The countdown has begun and the slops bucket is filling rapidly - currently it is a gelatinous mountain of googah, cous cous, cheesecake and pasta, with the odd tea bag thrown in. If this breeze holds, we should cross the Equator later this morning. Somewhat more cosmopolitan than the Viking crews who supposedly began the 'Crossing the Line' ceremony, we are still bent on making sure that the occasion is marked properly, bearing in mind that it is one of the oldest nautical customs in the book.
As is traditional the night before 'Crossing the Line', our Captain has been duly informed of Neptune's imminent arrival by one of his messengers and has obediently filed his list of 'slimy pollywogs' (aka Matt, Gabi and Giles). Pollywogs are those who have never crossed the Equator before and who must therefore be subjected to a cruel litany of tortures at the hands of us Equatorial old-hands, the 'trusty shellbacks'. After their 'preparation', the pollywogs will be judged for their crimes by the most senior shellback of all, Neptune himself. Roman god of the sea, Neptune is said to be the evil spirit of the ocean, the name itself being corrupted from 'Duppy Jonah' ('duppy': the West Indian name for spirit or ghost; Jonah: the Old Testament prophet who was thrown into the sea). Neptune always appears with a trident, and usually with his queen, Amphitrite, and Davy Jones. Word has it that this retinue are otherwise engaged as messengers to the ten yachts behind us, and we have fashioned a trident and a crown out of weetabix packets and foil googah bags just in case Neptune forgets to bring his own in the rush - after all he has a busy day or so ahead.
We are reliably informed that as well as being bathed in Equator goo, it is custom for the slimy polliwogs to have to kiss the 'Royal Baby' (the fattest chief on board) on the belly. He has not yet been named! One thing we can guarantee though is that he will be very hot and sweaty indeed. Not a nice thought. Thank Neptune I'm a trusty shellback!
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