Case Study 64: "The Drunken Sailor"

What are springs and waterfalls? 

Here is the spring of springs, 
the waterfall of waterfalls. 

A storm in the fall or winter 
is the time to visit it; 
a light-house or a fisherman’s hut the true hotel.

A man may stand there and put all of America 
behind him. ”

- Henry David Thoreau

I'm not quite sure when I developed my recent affinity for whiskey.  Perhaps it resulted from being a lady member of a Gentlemans' Club.  Or maybe it came after one debauched night, when after leaving said club, we bootlegged a makeshift flask of Jack in the nosebleed seats of a black tie Christmas concert and got reprimanded by a gang of septuagenarians.  Regardless of mode, all I really know is that it was the naughtiest acquisition I've had in awhile, and I think I know why: it reminds me of the sea.

I know what you're going to say- real sailors were all about the bottle o' rum, about salt, about scurvy-repelling citrus. But both Barnacle Bill and I beg to differ. Whiskey.  Give it to me cold, on the rocks, the smooth crisp bite hitting the teeth like white-capped breakers against the harbor rocks. Give it to me warm, with a touch of lemon, honey, and water, and it's like mother's milk on a misty night, medicinal magic to physical and spiritual pains alike.  Give it to me straight, and I'll give you wicked laughter, a wild run of the town, and the honest-to-God truth all at once.  

"The Drunken Sailor" is a chocolate whiskey cupcake, stocked with chopped pecans and topped with a vanilla maple buttercream.  It's dark and musty, nutty and sugary, and capped off with a shot of pure distilled malt joy.

They say that "what whiskey cannot cure, there is no cure for," and to some extent, I agree.  We go to the city to enrich our minds, to teach us about the world through people and experience, to create new neural pathways with art and voice and sound.   We go to the mountains to stand miles above land, breathe in the fresh air, and feel the reign of humanity in a vast world.  

But for clarity, for soul, for peace, just give me the sand in my hair, the salt mist in my mouth, the rocking waves beneath my hull, and a glass full of cubes and amber-hued booze. For there really is no truer self then he who is reflected in the waters from whence we came.