniture. But it would have to make do, I thought with disdain. Yet I had no energy left. I immediately crumbled to the hardwood floor and passed out.

...

Thirty-five minutes pass in darkness until my eyelids flip backwards allowing the dim light of the room to enter my retinas.
"You looked like you were a gonner, my friend." Kayla vocalizes to me with concern in her beautiful cow-like eyes. I sit up and respond. "We were hit. We were hit!" They attacked us."
"Nobody attacked nobody, pal --- I'm Kayla by the way And this is my brother Sanjii and my first mates Nort and Dweezle. -- We collided with your ship it seems. You are part of Operation Pacific Thunder, yes?"
I moan. "I was yes. I'm antoine Musclejouz, of the ship The Classifier SS-7. Your ship?"
"Dragnot 42-E" blurts out Norton, out of turn. "Pleased to meet your acquaintance, mate!"
"Yeah. I'm glad you found me out there." I turn to Sanjay. "And THANK YOU! I was a dead man out there but for you. Thank the heavens you showed up. Let me tell you something. I don't believe in God but I sometimes talk to him just in case. Well this time I thought to him that I wanted a helping hand. The hand was furry. Just like yours! But then I lost consciousness and started to sink. You must have yanked my hair at just the right moment!"
"I live to serve eend proteect" says Sanjay as he looks affectionately at me with a sparkle in his eyes. Come into my quarters everyone and have some breakfast."

The time is now 0715 zulu time.

We climb the rickety spiral staircase and enter another very cramped room with nothing but a small bed, and a make-shift kitchen. There is a chamber pot and a half opened chest on the floor where Sanjay keeps his snorkle gear.
"Cozy place," I say.
"Yesh, it servsh me well. For over 16 years!" Sanjay slurs. "Come. I will make some coconut-curried pokoras and some darinjili tea, courtesy of the queen." He works his magic on the stove and no sooner could the group speak out in objection, everything was prepared and ready to serve. Piping hot and delicious.
"Sissy mentioned something about an Operation Pacific Thunder. Would someone tell me about this?"
My eyes bulge outwards in surprise. I was caught off-guard with a half-eaten pokora stuffed in my gaping mouth. I then mumble, "Well the mission is double-D top secret but basically it was to transport fuel to our fighter jets stationed in the Chatham Islands. You know them?"
"Yesh!" slurres Sir Sanjay once again (what was causing this I will never know). "They are a small cluster of islands, some populated, 500 km east of Christchurch. But I didn't know that there was a navy base their."
"Well that's the classified bit." Kayla states with a blush. "Nort, do you have anything to add?"
"No my dear."
"Well then shut up."
"but I didn't say anythin..."
"Stay quiet anyhow." Kayla scoffs. "Anyhow Sanjii, brother-from-another-mother, I never told you that I was a part of this mission because I wasn't sure we were going to travel by this route. Besides, you don't have a telephone and sending letters is pointless because you don't know how to read. Anyhow I didn't think I would see you this time. But I have so much I want to tell you!"

...

By now the thunder has all but dwindled away to a purr and the sun gloriously rises above the particulate horizon. The Dragnot 42-E and Classifier SS-7 are all but a memory in the minds of this now comfortable and warm gang.