Nothing like this happened. Image by The Library of Congress via FlickrThe sea lapped gently at the sides of the boat. Not very exciting, I know, but such is life. For the last week, Max and I had survived in the maw of the beast, eating tinned tuna. Don't ask how.

 Yesterday, we felt a jolt around noon. Well, it was probably noon. I don't know, our watches were broken, and there's little sun in the belly of a whale. So, actually, it probably wasn't noon. But I'm narrating this verbal abortion, so I'm going to say that's when it was. Anyhow...

 The jolt awakened us from our slumber, sending us leaping up from our whale-tongue duvets. This was unusual, the great leviathan usually swam peacefully unless attending its Yoga class. Unleashing a great cry, the beast threw open the mouth that had housed us this past week, streaming in sunlight and sea air. We had surfaced, the beast encircled by great craft - a whaling party. A showdown so epic, so spectacular, so stunning occurred. So I won't bore you with the details.

 Suffice to say, Max and I are now on a Japanese whaling craft. The crew have been very kind, giving us warm tea and a safe trip to Dover. I mean, that's what we think is happening. We don't speak Japanese, so maybe we're just going to be eaten. Who knows?

The pursuit is over. My dogged determinism has paid off, and like a dog, I have my bone. Only this time, it's a whale.

 The ocean laps around my feet. The boat is sinking. Only minutes ago, I chanced upon the leviathan as he rose from the water, seeking air and a copy of the London papers. Disguising myself as a newspaper vendor, I lured the unsuspecting beast near me. However, the clammy sea air permeated my moustache adhesive, and my disguise faltered at the crucial moment.

 Eye-to-eye, we looked upon each other. My hand was outstretched, offering the newspaper. His flipper-thing similarly reached out, curled and holding money. We were inches apart, his warm breath enveloping me, the scent of fish and long-discarded paper boats staining my clothes. Then he leaped mightily, silhouetted against the sun like Free Willy, free and unfettered by the hands of man.

 He struck the sea, a mighty blow that send waves across my poop deck, and sank down into the azure. I aimed to follow, but the great shock had sent my mast into the deck, and the water was rising fast.

 Is this the end of me?

 Nah...

I am at sea

A whale's back. It is erotic. Image via Wikipedia

Call my Ishmael. It isn't my name, but the change will do me good.

The whale took Max some days ago. As is always the case, it lured him into a van with the promise of sweets. I followed the trail for days, losing the hump-backed kidnapper when he entered the ocean. Overhearing the gossip of fishermen in a seaside tavern, I picked up the beast's scent again yesterday and headed into the tempest brewing off-shore.