Tramp steamers. I’m talking the fantasy, not the reality. I'll get to the contest in a moment. Based on various reasons, I’ve always romanticized the Tramp Steamer. I dream about what it must have been like to travel the world in the 1930s, 40s, and 50s, under a flag of convenience, making exotic ports of call, mixing with a multi-national crew speaking a strange patois of languages. The creative writer in me fancies running guns to the loyalists in Spain and to Ethiopia, transporting wicker-wrapped jugs of wine from the canary islands, going up the Amazon to pick up a load of rubber in Manaus, threading through the Solomon Islands; keeping planters supplied with necessities and picking up their loads of copra and pearls. Nonsense, really. The stuff of cheap pulp fiction of the period. Cue Errol Flynn. Yet the dream of tramp steamers lingers. It’s a part of the mythology of the Golden Era. Here's the contest (for the fun of it): Back in the era, what exotic port would you like to make call in? When? Where? Why? I’ve always fancied making port in Bangkok in late 1941, just as the Japanese are about to invade, and patching together an impromptu evacuation and then slipping out under the noses of the imperial navy. Colourful characters include Jim, the Swahili first mate who can bend steel pipes with his bare hands and Mandy, the eye-patch wearing saloon keeper with a parrot on her shoulder. Hey, a man has got to fantasize about something while listening to the Chief Financial Officer drone on and on and on about spreadsheets and efficiency gains and reorganization schemes! (Sigh.) Prize for the best one paragraph (or less!) story: Satisfaction in the knowledge that you helped prevent a mid-level cog from jumping off the top of his building. Just kidding, of course. Barely.