The Wrecks of Port Vila by crewman Beau.

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.