This is dedicated to all the mariners who lost their lives on the Great Lakes.
Please note that the names have been changed out of respect, and some other stuff has been changed and/or hyped up for purposes of entertainment.
If you want a little something to set the mood, no song could be more apropos than THIS.
Lake Superior, North America
About 15 miles Northwest of Whitefish Bay
Aboard the SS Edmund Fitzgerald
November 10, 1975
7:10 pm
"How are you doing, Ed?" asked the fuzzy, distorted voice on the radio.
The voice in question belonged to Bernie Cooper, captain of the SS Arthur M. Anderson.
"We're holding our own."
Not many other choice phrases could have been vague enough to gloss over the sad truth. Edward McQuinn had seen his fair share of bad seas, and in fact prided himself upon being able to wrangle the worst of weather. But today, ol' Superior was throwing her worst at him.
Both radars knocked out by the winter storm three hours ago, waves relentlessly breaking over the deck, two ballast tank vents missing, and the Mighty Fitz was listing so bad to starboard that old Ed wouldn't even be able to set his cup of coffee down on the table without it sliding clean off… that is, if the ship wasn't rolling over 25 foot waves at the moment. Sailing blind without radars in the darkness and heavy snowfall, Ed's travelling companion Bernie had to lead him through the tempest over the radio.
Ed looked out the bridge windows, to the deck of the ship. What he saw made him drop his coffee mug. It shattered, spilling the no-longer-warm liquid upon the floor, like the waves spilling over the railings onto the deck that Ed could clearly see was unnaturally twisted in the midsection. She was just about to break apart...
"CAPTAIN!" shouted Vernon O'Daniel, who was manning the wheel.
The good captain turned his head to the bow windows, expecting to see the snowstorm and turbulent sea that was Superior, but instead only saw a wall of blues and whites.
What came next happened so quickly, no one would even remember it.
Tempest tossed and half-drowned in the frigid, turbulent waters, old Captain McQuinn surfaced from the water and drew a deep breath of cold air that burned his lungs.
The first coherent thought that his mind could piece together at that point was: 'It's over…' And it very much would have been all over for him and his crew. He could not recall how he wound up out of the ship's bridge and into the water, but one thing was certain: if you fell overboard in the icy waters of Superior, especially in a storm as bad as this, it was all over for you.
But despite the trauma and the frigid cold, Ed's head was starting to clear, and soon he heard voices. His men. He couldn't see anyone in the dark and amidst the rain. But then all of a sudden, he could. He saw Vern, floating not 20 feet away, and being jostled up and down by 10 foot waves, as Ed was. Why could he suddenly see in the dark?
DING DING
A ship's bell? The Anderson! Was she really that close? There was some hope after all, they were caught in the other ship's searchlight! They would be saved!
And saved they were. A lifesaver tied to a rope was thrown to them, and all the men present clung to it for dear life. They were reeled in and hoisted up on deck one by one. The captain was the second to be brought up. On his hands and knees, the 63 year old man coughed and wheezed and shivered violently. Next to him, Vern the wheelsman, faired not much better, but took the time to look up and attempt to thank his savior. What he did instead was stare until he finally attempted to tap on Ed's shoulder.
Of course his blind attempt at 'tapping' was more like poking and slapping the captain. He didn't get his attention until he practically backhanded Ed's face, unintentionally of course. Ed managed to look up at Vern, only to see him staring off at something else. Ed followed his gaze and stared as well.
And what he saw was, what, in his mind at the time, could only be described as…
…a giant four-legged eagle in a black raincoat and matching hat. Who was curiously staring right back at them with a feathery eyebrow cocked way up.
And it spoke, "An' what manner o' creature be you, matey?"
Neither men had the strength to respond.
What was left of the Fitz's crew sat huddled together on the floor of a warm room inside the ship they were rescued by, now quite obviously NOT the SS Anderson. They were stripped naked and given blankets. You know, because their clothes were wet…
Every man in the room noticed something, but none dared speak it. There were far too few of them. Too many faces missing. Most dared not think about it at the moment.
After some time, a griffon entered the room. The men had already conversed with some of the crewmembers and knew the name of their species, but could not discern much else in their state of shock and hypothermia. The solidly built griffon sat behind a desk, on a chair interestingly enough. The stylish white hat he removed from his head and placed on the desk identified him as the captain. He had a muddy golden coat, with off-white feathers, and he wore a black eye patch over his right eye, under which ruffled and uneven feathers implied some sort of scarring.
"Uh… hello." He smiled unsurely. "I'm Captain Redbeak… but you all can call me Scratchy, all my crew does. They say you're called humans?"
The group of men nodded.
"And from which land do you hail?"
Ed, taking initiative as captain of his crew, cleared his throat and said, "The United States of America."
"Hmm, can’t say I've heard of it." Scratchy scratched the scraggly feathers under his beak with a talon.
The men gaped in shocked silence.
"I take it you were sailing these waters?"
"I'm not so sure now…" Ed responded, "is this Lake Superior?"
"Lake?! This is the East Ocean!" Scratchy gawked as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.
The men murmured, they had all tasted the salty water, but had chalked it up to the trauma of being flung overboard into freezing waters in the middle of a violent storm.
Old Ed only stammered in a vain attempt to ask where the 'East Ocean' was, but instead fell back on a more conversational question, "What's your heading?"
"Horseshoe Bay." Scratchy saw where this was going, rolled his one eye around in his head, and added, "Equestria."
The six men from the Fitz went below decks and got acquainted with the griffon crew.
"Treat them like proper guests!" Captain Redbeak ordered.
Meanwhile, the two captains sat alone in Scratchy's quarters and talked over a meal of some kind of red meat, bread, and cooked vegetables. They mostly made small talk, about their home towns, their careers, and so forth. When the topic turned to the ship they were currently aboard…
"…she's an iron steamboat, she is. None of that old fashioned wood 'n sails the ponies still use," Scratchy smiled proudly. "We're hauling iron ore, Equestria's finally starting a little bit of an industrial revolution. Took 'em long enough."
A moment of silence passed between the two, Scratchy could see he struck a sensitive topic.
"Don't be so hard on yourself," Scratchy leaned over and patted Ed on the back. "I've lost two ships myself."
Ed looked up into the other captain's eye. "Have you ever lost a crewmember?"
"I… no. I have not…" Scratchy's brow was furrowed in concern for his fellow captain.
The shipless captain looked back down at his food again. "It's my fault. I failed them," he despaired, looking as though he was on the verge of tears. "If… if I hadn't pushed the Fitz so damn hard…"
Scratchy sighed and opened a drawer in his desk. "Well, I can't get you you're crew back. But I got a solution for that anyhow." He plunked a glass bottle filled with amber liquid on the desk.
Below decks…
"CHEERS!" Glasses and beer bottles clashed together, adding to a cacophony of incomprehensible shouting, laughter, and guitar music. The humans had made a toast to their lost comrades, but they themselves were so full of life. The shock of going overboard, and the sweet reprieve of rescue had instilled in them a new sense of life, and they were just happy to still be living it. The griffons however, were merely content for an excuse to break out the beers.
The two crews separated by species got along well. Both groups being sailors helped, but what really sold it for the griffons was discovered before dinner…
"Ugh, you don't eat hay, do you?" The resident cook asked his human guests. Earl was a completely gray griffon, medium gray feathers and fur. "Cuz we ain't got none of that," he griped, pushing his extremely thick spectacles back into place on his beak.
Confused as he was about everything, Jacob McAvoy, the 62 year old first mate, was just going with the flow when he answered, "Uh… well, I'm a meat 'n potatoes man, myself." He was a short, stocky man with an unusually charismatic high pitched voice.
"Meat you say?" The chef raised both of his feathery eyebrows over his heavy duty glasses, then grinned like the cat that ate the canary (a particularly unusual analogy given the griffon anatomy). He was ecstatic that he would get to cook for a new race of fellow meat eaters.
It was explained to the humans that most of the other intelligent species on the planet were herbivores. And while the crew of the Fitz still had many questions, most were shoved aside in favor of celebration and fun.
One of the younger griffons by the name of Edgar, pulled a bottle from under his coffee-with-cream colored wing and offered it to one of the humans.
22 year old Robert Stein was a scrawny young man, and he was still a bit shaken up about the whole 'nearly drowning then being rescued by a ship crewed by mythical creatures' thing. "Uh… no thanks, I d-don't drink…"
Before Edgar could look too disheartened, Jake McAvoy bumped into the young man, carrying his own near-empty bottle of beer. "C'mon kid! We almost DIED out there!" He pointed in an arbitrary direction. "Live a little!"
"Uh… alright…"
Jake patted the kid on the back and went on his merry way.
Edgar put the mouth of the bottle in his beak, popped the cap off, and handed the beer to Bob with a cheeky smile.
"Whoa… Groovy," Bob replied while accepting the beer.
"Neat little trick I learned from Taylor. So uh, what's your rank?"
Bob took a swig of the beverage and cringed as it went down. "Deck cadet."
"No kidding? Me too!"
And so the night wore on and the men and griffons got to know each other, some a little too well…
"…and, and then she said, 'does it always look like that?!' " A young human deckhand named Peter Lowes finished the punch line and the room erupted in laughter.
"Damn, Pete, you've had some crazy mollies!" Earl commented.
"Alright gentlemen! And gentle-griffons!" Vern slammed his hand on the card table, rattling everyone's beer bottles. "Whatdya say we make this round interesting for a change?!"
"Oi! Matey, ye ain't got no gold to be bettin'!" Accused the resident pirate wannabe griffon, Doubloon, his name matching his golden coat. He was the first to greet old Vern when he came aboard.
"He's got a point Vern," added John Piccard, a young watchman from the Fitz.
"Well…" started another griffon, Taylor, who was shuffling a deck of playing cards, "I suppose we could lend you some dough…" the brown coated, yellow feathered watchbird said with a sly smile.
"That's what I'm talkin' about!" Vern rubbed his hands together. "Hurry up and deal!"
Captain Redbeak and Captain McQuinn stood next to one another, both leaning against the bow railing, observing the land they were headed for…
"Equestria," Scratchy idly commented. Though it was a simple statement to the griffon captain, it was a question of great mystery to his human companion.
Ed had seen the charts, he knew it was a continent. And it was still far away, but his old eyes could make out the vast coast, stretching out as far as the eye could see, fading into the clear blue skies to both left and right. He could see mountains a fair distance beyond the coast, some with snowy peaks that reflected the morning sun that was warming his back.
Scratchy leaned forward and spit some tobacco juice over the railing. "I already wired them," he said, without looking away from the scenery. "The Equestrian government seems pretty interested in you lot."
Ed silently nodded. He could see a lighthouse.
"Don't worry none," the griffon captain gave his human companion a firm but friendly slap on the back. "The ponies will take good care of ya. They're very diplomatic… I'd wager they'll think you're all ambassadors of some far away island nation or something." Scratchy didn't exactly believe these humans were from some other world entirely, but he had never seen anything like them either. So he decided not to pass judgment on his guests.
Another moment of nothing but the peaceful sound of calm wind and waves passed between the two.
"They're a good people, the ponies. Don't you let nobird tell you otherwise." Scratchy pointed a talon at Ed to make his point.
Ed glanced at Scratchy then looked back to the sea. He sighed. "What am I going to do?" he asked in a neutral tone.
"Well… I might be able get some jobs for you and your crew at Griffhala Shipping. I can't promise ya a captain's position, but ya won't be a deckclaw neither." He smiled up at the old man. "Whenever you're ready, we're always making port in Horseshoe Bay, just look us up. Same goes for your crew."
Ed forced a little smile. "Thank you." His smile fell. "For everything…"
Scratchy shrugged. "Don't mention it. Glad to help my fellow sailors." He repositioned his hat. "I better get back to the bridge, we'll be docking soon."
"Alright men…" Ed thought it best to give his crew a little pep talk before disembarking. "These 'ponies' are going to be our hosts until further notice, despite how incredibly ridiculous that sounds. So I expect you all to be on your best behavior. Do I make myself clear?"
A round of half-hearted 'yes sir's came from the six men.
"Scratchy also said they might be able to find us a way home."
The men perked up at this.
"So this might be our one chance. Don't screw it up."
The last griffon walked down the gang plank and off the ship. Captain McQuinn took a deep breath, and lead his men down the gang plank as well.