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Hva foretrekkes på seilbåten


Enzo

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To Sea in a Hi-Tech SailBoat

 

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I must go down to the sea again, in a modern high-tech boat,

And all I ask is electric, for comfort while afloat,

And alternators, and solar panels, and generators going,

And deep cycle batteries with many amperes flowing.

 

I must go down to the sea again, to the autopilot’s ways,

And all I ask is a GPS, and a radar, and displays,

And a cell phone, and a weatherfax, and a shortwave radio,

And compact disks, computer games and TV videos.

 

I must go down to the sea again, with a freezer full of steaks,

And all I ask is a microwave, and a blender for milkshakes,

And a watermaker, air-conditioner, hot water in the sink,

And e-mail and a VHF to see what my buddies think.

 

I must go down to the sea again, with power-furling sails,

And chart displays of all the seas, and a bullhorn for loud hails,

And motors pulling anchor chains, and push-button sheets,

And programs which take full charge of tacking during beats.

 

I must go down to the sea again, and not leave friends behind,

And so they never get seasick we’ll use the web online,

And all I ask is an Internet with satellites over me,

And beaming all the data up, my friends sail virtually.

 

I must go down to the sea again, record the humpback whales,

Compute until I decipher their language and their tales,

And learn to sing in harmony, converse beneath the waves,

And befriend the gentle giants as my synthesizer plays.

 

I must go down to the sea again, with RAM in gigabytes,

and teraflops of processing for hobbies that I like,

And software suiting all my wants, seated at my console

And pushing on the buttons which give me complete control.

 

I must go down to the sea again, my concept seems quite sound,

But when I simulate this boat, some problems I have found.

The cost is astronomical, repairs will never stop,

Instead of going sailing, I’ll be shackled to the dock.

 

I must go down to the sea again, how can I get away?

Must I be locked in low-tech boats until my dying day?

Is there no cure for my complaint, no technologic fix?

Oh, I fear this electric fever is a habit I can’t kick.

 

a parody on the poem, the Call of the Running Tide

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