There are stories told, among sailors bold,
Of the ships that sail the sea;
Every mariner's bar has tales from afar,
Whispered by sailors, over rum or tea;
The shores of Port Vila, much like Manila,
Have seen many a wreck and a hull;
But a hell of a jam was Cyclone Pam,
Where so many were rent to null.
We were easing Tintin, the crew all a grin,
Through the last of Mele Bay;
A chap named Moses, maybe he knows us,
Brought us in by the safest way;
But our calm on the buoy, went rather screwy,
When we spied the wrecks up on shore;
Fine ships were they all, but Pam was no squall,
And she tore them, beam and oar.
If you can look at a wreck, and think "ah heck",
"A few shekels were lost on that day";
You've never been at the helm of the sailing realm,
Had your own ship, that you've driven through spray;
Whether pinnace or skiff, doesn't matter a whiff,
It's your ship, filled with blood, dreams and soul;
Her loss on the rocks, or crushed on the docks,
In your heart, she will leave a great hole.
So be sure to think, when you see that the drink,
Has swallowed a ship in her jaws;
Some sailor's dreams were turned into screams,
By a storm that follows no laws;
The Ocean's rage abides by no gauge,
She swallows ships - and hopes - with her charms;
Each relic here, so far from the pier,
Rests now in Poseidon's arms.