Scrambled Eggs

“Save the eggs, the scrambled eggs!” the captain bellowed as raging flood waters eddied about his feet. “Get the eggs, we’re going down!”

The crewman flung himself headlong down the gangway, to the freshly mounded pile of soft scrambled buttery golden eggs which perched so prettily upon the ship’s hull, glistening in the last vagabond rays of sunlight peering down through angry clouds and pelting rain, not one drop of which dared lay a solitary molecule upon the sacred platter. “I’ve got them captain!” cried the crewman in triumph, holding them high, reaching skyward, arms outstretched.

“Good man,” replied the Captain as a frolicsome wave swept him overboard without missing a beat, the rest of his words, his instructions, lost in the boisterous bellow of the howling wind.

‘Oh dear,’ considered the crewman bathed in light, still bearing the golden delights heavenside, ‘whatever shall I do now?’ And with the question, softly sighed to the raging winds, all was calm and still. A sign. He sat himself down, and with nimble fingers, since he possessed neither fork nor spoon, devoured the entire repast, licked the plate clean, including the buttery traces which lingered there.

Finished, he hopped into a lifeboat and rowed for shore, picking up the Captain on the way, who was only mildly waterlogged, and mostly miffed because the scrambled eggs were meant for him, and he gleaned from the crewman’s grin that all had not been lost.