Grandpa knew

My Grandfather was in the merchant marine. His father was in the navy. His father's father was also in the navy, as was a succession of tall lean men all the way back to the command of Farragut. We're of English descent, so I'm sure there was Royal Navy blood in there somewhere.

If you were to look at the wall behind the dining table in my Mother's house, instead of the usual ducks fake flying across the drywall, you'll spot a number of grayed but fascinating pictures of men with blank stares who strangely look like me and the old girl. The pictures date back beyond the time when I bought my first comic book or, before I was thought of as a possiblity, way back from different generations. In these pictures they're all wearing astute uniforms and sport facial hair that you know was never that clean or trimmed.

The pictures came from my Grandfather's house and I can remember him pointing and telling me what each of them was well known for. I heard the story of how his father worked six thousand days on the sea after he was washed out of the navy for drunken conduct. I heard that one dozens of times accompanied by stories of sea dragons and endless mists and Captain Nemo. I dreamed about the stories of exotic girls in far away places and the amazing and unreal times that never were tiresome to me.

My Grandfather died of throat cancer. His fingers were yellowed with time and nicotine. After his throat had succumbed to the mutation and the poisons had killed him, he left me his pipe. I still have it but I have never used it as he had. Seeing the pipe today reminds me of things he would tell me about those days long ago. Of course his introductions started in times well before his days, in more weatherbeaten years, and in somewhat sepia toned eras. He had an ability to wax about how men used to be wild and women were always under submission. It seemed that society in that sexist's revision was imbalanced. Sometimes I was outraged that the women weren't more vocal in his editions, but, according to the coughing old fool there was a common fantasy of reversal. So visceral were the fantasies that he stole from storytellers who spoke of strange deviations of common socially accepted male-female interactions through supernatural events, that for most of my childhood I'd look for such wonders whenever I found myself seaborne.

One of these stories involved a ship lost at sea. I never asked why his great grandfather was able to tell the tale since nobody in the story survived each telling. The crew were out of water and out of food, then he'd take a sip from his hipflask that my Grandmother had a blind eye for, and then he'd finish and at length describe how they were also out of booze. They sailed around the Atlantic for days dejected and without hope. It was then that they heard the most wonderous wailing singing voices. Gaining the direction from their weary ears, they navigated towards to voices and ultimately met their doom in the embrace of the Sirens. I could never do the story justice. The way he told each fantastic syory gave me the fear of attraction to anything and the suggesting that anything so alluring would surely have it's drawbacks and impending doom.

True enough, in reality, some women are sirens. Some women have the lure of amazing experiences and talent. They just beckon to be the ruination of a man. I always felt attraction to the doom embodied by the fantastic sirens, and would puff out my chest and flex my muscles and tell old Grandfool that I'd find a way to listen to the Sirens and not face a horrible death.

Resistance!!!

I'd boast that I could do it where others had failed, and he'd laugh and lean in and agree with me. Then he'd always pat my head and shoot me that smile I see in the mirror every day, except he'd have that glint in his eye, the glint of understanding and welcome fun.

Since then perhaps I am lost at sea and my magical invulnerability has survived me through countless Sirens, you be the judge.