A brass band blared over a squealing crowd of top hats and parasols gathered on the dock beside the magnificent, shining [i]Lady Arabella[/i]. It was a grand ship. A beautiful ship! Shining with gold trim, magnificent polished cedar, masts and sails that kissed the clouds, a figurehead of a mermaid singing to the skies, her hair flowing in protection of her vessel. It was the greatest, grandest ship to have been crafted, as the newspapers had declared for the months leading up to the coronation -- and it was about to embark on a most important, most perilous, most exciting journey whose details were yet unknown to even the seamen who'll sail her. It was a most mysterious and miraculous event, and everyone who was anyone had come out to see the very first airship to attempt to sail around the world. But it was late.

It was supposed to have set off over two hours ago to the great pride and fanfare of the city, but the sails had not even been unfurled. The ladies had had their handkerchiefs prepared for the sendoff, but now clutched them in dwindling expectation. Children squinted at the great shining ship as if they might blink and miss it. Slowly the joyous and excitable noise dwindled to confused murmuring and hopeful explanations.

Seagulls squealed and dipped to partake of funnel cake and pickle sandwiches. Balloons were lost to the sky. The tuba player was beginning to look blue in the face. And then, the crowd roared and whistled as the first mate ascended the stage and stood tall and proud before the brass band, his hat pulled down to his eyes. He waited patiently, pressed and proper, until the band had wrapped up the twentieth round of the only song they knew. The crowd settled down in grinning anticipation. The trappings of the ship whistled and fluttered in the breeze.

"The [i]Lady Arabella[/i]," the first mate announced in a firm, proper voice, "will not be sailing today. We apologize for the inconvenience. Please go home."