Ulysses and the Fyre Festival Sirens

Beware the temptation.

Our year of feasting was drawing to a close and Circe had designs to speak with me privately.

“Listen to me carefully,” she said. “After this you will encounter the Sirens, beautiful women who cast a spell on all those who pass them. Have you seen those advertisements on Instagram for Fyre Festival with their irresistible faces? If you draw too close you’ll be seized by an inexplicable urge to divest your worldly possessions and buy a ticket to Exuma. Even I don’t know where that is. That is their dark magic. You’ll be enchanted to death by their sexy bodies and — well I think this is part of it — attendant musical acts.”

“Cunning Circe, who is playing at the festival?” I asked her.

“It’s not important,” she said.

“Anyway, like I was saying,” the enchantress went on, “there’s a pile of bones at their feet — their victims through the years. No man can resist it. But I will tell you a way.”

“When you pass the island, blindfold your crew so they can’t scroll through the festival’s social media feed or gaze upon the beautiful revellers. You can look, if you want, but have them strap you snugly onto your ship’s mast. Tell them if you protest to tie you down harder. This could be hard given the blindfold thing, but go with it. This way you can gape at the Fyre Festival temptresses and hold on to your life.”

The night passed feverishly and we sailed at rosy-fingered dawn. All of a sudden we came to a lull in the ocean and heard dull shouts in the distance, which we surmised were the revellers. My crew bound my hands and feet to the mast with strong rope. Then they dutifully blinded themselves with cloths and sailed onward.

As we drew near the island, the sirens spotted us and began their infamous song.

It was like no music any of us had heard before. Actually it sounded largely of screaming. Lyrically, it was far from poetry too. They seemed just to be saying “help” again and again. Well, I reasoned, this is probably how they get suggestible men’s defenses down.

On the mainland, too, there was nothing of the storied vixens. None of the oxen-eyed women of Instagram — Emily, Bella, Hayley — were even there. In their place were hordes of pink-skinned commoners in various states of undress. They spilled out of geodesic tents that fluttered in Aeolian gusts.

A crowd of them plunged toward our ship as it grazed the harbor.

“Kind sir, we beseech you, please.

All we have are ‘sandwiches’ of cheese!”

They did not look underfed but their song was, in truth, poignant. I addressed my crew: men, did we not have some meats and wine to share with these unlucky souls?

I had forgotten, however, my own previous instruction. Taking my request as a sign of weakening will, they tightened the knots around my limbs so I was glued to the mast. I struggled mightily, incurring gashes on my flesh. “We must help them!” I cried. They only rowed faster and faster. My eyes swam with hot tears as the urge to free those captive souls suffused my spirit. It wasn’t until we had sailed far out of eyeshot and earshot that I came to my senses. My men took off their blindfolds and hastily untied me.

“Thank you for heeding my wishes even when I protested,” I told them. My head cleared and the nature of the situation became once again apparent.

“Exactly what,” I finally asked, “did Ja Rule have to do with all of this?”