I rose from the deck to carve a few shapes in the night. And made a quick meal of it. Lurching aft, and then to starboard, it took all my effort to avoid shirt-fronting the subs and stumble overboard without a trace. I've waded through effluvious moshpits across Europe, parlayed with psychedelic bogans from Wonthaggi, and thrown it all in with jihadi of doof and other party fundamentalists in locations too numerous to mention. But what could have prepared me for this new peril, this eightball odyssey on the High Sea, this berth on a ship of divine fools?

 I've waded through effluvious moshpits across Europe, parlayed with psychedelic bogans from Wonthaggi, and thrown it all in with jihadi of doof and other party fundamentalists in locations too numerous to mention. But what could have prepared me for this new peril, this eightball odyssey on the High Sea, this berth on a ship of divine fools?

Sailing south-east in the Cook Islands, north-east of New Zealand, we were charting the frontiers of dance, scanning the horizon for the perfect rave. But like a frumptious colony of crustacea, my colleagues in extreme recreation clung to all that was available, including the makeshift dance floor, resembling, at times, an incident room. This was no time for showcasing new form, for aerial hieroglyphs of the kind one might inscribe when, as in this case, broadsided by quality sound. Like pale-faced practitioners in an unorthodox church of dance, we rode it out, on a steady 145 BPM at 30 knots.

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http://edgecentral.blogspot.com/2010/07/black-pearl-eclipse-adventure-cook.html