Call me Ishmael

Ahoy!
At 10:00 pm on April 4th, we sails for far Bilbao, by the Bay of Biscay, an' Faith is prognosticatin' that we is bein' sick as parrots an' confined to our swayin' standard class hammocks in the bilges on account o' the likely heavy seas an' fearsome gales.

But not me, mateys! Oh no, I is determined, come typhoon or tornado (well a bit o' wind, whatever!), to climb to the very t'gallants and go a-whale-spottin', dam' yer eyes!

What is it yo're blatherin' about Mel , you old scallywag, I is hearin' you mutter?
Has ye been at the rum (or, worse still, 'as ye been in the apple barrel again), or are ye jus' sailin' under too many years?
Nay lads,

I is no ancient mariner who stoppeth one of three.
Tho' I has a beard that's grey, 'tis true,
But that's nought to do with ye!


By the powers, the mighty great beasts be as thick as lice in a lighterman's vest in them thar waters, they say, an' I means to see me some o' the lubbers!
My informants is a'tellin' me that we's likely to see dolphins an' porpoises at least, and, if we's lucky, pilot whales and more besides, yoho.



O'course, I is also keepin' a close watch out for scurvy, morose peg-legged swabs, too, an' stayin' well clear o' them!

So, lads, don't be forgettin' yer old deck mate; wish 'im a calm sea or a strong stomach, an' 'ope that he can keep up this preposterous nautical-type talk long enough to reach the end o' this post without 'aving 'ad to ... oh bugger!!