Our last communication ended with our loyal crew recovering from a blitzkrieg-style home invasion from the booby birds.
Tiffany, Allan and I quickly devised a counter-strike offensive. Luckily, between Tiff’s years of nautical experience, Allan’s fighter-jock skills (no, really – F-16s!…these birds seriously picked the wrong boat to mess with…) and my supreme knowledge of the multiple uses of sailing line we routed the enemy and chased him squawking into the night.
With the main thrust of their attacked repelled, their forces routed and in shambles, the enemy made a final, desperate play for a beachhead on our extremely delicate solar panels, which our reserve forces quickly repelled.
Unfortunately they kept coming back, growing so bold as to land on the boat hook as we attempted to poke them with it! Eventually, with both sides weary from literally hours of intense non-stop action, our side proposed a truce: One bird on the dingy, as long as no one poops. Of course he defecated easily twice his own body weight onto our small boat and at first light his fellow bombers attempted to join him, so we rejoined the battle this time determined to offer no quarter…
Though we survived the brutal hand-to-halyard combat of that night, our boat still carries the scars of the battle …
… and, as you can see from that video, we must remain constantly vigilant for skirmisher forces lying in wait to catch us unawares. For we are alone, cut off from other allied units, hundreds of miles from shore and should our efforts fail, we would be overtaken before help could arrive. There is no truce, no peace. That is the lesson the “night of the attack of the boobies” taught us. A lesson we pass to you, my friends, from the front lines. Pray for us as we battle on…
– Greg
