martin ivison >>
white male, blue eyes, brown hair
82 kg, 181cm
with two children
a scattered family >>
a former life in music >>
a fondness for alphabet soup >>
and continuing aspirations

20121106, Hotel Quentin, Amsterdam

"Prepare for landing," the boat operator's voice crackled in their intercoms as the heavily muffled engines slowed.
Deepak did a routine contingency check on the team. "Chugger," he called to a lanky guy in the front, "Safety on."
The guy ginned at him. "You're not in charge, Deep Shit."
"No, kiddo," Deepak routinely canned his reaction to the slur and bounced his fist off the inflated side of the craft, "but you hit the boat and we're all going down, and I'll be happy to help you explain that to Operations."
Chugger pointed his muzzle at the rubber hide and mouthed a shot, just as they suddenly felt grinding sand under the boat and jerked forward.
"Sorry, boys," the operator came through, "didn't know that bank was there. It's on foot from here. As usual, any of you finds me a chart of this coast - heck, any coast - you get a prize."
The beach was still about two hundred meters away. In the heavy tropic haze they could make out the old defunct ship-yards, a rusty cargo ship half disassembled still moored in the lagoon, and the dirty beaches to its south with their target, the village that once provided the yard's work force. It was hard to see whether they would be able to wade all the way, but there was little use thinking about it. Deepak hauled over the side into the knee-deep, warm water.
(from More Dogs Than Days)

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