Every man for 'imself.

Our good ship 'Hospitality' has run aground, shipwrecked. The storm was great, violent and unforgiving. We have been chewed up and spat out by the beast. We scramble ashore, gasp for air and lie still on the beach, waves lapping at our feet. Sun in our eyes, blinking out the salt and trying to focus on the reality. Am I dead?

Physically the crew are not in great shape. Mentally, well, let's not go there. The captains of industry rally and command, "Man the canoes". The shells of businesses are fashioned into vessels and dragged laboriously to the estuary to head inland. Unknown environments await, unknown rules and natives who are not so hospitable. At first, we make progress. The currents are favourable and we head into fertile land, without adversary. Flag that, someone copped an arrow in the chest and rapids approach. Bugger me, things are getting hairy! We paddle on industriously, but exhaustion strikes and we head to the river bank to set up camp. We collapse as one and sleep like dead men.

The sun rises, we head back to our canoes and press on. Is that the sound of a waterfall symphony? First as a soft timpany, then bolder percussion. Do you hear the kettle drums Fernando? We press on. I fear the worst. I fear that we are going over the edge, for good. Buckle up, for King and Country.

I'm no coward, but I'm seriously considering turning in my 'Red Coat'.

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