Let's say there's a boat—
proud, glistening, sleek;
about to disembark
from the cute shabby
shore on which you're strolling
and daydreaming of adventure,
with an experienced
crew aboard
and a grizzled but captivating captain
who shouts down to you
that there's
room for one more,
explains that their only mission
is to seek peril and pleasure
and explore the whole ocean
'til their wild hearts' content,
to hunt treasure and fight
pirates and race magic mermaids
through mythical ancient passageways.
Only, let's say—
there's this
one little
totally incontrovertible stipulation:
of never getting where they're going,
never docking in any
of the ongoing succession of perfect island
paradises they'll discover
and never again returning
to the old safety of
this harbor either;
but instead, of stalwartly
journeying forth
with the expressed intention
of sinking—calmly, systematically
abusing and betraying,
then abandoning the ship,
every last man aboard it
resolutely drowning.
No survivors, no one left
to so much as
influence the course of future missions
with the telling of the tale.
And let's say—while he's talking
to you, the boat's just floating there
compliantly, bobbing
up and down, kind of winking
at you in the bright
sun, and nodding
witlessly along
with everything
he's been saying. Be honest:
would you—or anyone
you know, ever
willingly board this thing?
