Mach 2019

“There comes a time in a person’s life when they must think- waves? To this day we do not know where they come from and what mysterious forces give them life. Waves. Some big, some small. Some sharp, some blunt. They present their sumptuous forms in many unique ways, but they are never flat. No. For if they were flat, they would be no different from the common ground we walk. For all their mysteries and splendour, there is one thing and one thing only that we can be sure of regarding waves: that beneath the waves of Machrihanish, the Megalodon awaits” - Nelson Mandela

This very quote played upon all our minds as we, a rag-tag team of acousticians, ventured forth to the shores of Machrihanish to do what acousticians do best- study the way of the wave. Many drank and made polite chitchat, hoping to distract themselves from the terror that needled from the small of their back to the base of their skull. Alas no relief was found, for nothing can quell the psychophysiological response brought by the mere thought of the great leviathan. Still much insightful debate was had, though it wouldn’t be appropriate to discuss that here.

What may be said, is that our young crewmate Matt Wood, so named because of his two gnarled and water-warped wooden stump legs, had more fear than most. While the rest drunk with sensibility, Matt slurped down ales as if no body of water might quench his thirst. But this was no water. No, it was not. As Stumpy-Matt (Another classic seafaring nickname) greedily gargled down his sweet amber poison, the control over his retentive faculties gradually relinquished and before we knew it, the cabin we occupied was flooded with gaseous flatulence and cries of anguish. “Matt needs to pee,” hollered Lewis, a kindly and sympathetic crew member whose only concern was the relief of his crewmate. Begrudgingly, the captain and navigators down front allowed the poor stump-boy a break, hoping that it would be the last they must suffer on the gruelling four-hour journey. Unfortunately, they were to be disappointed as the demand for relief skyrocketed. By this juncture Megalodon-madness had reached fever-pitch and the entire cabin was afflicted, save for Lewis; he was nothing but helpful throughout.

Eventually our settlement was reached. But not before Woody Matt lost his sanity and started garbling on about “Spice”, “Creamy” and other nonsensical syllabic utterances; we feared he was a turkey all along. A rickety shack on the edge of the seafront was where we were to spend our nights, possibly our last nights in this world. With the prospect of demise facing us in the morning we made merry deep into the darkest crevices of the night. The rage cage was brought out, and all committed themselves to oblivion in entering its infernal contract. It was the mighty Matthew Pentleton, a man undoubtedly of royal lineage with such a name, that fell to the final cup. Amongst other things the poultice was thick with spiced rum and baileys irish cream, a concoction that made us suspect that Peg-leg's insane warbling had in fact been a hellish prophecy. And if it had been a prophecy, then hellish it was indeed, for as Mighty Matthew consumed his cocktail, he began convulsing, its unfortunate mix congealing within him. It was clear that tonight, the mighty was the one that would be consumed. With vomiting. Matthew chucked beef everywhere. Nothing was safe from the swell that washed over our belongings, not even Conor’s beloved sleeping-bag bag.

Meanwhile, somebody lobbed a coconut off Iona’s head.

As the glistening rays of our mother sun whispered delicate magic through the windows and unto our ears, we rose to face our first day in the golden coast. Dredging our bodies and immortal souls from the filth of the previous night, we steeled ourselves for the day ahead. As the best acousticians know, the only way to truly learn about waves, is from above and within. Our set of apparatus consisted of a kayak fleet of no more than ten boats and a smattering of big flat planks for some people to stand on. The only thing standing between us, and certain decapitation at the hands of megalodon were to be our trusty helmets... Or so we thought. For unbeknown to us a mutiny had been planned by the conniving Iona, who pretended to pack our protective headgear, only to stash them back in the shed when nobody was looking. Everything was fine though. A fair surf no higher than 6 feet tall told us that Megalodon king of the stormy surf, would not be joining us on this day. We rejoiced and embroiled ourselves in the rolling tides. Nothing was safe from the surf, a sand dune, a unicorn and even the sea itself were ridden. After an epic day of splashing around in some water, we went home. It was nice.

On return to our quarters the party split, and some made their way to a nearby pub in search of sustenance. With our numbers thinning we were not prepared for the ghastly presence that would soon haunt us. From the dead of night crept a humanoid figure. It battered through the door to our chambers and laced the air with its howls. “You dare enter this land,” it shrieked, “you should not be here. You will pay. YOU WILL PAAAAAY.” Eventually we coughed up what we owed.

The encampment was in decidedly better spirits than on the previous night and after some initial lubrication we indulged in a selection of social parlour games. In one a coin was tossed onto some cardboard to decide the fate of they who tossed. The fates were crafty that night, deciding that Connor should bury himself in the sands and only speak in song, Cinnamon should look longingly into his eyes- as Matthew should Annemiek- and that Peg-leg should wear his shoes on his hands for eternity; lest he be subject to ridicule. Some might find it odd that a man with two wooden peg-legs would wear shoes, but he is indeed an odd man, some would even say a turkey. Before long it was time to separate the wheat from the chaff in a sock-wrestling tournament for the ages. Though the narrator missed much of these proceedings as he was outside for a smoke, there were some events that would never be forgotten. Crafty Nick VI, the sixth in line of the Crafty Nick lineage, unleashed his beast upon Euan the Titanous in an epic directly analogous of David’s battle with Goliath. No confrontation shook the canon of reality more than that of the trinity of Matthews. Three unlikely contenders conformed between the circle of onlookers: Matthspew the Meek, Woody Matt and Matthew The Gin Soaked. Their engagement was earth-shattering, each of their blows to one another would have sufficed in decimating the strongest of armies, but before long one victor began to emerge. Having relieved himself of the greatest sins but twenty-four hours earlier, Mathspew the Meek ascended to the heavenly status by vanquishing his foes, and the hall was united in a chant of his new title “Mathvomit the Mighty!”

Following this there was some beer pong, through which it became a demonstrable truth that nobody was very good at beer pong. It is perhaps possible that other things happened that night, who for sure knows? I can tell you that I don’t. Our beloved leader, John, did however attempt to throw up in his own shoe while Connor cowered under a table. Sadly, in this endeavour, John proved to be unsuccessful- a task in which not many can claim to have achieved failure.

On the Sunday, the day so named because it was on that day that the megalodon first swallowed the sun, we all arose gradually but with great gusto brewing beneath the surface. After cleaning our muck we made one last journey to the beasts lair. The sun shone down upon us like never before, imbuing the silicate sands with its glistening golden benevolence. The air stood still as if holding its breath with us as we looked over the maelstrom of waves before us. The waves stood twice the height of those the day before, and you better bet that we hopped on them to see what they had in store. Great surf was had by all- those in boats, those on boards and those in bodies. Everyone got smashed off the seafloor and swam. Cinnamon's face had an allergic reaction to water and turned into a giant gourd topped with angels hair pasta. It was a fucking banging day. Afterwards we went home and thought about what we had done.