By: Nat Manning

After a nice layover in Chub Cay, we cast off on Tuesday, the 10th of February and motored out clear of the reefs off Moma Roda Rock. We unfurled the sail and slowly slid down the underside of the Berry Islands, past an almost submerged cargo ship, and once again onto the shallow Grand Bahama Bank at the Northwest Passage Marker. It was a nice sail and truly an enjoyable experience, though near the end of the day, the wind began picking up and as darkness descended upon us, we dropped anchor southwest of Mackie Shoal near Larks Two Fathom Bridge. The wind and darkness increased together and the night was spent in a pitching boat with the wind howling in the rigging. Not the best of nights spent on the banks, but better than a sharp stick in the eye. 

Morning saw us eager to be on our way and not long after daylight, with breakfast behind us, the engine was running and I was on the bow. We were ready to winch in the anchor and put some miles behind us. I deftly stepped on the button to bring up the anchor but the winch turned without turning the wildcat that pulls the anchor chain. So nothing happened. It was broke. I turned around and attempted to communicate my problem to the Skipper at the controls. He in turn completed a series of hand and arm gestures to communicate to me. The communications became more and more intense as the meanings separated into ones less understood and ones more understood. Finally, in complete frustration, the Skipper grabbed a whip, a baseball bat, and a hat with Mickey Mouse ears, and came storming out on deck to find out what the heck was going on. He rapidly assessed that I had broken the windlass and that getting the anchor up was going to be a real chore.

While I curled up in the fecal position and rocked, the Skipper went down below, found the manual for the windlass, read it, and determined that I had somehow loosened the clutch. He got a screwdriver, tightened the clutch, looked at me as if I were a malignant puss wart, and told me to raise the something or other anchor. He went back to the controls, and I raised the anchor. We were underway, though not at daybreak like we had intended. 

As the light of day increased and the sun climbed clear of the water and into the sky, the wind decreased from the hurricane force that we had enjoyed through the night to ten knots. So light that we had to crank up the iron monster in the bilge and motorsail most of the way back to Bimini, where we were looking forward to something to eat besides my cooking. Our last day on the Bahama Banks was everything we could ask, with calm seas, clear waters, and even an aquatic show by a pod of bottlenose dolphins at the edge of the Bank as we passed through the Bimini chain into the darker deeper waters of the Gulf Stream and skirted the islands back up and into the harbor at Bimini again and into our same spot on the dock at Bimini Blue Water Marina.

There, we met up with some of our Canadian friends who were still waiting for a good weather window from when we were there last time. Which causes me to end this narrative with a story.

Bush made a grave error in not attacking Canada. These people are absolutely dangerous. They travel in naval task forces of sailboats with big grins and a distinct party atmosphere about them. They invade small defenseless islands like Bimini, drink up all the beer, and soak up all of the fun. They take up most of the room at the marinas and anchorages and act as if they had as much right to be there as any other foreigner. Something needs to be done about the Canadian aggression taking place throughout the islands and waterways. I made a serious attempt to infiltrate their ranks and gather intelligence, but found that I lost interest after several Kaliks and a lot of laughing. 

I did attain a dramatic piece of intel of an impending attempt by the Canadian navy to overthrow the government on Bimini. It seems that a dispute had arisen about the dock slip fees they were being charged. They went to the Ministry of Tourism, The Ministry of Business, and were sent to the Bimini division of the Bahamas National Police Force. An appointment was made for the police to show up at the marina office the next day for a confrontation between the marina and the sailors. The whole island went to bed that night with the feeling of electricity in the air at the anticipation of a revolt taking place. Or at least the boaters did.

The next morning sunrise found me in a vantage point with my camera in hand as the Canadian navy approached the battlefield. Upon assembling, they waited. The cops never showed. The marina people didn’t show for several hours. Nobody with any authority from the marina showed at all. Time passed. The revolution lost momentum. Everybody lost interest. Everybody eventually paid their bills and left. The Whole Canadian / Bahamian War was very anticlimactic. That’s the way wars are fought on island time. 

With the Canadian Navy having pulled out, it was a quiet day and last night in Bimini. I will miss the Canadians, the Bahamians, and our fellow cruisers that proudly fly the Stars and Bars. There’s no need to tell you how sad it is to me to say goodbye to the Bahamas, the people, the islands, the water, and the spirit that hangs over the whole ménage like a living picture of a paradise world that we can visit, but never possess. Home is forty-five miles away across the Gulf Stream. This is it. This is the end of our island adventure and the beginning of our voyage home. Home to the people we love and miss.

By: Nat Manning

Leaving Nassau Harbor consists of a rapid transition from the quiet calm of the seaport to the deep ocean swells of the Tongue of the Ocean. From calm to six foot waves in just a few minutes. From the forty feet of the ship channel through the cut, to over three thousand feet of the Tongue in less than a mile. From inshore to blue water in less time than it takes to make a grilled cheese sandwich. 

While sailing through plunging six foot waves and 25 knots of wind broad off the starboard quarter, I didn’t pay as much attention to Nassau growing smaller and sinking astern as I wanted to.

Leaving port always divides me between the regret of leaving the safe port that I’ve grown to love, and the excitement of sailing off the edge of the world, over the horizon, to a new and exciting destination that promises magic and mysteries waiting to be discovered. I was abruptly snatched from my reverie by the Skipper screaming, “Stop that driveling before I nail your lips to the boom again!”

Though rough, the forty mile voyage from Nassau to Chub Cay in the Berry Islands went very well and quickly. The barren ruggedness of the rocky islands perched at the north edge of the deep abysmal tongue was not lost on the Skipper as we skirted past the famous landmark islands of Whale Cay, Fraziers Hog, Moma Roda, and Diamond Rocks. 

Approaching The inlet at Chub Cay, the Skipper cranked the engine and furled the sails only moments before I crapped in my pants. Though the charts indicated waters to shallow, we followed some of the few navigation aids in the Bahamas into the canal of the marina without ever seeing less than nine feet of water. It has been so long now since we’ve been aground that we are discussing looking for a sand bar to plow into.

Entering the canal into the marina, the sailors world transpires from rugged natural to smooth modern manmade protection as you inter the marina basin from the concrete wall lined canal. Inside, the modern marina has new floating concrete docks and slips with all the class of any three star resort facility. Looking around at the nicest marina we have seen this whole trip, the Skipper got a real dreamy look on his face that frightened me a little bit. In a choked, raspy voice, he said, “We’re staying over here an extra day!”

Chub Cay Marina is a true hurricane hole that would provide complete protection in any weather except a hurricane. Though the wind howled outside and heavy surf pounded the harsh rocky shore, we spent the stillest and quietest night I think of our whole trip. The next day, the Skipper rented a golf cart for the day and we explored the whole island, even visiting the international airport located at the north end of the island. I didn’t get pictures of the airport, but just insert the pictures of the Bimini Airport, it’s close enough.

We became good friends with Harry, the bartender in “Harry’s Bar” and enjoyed the beauty and hospitality of the island. I took lots of pictures, then found a brochure book of the island with better pictures than the ones I took, go figure. Chub Cay is a beautiful place and comes highly recommended for it’s beauty and secluded beaches. 

Remember, step 1… double click the photo to enlarge and then step 2, sign up for your free updates. You will recieve an email asking you to confirm your address, just click it and your all signed up. No spam, no ads, just great stories!

On Wednesday, February 4, 2009 Elise II arrived in Nassau around five o’clock in the morning. As the Skipper tided up the boat and secured all the equipment from the overnight passage, I (Gilligan) spent most of the day in the bunk sleeping, much to the chagrin of the Skipper. After sufficient rest, and thinking that the Skipper must have completed all of the hard work, I roused and readied myself for a very important mission.

A couple of years ago, while cruising aboard my trusty ship Snap One with my dear sweet Mom, we had stopped in Nassau for reprovisioning enroute to the Exumas. While there, my dear Mother was possessed by a voodoo demon and drawn into the clutches of a place known by locals and cruisers as “The Poop Deck”. She was wickedly seduced into the consumption of conch fritters and a dangerous island rum fruit drink called a “Yellow Bird”.

Mom quickly descended into a pit of decadence, consumed by conch fritters and yellow birds. She required constant supervision and disappeared everytime I turned my back, only to be found at the Poop Deck, eating and drinking herself into a stupor. She often created a scene as she was being drug out of the place and back to the boat. It was almost as if she had been abducted by a cult. She was only cured through several months of sea therapy in the out islands.

Anyway, upon hearing that I was returning to Nassau, she made me promise to go to the Poop Deck and have an order of conch fritters and a yellow bird for her. So, I prepared myself and set out to the Poop Deck to fulfill my obligation and have an order of conch fritters and a yellow bird in honor of my Mother, which I did.

The Bahamas produce a beer known as Kalik, which looks and tastes a lot like good quality beers found in America. It needs to be warned though that it is stronger than American beer and if not respected accordingly, will cause impaired faculties and abnormal behavior such as singing loudly and dancing alone with no music.

I have to admit that several times while in Nassau, I fell victim to the ill effects of Kalik Beer. After exhaustive research, I determined that the two best places in Nassau to imbibe the cold bubbly amber foamy fluid is The Poop Deck and The Green Parrot. The Poop Deck is actually shown on some nautical charts. The Green Parrot is next to BASRA (Bahamas Air Sea Rescue Association) and both places have dinghy docks. It is a good idea to go ahead and enroll in an alcohol program before you leave so that you can check right in upon your return. Three more classes and I’ll be finished.

It’s a place some people hate, with all the hustle bustle of a busy large seaport. It has all the trash, crime, dirt, and chaos that you will find in every big city. I can’t wait to get back there again. In many ways, New Providence Island really hasn’t changed all that much from the days that Edward Teach (Blackbeard), Jack Rackam, Mary Reed, and Anne Bonnie, as well as many other pirates anchored and docked roamed, drank and partied in the exactly same places that sailors do today. I feel priviledged to walk the same streets and sidewalks. To spit off the same seawalls as so many sailors before me. On Sunday, the 8th of February, we left Nassau and part of my heart after a much too short 4 days. As the island slowly sinks into the ocean astern, I look forward to someday returning.

The intrepid crew of the mighty ship Elice II had arrived in Bimini on the 28th day of January, 2009. The last day of January was a sad day aboard Elice II as it was the Admirals last day with us. We rode the water taxi and caught the jitney to the airport to see her off. She was a great shipmate and will be greatly missed.

The Skipper informed me that with the Admiral gone, all the responsibility fell upon him now and on occasion, I might have to flog myself. That night we dined with uncharacteristic silence aboard on beef stew and rice. Things are not going to be the same from here on out. I fear that discipline will suffer. 

On Tuesday the 3rd of February, the Skipper and I cast off at 0800hrs eastern standard time and raised the mainsail as we steamed out of the harbor into a strong west wind and 6 to 8 foot seas. Turning south along the coast the Skipper ordered the engine shut down and we sailed down the coast of Bimini, retracing our route. Upon passing onto the Grand Bahama Bank and through the Turtle Rocks, the large ocean waves were left behind and we sailed on the smooth quiet waters of the bank with the bottom clearly in sight. Rounding the waypoint off Cat Cay, we unfurled the jib and were soon flying along at speeds sometimes hitting 8 knots. The bottom of the ocean, a mere ten feet below us appeared to be flying by at great speed.

We had drug the green skirt down the Gulf of Mexico, across the Gulf Stream, and it seemed appropriate to string it out and continue our trolling program.

The day seemed to slip by all too quick and with the sun low in the Western sky, the Skipper ordered the main furled and we continued under the jib alone at 5 to 6 knots. Darkness settled over us, but the moving map and radar kept us safe and on course as we plowed through the night. I passed the whole day without a flogging, see, discipline is already slipping. Around 2200hrs, we sailed past the Northwest Channel Light and watched the depth sounder go from twenty feet to off soundings within a mile as we sailed off the bank and into the Tongue of The Ocean. 

As I had napped during the day in my cabin to the Skippers “lazy sea scum!” the Skipper went down for a short rest as we were in deep water and he mumbled something like “even an idiot can run the boat out here.” So, suddenly, I am the Officer of the Watch! Gliding along in the night with the autohelm steering, I felt the weight of the world on my shoulders. I told myself to relax, “nothing can go wrong out here!”

Then I saw a spot on the radar out around 15 miles where nothing should be. I tried wiping the spot off with a towel. Thirty minutes later I saw lights ahead and the spot on the radar had moved! Oh Turds! A ship was coming directly at us. I tagged the ship with the cursor the way the Skipper had taught me and the MARPA window told me that the ship would pass one quarter mile off my port side. I touched the button on the autopilot and the radar now said that the ship would pass one half mile off the left side. That was much better. I watched the behemoth pass through my binoculars and wondered what kind of grub was being served in their mess tonight. I politely asked the autopilot to turn back on course, but then I saw more lights ahead and the radar confirmed that they were coming toward me too. I turned back away from the rhumb line and watched the mega yacht pass, wondering what gourmet meal was being served in their dining room tonight. I was about to turn back on course when I noticed another target on the radar and half an hour later watched another freighter pass off our port side, wondering what kind of grub was being served in their mess tonight.

Soon, with all the traffic behind us, I was headed to rejoin the rhumb line when the Skipper came back on deck and immediately saw that we were off course. After the flogging, I told him I had deviated for traffic. He looked around and said, “What traffic?” He flogged me again for lying. He is a fine Skipper and is determined to make a sailor out of me. 

The turn toward Nassau as we came off the Great Bahama Bank put the wind directly off the stern, but as we were in the lee of the Berry Islands, the seas were calm and the ride good. About two in the morning when we cleared the Berry Islands though, the seas started running pretty high. It was hard to tell in the dark. The Skipper said they were running about six feet, but I think it was more like thirty six. With the wind on the stern, the sail was not providing any roll stability and the mighty ship began to roll from side to side as she sailed along straight as an arrow at 6 knots and greater. The ride was very uncomfortable and we could hear crashes below as the contents of the cabins began to scramble themselves again as they had back in the Gulf Stream. Our arrival time at the sea buoy at Nassau Harbor was at five in the morning, so we had three hours to hang on as our vessel ran for New Providence Island like a runaway horse. 

At a little after four in the morning with the lights of Nassau clearly in sight and the boat still rolling violently at six and a half knots, I went to reel in the green skirt, only to discover that a fish was pulling hard on it in the other direction. The Skipper gave me a look that would freeze seawater. I began fighting the fish as I tried to hang on for dear life in the rolling cockpit. After what seemed like forever, I was soaked with sweat in spite of the coldness of the night at sea. I had caught a monster of a fish that must have been 10 feet long, even though the skipper says it was only 3 feet long. With the whale up to the boat we went back to navigating the boat through the ship channel into the quiet stillness of the sheltered waters of Nassau Harbor. It was still pitch dark and all the shore lights were blinding. We could barely see the cruise ship docks as we slipped past, furling the sails and becoming a motor vessel. At this point, we had drug the poor fish till he was very unhappy. I reeled him up and tried to lift him into the cockpit, but he was just too heavy and the line broke. With the ship underway in a dark harbor, losing the fish was the best thing that could have happened to us at that time. We crept through the darkness, under the Paradise Island bridges, and landed on the outside dock at Nassau Yacht Haven Marina, tying up and securing the boat as the sky turned grey in the East. I went to my bunk to get some rest as the Skipper straightened up the boat and did all the work. Later that afternoon, he flogged me for an hour. We have completed another great passage in our epic adventure. Can we have a moment of silence for the loss of the green skirt? Stay tuned for the next episode.

Bimini deserves it’s own article. Why? Because Bimini is a very special place. In essence, it really isn’t that much to look at. Most baseball players can stand in the water on one side of North Bimini and hit a ball into the water on the other side of North Bimini. The island only has two roads. One that runs up the west side, and the main road that runs up the east side. They are only a small block apart. As a tourist, you could actually arrive late, see everything on the island, leave, and get home before supper. It’s hard to put your finger exactly on what makes Bimini special, but it’s a feel that the place has. It’s like a frontier town perched at the edge of the Gulf Stream. You almost imagine that John Wayne and Clint Eastwood could suddenly step out of the End Of The World Bar, or the Bimini Breeze, and have a shootout in the street while wearing flip flops and flower printed shirts.

You can feel the presence of Papa Hemingway in everything you touch on the island. Though his old digs, the Complete Angler has recently burned down, many pictures of Papa and his fish catches still adorn many walls, yellowed and fading. The fireplace chimney is still standing amidst the ruins and you can’t help looking at the fireplace and imagining Hemingway and the many colorful characters that surely sat in front of it as the weather roared and moaned outside.

The End of the World Bar is one of the most despicable places I have ever been in with a sand floor, rough plank benches in front of a rough plank bar. The place has rendered a certain softness though its walls, and the ceiling is literally covered with women’s underclothing that has been signed, dated, and tacked up, giving it a very homey feel. There is word that the End of the World may be coming to the end of its world. I certainly hope not, but am trying to arrange providing a good home for all the panties and bras.

The Bimini Breeze is another must stop as it is the digs of Mr. Yama Bahama. To enlighten you, Mr. Yama Bahama was born in Bimini and as an early man was flown to Miami where he trained as a boxer by some dude that trained lots of famous boxers, some you would recognize. He went on to box in New York, Chicago, some places in Europe, you get it, in the early 1900′s he was a quite successful boxer. At the time this is being written, he is 76 years old, has boxing pictures and memorabilia all over the walls, and serves Kalik Beer so ice cold that you can’t drink it fast. He is an interesting, colorful character and tells great stories about boxing and growing up in early Bimini. 

The Anchorage Restaurant is owned and operated by Miss Betty and besides serving good food and drinks; she is a very nice and colorful character, though a bit refined for the likes of Gilligan.

Hang with me; this is not an advertisement campaign or even an endorsement. I do have to mention that we ate breakfast every morning at Capt Bobs as it was right across from the marina.

A walk south along the main road past the End of the World takes you through the old Chalks Airline ramp and ticket terminal. Sad to see that that era is now past and gone forever. Don’t stop, you have to continue south to the very tip of the island, then up the West coast. A trip to the island isn’t complete till you visit the rusting remains of a little island freighter that got blown onto the rocks during a storm. You can get almost close enough to touch it without getting wet. It is just too cool. 

At the government dock you can catch the water taxi across to South Bimini where the jitney will take you to the Bimini International Airport. This is worth looking at if you are very, very, bored. It is a little one runway strip carved out of the mangrove jungle with a small parking area and a little concrete apron. The terminal building is sparse and archaic and it kind of comes as a surprise when this almost deserted airport with no control tower has a Continental Commuter land to discharge adventurous passengers and pick up those looking to escape the numbing peacefulness of the Bimini Islands.

The people of Bimini are as special as their island. They are warm, friendly, and genuinely glad that you are there. The island has lived with a boom ebb rhythm since the days the islanders settled here. The ebb of sponging gave way to the boom of rum running during prohibition to the ebb after the repeal of the liquor ban. The island boomed again during the heyday of the big game fishermen, but that too passed. There was another boom during the drug smuggling days of the seventies, but that too has mostly become history. The island seems to be in ebb now, but the Biminites are maintaining their island time stride and are content to await the next boom, whatever it may be. If you take your time and listen, you can feel the vibrations of the past, present, and future in the tropical breeze that incessantly blows across the beautiful people and island of Bimini, The Island in the Stream.

~ Double click any image to see a larger view, and while your clicking around… Click on the subscribe feature and you will receive email updates once a week or so. No spam, no ads, just darn good reading!

On the 21st day of January, in the year – yea we made it this time, leaving the dock at around four, or four thirty, or five, ok, I don’t know what time it was. Lets try to recapture the magnificence and glory of the moment please! Not an easy task. Just out of sight of the dock, around the corner, we promptly ran aground in the channel. Twenty minutes of waiting in the flow of the incoming tide and we were clear and on our way.

Dark came quickly as we motored through the blackness of the night, dodging the thousands of lit and unlit buoys as I tried to learn the operation of a new chart plotter and radar controls. The fact that we cleared Egmont Key and set out into the open waters of the Gulf of Mexico fours hours later without incident was not my fault.

With the turn to the South in the open waters, the Skipper rolled out the sails and we settled in for the long night. That’s when I noticed the cold. With frost warnings facing the dirt dwellers, the night was bitter cold and there’s not much to say except that it was just one of those nights that seem to never end. My goose-bumps were actually hugging one another, trying to stay warm. After several eternities, the sky began graying in the east and eventually gave way to what turned out to be a very pleasant day.

Our little ship continued its southward voyage through the day on calm seas and when Sanibel Island was cleared abeam, we angled in, closing with the coast slowly until we entered Capri Pass and steamed up the Marco River to the Marco River Marina, deftly backing into the same slip where I parked my own ship, Snap One in several years ago. As always, the marina staff is very helpful, professional, and courteous, making it a favorite of mine. By five p.m. we were secured and ready for some well earned rest.

Morning came much too soon and in short order we were casting off the lines and on our way again. With the anticipation of another big day at sea, and needing to make good time, we charged down the Marco River and promptly ran aground at the “Y”
intersection at Capri Pass. Are we seeing a pattern emerging here?

Within twenty minutes the tide had floated us free and we were on our way again. With the light winds today, we kept the iron beast in the bilge roaring to help the sails speed us on our way to adventure. Today we rigged our trolling rod with a rather attractive greenish skirt and began trolling in anticipation of catching enough fish to feed the crew and most of the children of Somalia. I’m not sure what’s going on. I found the green skirt to be very attractive. I had the Skipper examine it and he advised that not only did he find it very attractive, but that if he was a fish, he would surely bite it. The Admiral just frowned. We drug the skirt all day and with fish jumping all around, none found the skirt as attractive as the Skipper and I.

Barely winning our race with the sun, we approached and entered the Little Shark River and lowered the anchor in the Florida Everglades. Not long after we settled in, the Skipper killed the only mosquito that was seen as night settled over the jungle river like a black shroud. The reason for the lack of mosquitoes might have something to do with the Admiral tasking me with the grilling of the chicken. This led to an eleven alarm fire that took the entire ships complement to control. The chicken turned our great though and no damage was done to the boat. Admiral says that my eyebrows should grow back within a couple of weeks.

Refreshed from a good nights sleep in the comfort and safety of the River, we hoisted the anchor and got underway with a growing excitement, knowing today we will cross the infamous Florida Bay. Of course, we ran aground in the mouth of the Little Shark River. After about ten minutes this time, the rising tide floated us free and we were on our way. The Skipper is confident that the fish will discover our skirt today. The Admiral just frowned.

It would be best to summarize the voyage across Florida Bay then jump to the approach to the Florida Keys and the seven mile bridge. Crossing Florida Bay we drug the very attractive greenish skirt to no avail. We picked up one of the seventy four million crab pots and dragged it about a quarter mile before we backed up and set it free. I was flogged once by the Admiral and three times by the Skipper. We had a jarring crash with an underwater object at full speed. The Skipper said that it was a submarine. I have no comment. Approaching the seven mile bridge, the Skipper advised that we either had the standard mast of 63 feet, or the high mast model of 67 feet. The bridge clearance is 65 feet, so the difference in masts heights is a bit more traumatic than it at first seems. In the end, we came up with the very effective scientific plan of having the ships complement duck as we reached the bridge. We ducked, the ship passed under the bridge without touching, and we emerged armed with the knowledge that our mast height is 63 feet. I wept and soiled my pants. The Admiral ordered the entire crew (me) flogged.

We arrived at the Marathon Marina at eight bells in the afternoon watch, took on fuel, and disposed of my pants. Dinner at the marina restaurant of Mahi Mahi and continuous rounds of Margaritas helped to put the day’s passage behind us. Both the Skipper and Admiral insisted that I take a shower. Next, crossing the Gulf Stream.

Click me twice

I told you not to read this, that it would be boring! What are you doing here?
Just a few points of interest. Note the 3 pairs of underwear. Ellen embroidered them as “January, February, March” so that I would have a system. In light of that, we pause for a commercial break.

For all of your embroidery needs, City Stitchers is your best choice! No job is too large, no job is too small. For the best quality custom embroidery, contact CITY STITCHERS! For all of your embroidery needs. Now back to our regular scheduled program…

Can’t you just imagine the conversation on the dock with Marlin tomorrow morning? “Waterline, we don’t need no stinking waterline!”

And for a new development, Marlin’s lovely daughter Stephanie is going to be leaving with us and going at least as far as Bimini, or until she can’t stand us or the smell any more. As a really sharp lady and a Cracker Jack sailor, she will be a real asset and as Admiral, will provide the discipline and structure that we are in desperate need of.

Packed and ready to go...

Enjoy the ride!

Larry Annen / Editor
Two Years Before the Mast – From Skipper to Gilligan

In the days of the tall sailing ships, common sailors were housed in the forward part of the ship, “before the mast” while the ships officers were housed aft. Richard Henry Dana Jr. wrote an excellent book of that title which I highly recommend as reading material.

Marlin the Captain of this adventure...

His epic tale will surely pale in comparison to mine though as I’ve decided to give up the lofty position as Captain of my ship and sign aboard as crew on a sleek Catalina 47 for a cruise to the Bahamas and maybe back under Skipper Marlin Brigman, a hard, strict man. Leaving port the ships compliment will be the Skipper, an Admiral (his daughter), and the deck crew (me). He assures me that there will be plenty of floggings handed out amongst the crew (me).

I will, as always, tell this tale in the format of our esteemed leader, Jimmy Buffett (hat removed, head bowed in reverence), as a work of fictional facts and factual fiction. As a work of fiction, I am free from having to verify all facts and assure complete accuracy. In other words, if I don’t remember what the wind speed was, I can guesstimate. Being able to adjust the facts also makes for better reading and flow. For instance, “The Captain stood in the companionway with giant waves breaking over him, yelling down to me for help as I cowered in my bunk, afraid to respond” might read something like “I stood rock steady at the helm as the waves crashed over me bringing the ship through the storm with my skill and determination.” See? It’s a true story in that there was a storm at sea, I was on the boat, there were breaking waves, and my pants were wet!

This story will be told in series as I get an internet connection to send Larry what I have so far. The next chapter will be nothing but the list of personal effects (crap) that I’m taking with me, so don’t even bother reading it as it will be boring.

We will be shipping with the tide on Monday the 19th, in 2009 in the year of our Lord. May the seas be kind and the heads remain functional.

I don’t know how long, for months, a plan has been rattling around between the Captain of Velella and myself of roasting a leg of lamb.  After many conversations at the Tiki Bar and numerous ‘false starts’, we finally got serious and made the plans final and binding.  Not wanting to be involved in a conspiratorial faux pas of the marina, punishable by lashes of the tongue, as well as wanting the extra push of inspiration and motivation, we decided to enlist the help and guidance of Pirate King, Bill.  He volunteered to supply the rum and drink and wisely advised the mileage to be gained by inviting the wenches and added our relatively new pal, Martin to the entourage.

Now the wheels were in motion, much like a runaway train.  No more false starts.  Battle plans were drawn.  Logistics and support all worked out.  Today at 1500 zulu, 1100hrs, 11:00am, 6 bells in the morning watch, I crossed enemy lines, low crawled past the sentries, and made my rendezvous with Lenny who met me with his tank (Lincoln Towncar).  Off we headed for Publix like a stampeding herd of turtles.

It might be time to mention that Lenny is not a teeny little non-noticeable guy, being close to the same size as me.  We walked into Publix looking like two giant Ogres seeking human victims to feed upon.  Grabbing a grocery cart, we began our shopping spree, looking quite out of place performing such a domestic function that we drew lots of stares, but no comments from the normal dirt dwellers also haunting the aisles.  In short order we had gathered the makings for our feast.  The PETA people need to go ahead and log off now, for us, PETA stands for ‘People Eating Tasty Animals’.  The meat manager told us that we were purchasing two legs of lamb, but they looked suspiciously like dog.  No matter to us, we were salivating in anticipation as we left the supermarket.

Then it was back to the marina where Lenny began his masterful preparation of the feast and I assisted him with the pre-drinking phase of the operation.

Just when I thought that we might be in trouble, Bill showed up with a wagon and cooler full of drinks and ice, followed closely by Lenny’s wench Marietta, Bills wench Earlene, and Marty who couldn’t trick his wench into coming.  After hors d’oeuvre of little bourbon marinated hot dogs, cheese and crackers, and a salad, all prepared fresh from scratch by Lenny, we lit up the grill and watched while he created a gourmet feast of lamb, baked vegetables, and Lenny’s own garlic bread.  A better feed I cannot remember.

Without slighting Lenny’s culinary genius, what really made the night such a pleasure was the warm camaraderie of bright, entertaining friends with interesting and colorful stories to share.  As the ladies retired, and the rum flowed, the stories ranged on toward the midnight hour.

It was with regret that we succumb to the ravages of age, time, and alcohol while trudging the docks back to our own boats and empty bunks.  I for one am hoping that last night is an event that we will be able to repeat many times.  For now, fair winds and following seas.    Nat

Leg of Lamb?

By: Nat Manning

Now that we arrive at the boat, the danger really begins. The deck of a sailboat is a virtual cornucopia of hazards that come in all colors and flavors. Hey, you remember “cleats”? Well, they are generally sprayed onto a sailboat and then bolted down where-ever they land. For fun, add some steel wires with barbs called “meat hooks”. Cotter pins, bolts, clamps, toe rails, and various sundry items are placed throughout for you to conveniently hurt yourself.

So far we have focused on doing damage to your knees and feet. It just wouldn’t be right to ignore the other important and equally sensitive areas of your body. Let’s take a minute to talk about fun with rope.

There is a lot of rope available on a sailboat for you to hurt yourself with. Sailors call this stuff “line” by the way. The key to hurting yourself with rope is for it to have a lot of force attached to one or both ends of it. The first technique is one that you can all practice. Take the rope (line) and hold it tightly in your hand as the load comes onto the other end. As the rope travels through your tightly clenched fist rapidly, temperatures will suddenly go from ambient to over thirteen thousand degrees. The smell of burning flesh should be enough, but you just have to look at the raw meat that used to be your palm. Imagine how much fun simple chores are going to be for the next week or so. There are other ways of having fun with rope, but require more finesse to accomplish. Step in a coil in the rope just before it comes under load and you get to travel to places aboard that you would otherwise never visit, like halfway up the mast. Sometimes injury can be accomplished more simply by pulling very hard on the rope when the load suddenly comes off the naughty strip of nylon braid. As you advance to more sophisticated methods of injuring yourself, try holding a rope as it enters a block or runs under the wing of a cleat!

Bimini tops and hard tops are strategically located for you to crack your head on, but to bring up a really nice knot, things called “booms” are readily available for your use in hurting yourself. They are heavy wood or aluminum horizontal posts that swing back and forth across the boat, teaching you that “duck” has nothing to do with a migratory water foul. This is a lesson that has to be learned at least once per day.

Going down into the cabins below, not every part of your body is sore or damaged yet. Not to worry, boat designers have thought of everything. The “ceilings” of the cabins are built slightly shorter than the average person. This causes you to bend your head slightly forward. This is a clever set up that casts your vision downward. With you looking downward, beams are placed at intervals along the ceiling close enough together to provide generous opportunity yet far enough apart to allow you to achieve maximum speed before knocking part of your scalp off.

Boat designers have finished all of this off with the strategic assistance of inertia. Down below, the motion of the vessel is not detectable visually. This results in the tendency to fall down with unexpected motions of the boat. Rather than just fall down, lots of counters, benches, table corners, etc have been provided to cause bruises in all the places that haven’t been already addressed. The next time you see a sailor look for the ‘boat bites’. Just because you don’t see them, it doesn’t mean that they aren’t there.

In conclusion, I would like to thank everyone who assisted me by injuring themselves on and around boats. I finish this scientific study as I nurse my bruises and scrapes from my last experience aboard.

Typical Boat Bite

Boat bites are painful, non critical, non debilitating minor injuries that occur on and around boats. Take note that I referred to them as injuries, not accidents. I have been studying this phenomenon and am somewhat convinced that the injuries are by design and not the result of accident, carelessness, or ineptness of the victim. While trying not to sound like a JFK, UFO, 911, or Faked Moon Landing conspirator, I believe that I have sound reason to suspect that boats and docks are created through a sinister and ingenious design for the particular purpose of hurting people, and more specifically… me. Lets examine some of these snares, carefully crafted to cause damage to my otherwise unmarred hide.
It starts upon arrival at the marine environment. The parking lot. While unloading all of the supplies and equipment (crap) that is desirable to take on your much anticipated adventure, we encounter the first of the obstacles designed to inflict the pain needed to put you in the proper frame of attitude. They are heavy, hard, concrete posts laid horizontal and nailed down to ensure that they have no give. They are falsely referred to as curbs and are billed as devices to prevent travel of vehicles into undesired areas. In reality, they are placed as a result of study and research in such a way that ensures that you will inadvertently kick and trip over them, scraping your bare knees on the rough asphalt, which by the way, is also part of the design.

Evil Dock Gate

The next obstacle you will encounter is the dock gate. Please do not be afraid. The dock gate is really not as dangerous as it appears. Yes, there are lots of sharp edges and chain link fence spikes, and various other snags incorporated into the design, but the gate really does not qualify as a “booby trap”. What generally happens at the gate is that you arrive with both arms and hands laden with (crap) and need to negotiate the gate “barrier” that requires you to manipulate a key and lock while in this configuration. This inevitably results in dropping the heaviest item you are carrying on your foot. As you struggle with the lock, eventually, everything you were carrying ends up on the ground around you. Now that your hands are free, you can easily unlock and swing the gate open and pick up your stuff (crap). In order to increase the difficulty level, the gate is equipped with a very powerful spring that is not really meant to close the gate, but to press against you very hard as you try to pick up your (crap). In short order, this aggravation creates the reaction of pushing the gate open with hard force, causing it to swing away from you, setting you free to try again to pick up your stuff. The spring mechanism is specially designed to allow the gate to swing open far enough and hang long enough for you to forget about it as you begin to gather your precious belongings (crap) from the ground, then build an incredible amount of speed and force as it swings back toward you in your vulnerable position. I don’t think it’s necessary to continue describing the trials associated with the gate.

Having cleared the parking lot and negotiated the gate, you are finally on the dock, limping, but not really bleeding all that much. Within ten feet of the gate, you begin encountering tricks that the dock has of it’s own. Docks are also often adorned with electrical cables and water hoses, use your imagination. The most prolific of these are toe-breakers are called cleats. These are low profile, winged, steel obstacles bolted stoutly to the dock and placed strategically where they are not only convenient for breaking ones toes, but also provide an excellent opportunity to trip and fall off the dock. This, by the way never happens at high tide when the fall to the water would only be three or four feet, but at low tide when you fall and fall and hit the water from a great height with the resultant additional calamity and greater difficulty of getting back out of the water. I would like to stress two points before leaving the subject of cleats. The first point is that boats utilize these cleats to secure themselves to the docks, although this is completely unnecessary as witnessed by a more than adequate number of pilings that they could tie to.
Oh crap… I don’t remember the second point as I have a newly arrived injury to tend to…
Part two in a few days… give me time to heal, I just got back on the boat.

Editors note: Subscribe to this site for the next update… over there ~ on the right ~ just do it already

Princess Kay and Captain Jim Fudge

I have to express my apologies and concede that though a fair weaver of stories, I’m a poor action reporter.  I was right on scene on the afternoon/night of the 21st and now it’s the 28th and I still haven’t submitted an article outlining the events of that ill-famed night.  I’ve just apologized, but I would like to convey reasons, not excuses as to why I’ve been so remiss.

Try to picture the morning after, tongue swollen in my mouth, squinting at the screen through my bloodshot eyes embedded in the front of my large aching head, hoping that I would not be exposed to any loud noises or motion of any kind.  Trying to penetrate the fog in my brain, I place my fingers on the keyboard, close my eyes, picture last night in my mind, and let the words flow down through my fingers through the keyboard and onto the computer screen.

After about 10 minutes, I open my eyes to assess my progress.  Imagine my shock at seeing some kind of coded unknown and undecipherable language.  As rapidly as my impaired facilities allowed, I came to two revelations.  One, my fingers were not placed on the keyboard in the proper position and two, I was not in any shape to attempt any kind of intelligent communication.  This is just not going to work out.

I pulled my cleanest pair of dirty pants and shirt on and crawled through the hatch to squint into the blinding pre-noon sunlight.  Seeing my obvious distress, Pirate Princess Kay on Ocean Lady hailed and implored that I come over for treatment. Boat ramps and finger piers are very treacherous places during times of impaired facilities and unsteady gravity, but with a fearlessness I am known for, I made it from Snap One to Ocean Lady with a minimum of excitement.  Shortly after I was assisted to a seated position on a stable perch aboard the sizable pirate yacht, my fingers were wrapped around a glass containing one of Princess Kay’s infamous bloody Marys, and I knew everything was going to be alright.

Kay’s bloody Marys are known all along the coast for their awesome taste, unique secret ingredients, unusual dill pickle and onion garnish, and incredible healing properties.  They have been known to revive people from near death hangovers in surprisingly short times.  I sat there savoring the tart red drink as my funk lifted and found myself basking in the warm friendship of other patients of Dr Kay whose presence I wasn’t aware of when I arrived.  The closer I got to the bottom of the glass, the better and more human I felt.  By the time the drink was gone, I was able to smile, talk, and much enjoyed the light, clever interaction of the other survivors.

Grog Master Earlene and Pirate King Bill

Much too soon, it was over, and I found myself on the dock helping to cast off the lines and watch Ocean Lady and the other pirate ships cruise stately from the dock and out, returning to their respective home ports.

Standing alone in the Florida sun, watching everyone leave, sweating like a leaky sponge, I decided that I needed to take care of myself, so made my way back aboard Snap One and crawled into my bunk to sleep till better times.  Better times did not come.  I was awakened by the telephone sometime in the afternoon and informed that the mother of a good friend had passed away.  I packed all my perishable food and within an hour was on the road and headed to a land of no internet.  It’s odd how the sadness of a passing is tempered by the pleasure of spending time with friends cherished but seldom seen.

So, a week later, what can I report about the Talk Like a Pirate Party?

Trying to impress Regina

For me, it started with dress rehearsal at home, supervised by my very understanding wife, Pirate Admiral Goddess Ellen.  She gets credit for my entire ensemble, much of it fabricated or gathered by her.  I stand like a mannequin while she makes sure that clothes, hat, cutlass, coat, and earrings are squared away and authentic.  I am very proud of the earrings as they cost me a buc-an-eer….. haha, get it?  OK, Sorry, that was really bad.

Lenny

Then comes the trip over to the boat, looking like a weird oddball kook freak nut engaged in a bizarre attempt at drag.  Upon arrival at the marina, try walking through the Tiki Bar dressed like this.  I had to pull the cutlass and back off a few advances. I did get a phone number from a big guy with a tattoo.

Next comes getting the boat dressed out with pirate flags followed immediately by serious sessions of “pre-drinking” which is necessary in order to make that all important “first pirate impression.”  A little word of caution about “pre-drinking”.  Three and a half hours of “pre-drinking” may be a bit much for the faint at heart and can’t be good for the brain.

Tatooed Wenches

By the time the sun is low, the pirate boats from other marinas start arriving, the keg of grog comes out, other costumed pirates begin congregating on the dock, and the party begins, I’m out there with my camera but so $#!% faced that I’m not completely capable of operating it.  I have a weak start going up to people going “brawk brawk, Polly wanna quacker!” with the result of strange looks.  Then it occurs to me that this is actually “Talk Like a Pirate Day”.

The grog, specially and secretly formulated by Pirate Princess Earlene, has been known to cause blindness, stupidity, flat feet, and projectile vomiting.  Everyone knows not to drink it however, everyone drinks it anyway because it tastes so good, and I set about to empty the keg.  As might be expected, the night digressed into a dizzy blurr of pirate stories, flirting with wenches, blurting out of random nautical and piratical statements, and much overuse of the letter “arrrrr” all spoken with a raspy voice.

I don’t remember all that much of the night, but at some point I was honored with the presentation of the “bung”, the greatest recognition any drunken seafarer could rise or sink to. Now, before you jump to the conclusion that presentation of the “bung” is something demented, perverted, or homophobic, let me explain that the rum aboard ship is stored in a wooden keg that is assessed by a tapped hole that is plugged by a wooden “bung”.  An empty keg certainly denotes one hell of a good time and an empty keg really doesn’t need a “bung” so why not give it to some deserving soul as a prize?  So yes, I am bragging about getting the “bung”!

How bout this crew?

Back to the reporting.  Nobody fell off the dock.  Nobody threw up on the dock.  Nobody got pregnant on the dock.  A whole bunch of people were there.  A good time was had by all.  The food was really good.  The grog was wonderful.  Pirate King Bill Lemmer did a spectacular job organizing and administrating the whole affair.  We are all looking forward to next year already. We need a real reporter to do this kind of reporting.

As a past observer of this important event, I am astutely aware of it’s importance and propriety in today’s world.  I’m not making this up, and not messing with you, look it up.  There is even a web site dedicated to the worship and observance.  This may have started out as a small cult, but it’s been growing year by year and as it grows, so does it’s gris gris.  (In Vodoun, or Voodoo, gris-gris resemble charms or talismans which are kept for good luck or to ward off evil) Therefore, it’s becoming increasingly important to observe this special day, no matter who you are.

Captain Bill Pirate King

Not sure just what all the rules and cosmic laws are regarding International Talk Like A Pirate Day, I went next door to confer with Bill on Falcor II.  Bill is the Sensei, the Guru, the Head Cheese, the Master at Arms, the Pirate King of the dock.  He advised that it’s really not that big a deal.  Though the official day is September 19, you have until midnight the last day of September while the moon is still aligned with Pladeas and all you have to do is publicly talk like a Pirate.  If that simple act is not performed, bad juju will wrap it’s self around you and bad things will happen until the vernal equinox.  Bill wasn’t specific about the “bad things” but implied that appendages may rot and fall off, hair loss, pimples, digestive malfunctions, lice, and a host of other plagues would most likely identify the nonbelievers who didn’t participate.

Captain Bill Consulting with Pirate Ghosts

With this in mind, lets all jump aboard and make sure that we fulfill our obligation to the brethren departed.  It’s really not that difficult.  The only letter of the alphabet you need is the letter “aaRRR”.  As a matter of fact, that’s the answer Bill gave to a lot of the questions I asked.  Remember to talk with a rasp from the back of your throat and kick in some nautical terms if you know any.  The website is a great resource of phrases to use.  Besides warding off bad juju, people will think you have lost your mind, and how could that be a bad thing?

This Saturday night, at the dock, we are having our annual Talk Like a Pirate Party to celebrate and comply with the dictates of the law.  The party always features a “grog” that everybody with any experience warns polliwogs not to drink, but everybody drinks it anyway and it’s always fun to see who throws up first and who can throw up most like a pirate.  I will send a report of the event,  presupposing that I survive.  Practice a little in private and then get out there and…….

Talk Like A Pirate

It starts in the middle of the night, about eight or nine years ago.  He and I are partners sitting in a little kitchen area, me doing as I’m supposed to be doing, which was attentively staring at a red “Bat” phone with my hand hovering over the receiver, eagerly awaiting the call from Commissioner Gordon for help in Gotham City.

Larry, on the other hand, is demonstrating his customary inability to cope with inactivity, and has a personal project of his spread out all over the table, rendering it unusable for anything else, like maybe eating.

The “Bat” phone does ring.  It’s not Commissioner Gordon but dispatch requesting air support for the Haines City Police Department.  Not Gotham City, but kind of close.  Seems some local officers went in pursuit of two people in a stolen car and they opened fire on the officers with unknown type and caliber firearms.

Like the Top Flight Crew that we actually were for a string of years, we bolted for the door and in as short a time as you can get the turbine lit on a jet helicopter and a few essential systems online, we were screaming through the black Florida sky.

Top Flight Crew PCSO

Always a day late and a dollar short, before we could arrive, the bad guys had wrecked the car and after backing the pursuing cops off with gunfire, had escaped on foot.

Shortly after arriving on scene, Larry located one of the suspects using a thermal imager running through an orange grove, feeling safe in the protection of the darkness and probably making plans for later that night when he got back to town.  Quietly directing ground units into position, the suspect turned a corner in the rows of orange trees and almost ran right into a police car and into the awaiting arms of some officers who probably weren’t in  the most sunny of dispositions.  The capture was text book and would have made a great training tape.  That one was not the reason that I told this story.

With that one in custody, Larry located the other one, also with the thermal imager as it was a black night.  This one though, was in a large marshy swampy part of Lake Lowery making remarkably good time away from the ground troops in waist to chest deep water and muck with sawgrass higher than his head.  An assessment of the situation determined that it would take hours to get a ground or marine asset to this area, and we didn’t have that much fuel.  Rather than let this armed violent person get away Larry said “Get me down there!”

Being obligated to comply, I set the helicopter up to do a low, slow pass over the guy while checking for helicopter snags (poles, cables, lines, dead trees, etc).  Then I would roll into a sharp left descending turn and roll out into a hover just five feet over the target.  Did I mention that Larry and I often have a problem communicating with one another?  As I made my low pass, intently scanning for obstacles and danger, I caught movement out of the corner of my eye and the helicopter lurched violently as Larry bailed out.

I watched in horror as Larry fell,,,, and fell,,,, and fell,,, and splashed down right next to the bad guy like a Mercury space capsule splashing down in the Atlantic, only without the chute.  Rolling into my planned maneuver, I kept my eyes riveted on the point of splashdown as I came to a complete stop.  After what seemed like a long time and much to the surprise of the bad guy as well as myself, Larry popped up from the black water and muck and grabbed the guy by the throat, and the fight was on.

Alone in the helicopter, I helplessly took on the roll of a three quarter million dollar street light, illuminating the bizarre scene below. It only lasted a few minutes.  I don’t think Larry actually won the fight, I think the guy just decided that Larry was soooooooo insane that nothing good could come from further resistance, and allowed Larry to drag him the quarter mile to shore to the awaiting officers bristling with questions as well as weapons.

“Air 1, did you misplace a flight officer?  I think we may have one down here!”

Are you beginning to get a clear picture of what kind of nut Larry is?  The above narrative is a prelude to telling you that I landed and picked him up dripping and smelling like a sewer and flew him back to the airbase.  As we walked back into the ready room there, still spread out all over the table in about ten pieces, was Larry’s gun in the process of being cleaned.

To preface the story, about two miles offshore from Apollo Beach is a small spoil island called Pine Island that the locals affectionately refer to as Beer Can Island. On the weekends, it is very popular with recreational boaters and takes on a kind of carnival atmosphere. During the week however, the masses of young, useful, productive denizens are conspicuously absent and Beer Can Island takes on the persona of a remote deserted South Pacific island located right here on the East side of Tampa Bay.

Beer can island

It was on one of these weekdays that I dropped the sails, headed up, and dropped anchor right in the little bay on the East side of Beer Can. I was pleased that I was the only boat and person in sight. I was also pleased to have placed the anchor so that I was in no danger of going aground, yet was only two boat lengths from the beach. This was shaping up to be an awesome week.

Upon referring to the Ships Standing Orders issued by the Captain (me), when anchoring close to shore, the crew (me) is required to perform an anchor watch for the first several hours to verify a good anchor set. This is accomplished to the accompaniment of Jimmy Buffett music blasting from the cockpit speakers while the crew attempts to rehydrate following the brisk activity of getting the sails secured and the anchor down and set. Rehydration is accomplished through the use of various liquids, all of which are very unpalatable, made potable by adding copious amounts of Sailor Jerry Spiced Rum.

Anchor watch duty was almost over when I decided to go out on deck and straighten the foredeck up a bit. I’m not really clear exactly what took place, whether the boat suddenly lurched, or if the deck was struck with an eddy in the gravity field, but I found myself falling, although not toward the center of the boat. Frantically, I grabbed the un-cleated jib sheet which provided a degree of support which could only be detected with sensitive scientific instruments. I noticed how pretty the sky was just before it disappeared, being replaced by the blurry murky underwater world of Tampa Bay.

Did I mention to you folks that I am an overweight, relatively inactive, and a retiree??? Luckily, I’m still a fairly strong swimmer. I came up spitting and sputtering with what I would imagine was a very surprised look on my face. With the keen situational awareness of which I am gifted, I quickly swam the four feet to the side of the boat. What now? I reached up but couldn’t even come close to reaching the deck of the boat. The smooth hull offered nothing to hold onto. I swam down the side of the hull to the familiar ladder that I had used to board the boat from many times. It was resting securely out of reach. I continued around to the stern where the dinghy is stored. From there I can use a step which is mounted on the transom to hopefully step up onto the deck. Well, a partial solution was achieved. I could reach up and grab the step! No problem, from this position I could hang onto the stern of the boat for three or four days if I needed to. It probably took my alcohol impeded mind longer than it should have to reach the conclusion that this wasn’t all that great of a solution either. I finally let go and swam completely around the boat looking, but not finding a solution of how to get my derriere back on board. By now I was getting tired and the island was beginning to beckon me. I swam till I touched ground and then slogged ashore dropping face first in the sand, half in and half out of the water.

I don’t know how long I lay there but when I pulled myself up onto my hands and knees, my hair and beard had grown out and I looked just like Tom Hanks. I started assessing my situation and completed a mental list of what I needed to do. First, find a source of fresh water. Second, build a shelter. Third, create fire. And finally, find a source of food. In my spare time I’ll map out the island, gather all my resources, signal for help then locate and befriend a soccer ball.

So much for plans. What I actually did was walk around the island picking up pretty shells and sand dollars. I splashed around and played in the water. But what I spent most of the day doing was sitting in the shade of a pine tree looking at my boat anchored serenely and stately just off the beach out of reach. One thing Tom Hanks didn’t have to deal with was being confronted with a boat full of iced beverages just waiting to be consumed. A large steak was on the ready and prepared to sizzle on the rail mounted grill. All that food, television, a shower, a nice clean bunk, there it was, all in plain sight just out of reach.

Walking a beach

Neither Tom Hanks nor those young pretty people on survivor had to worry about the humiliation and embarrassment of being rescued and answering the inevitable questions that I was faced with. My wife, my friends, even soccer balls would disassociate themselves from me. The shame would last longer than the years I had left in me. It would turn out that I would be saved from all this by my brilliant, cunning innovation and cleverness.

I saw my chance when a pontoon boat rented from MacDill Air Force Base pulled up with some partying young folks with close cropped hair. My plan materialized as I watched them playing on the beach. As they began loading up preparing to leave, I sauntered over and acting like it didn’t really matter one way or another, asked them if they would save me the swim back out to my boat by giving me a lift. They were happy to oblige, and my ordeal was over. That night I dined on fresh grilled steak and sipped my favorite adult beverage to the happy beat of island music. I can assure you though that the boarding ladder is now down, as it always is, as soon as I get anchored.

What lessons can I leave you with?

Always deploy the boarding ladder as soon as you get anchored.

Try to get marooned on an island that already has a soccer ball in residence.

Be prepared to make up a lie that will cover any ridiculous situation that you might put yourself in.

Never go out on deck with your cell phone in your pocket.

Fair winds and following seas………………Nat

Since this is my first submission to Larry’s blog, I’ll introduce myself.  My name is Nat and I used to have a life of adventure and excitement.  Then I retired and the most exciting thing in my life now is eating enough fiber to keep my system functioning with some amount of regularity.  I have a little story to share with you and it starts like this…

Captain Nat

As sleep slipped away, it was replaced by awareness.  This did not happen suddenly as with an alarm, but more like the way summer blends into fall.  The wind was howling in the rigging, rocking the boat gently but insistently, reminding me of the hurricane in the Gulf of Mexico that had just came off Cuba and was churning slowly toward Texas, causing us in Tampa Bay to breath another sigh of relief.  The sound of water lapping against the hull told me that the wind was from the East.  Here at the dock, this would seem like a very normal day, but that was not the case.

Today, the air was charged with electric energy.  As the peace of slumber slipped away and the awareness settled in, excitement flooded my mind as I remembered that today was to be marked by a road trip!

Bill, on Falcor II a couple of slips over, had invited me to go along to Don’s Marine Salvage Yard in Largo with him and Mike!  I rolled out of the bunk and proceeded to get ready to go with an unaccustomed sense of purpose.

Falcor II

Out in the cockpit, I made an odd discovery.  The basin had three or four more feet of water in it than is normal.  With a sense of dread, I recalled that my hose connection was leaking and during the night must have filled up the basin, Tampa Bay, the Gulf of Mexico, the Atlantic, and raised the ocean level world wide. A lot of people were going to be pretty unhappy with me.  And it was only a drip that had done so much damage.  OK, wait a minute, there’s no way.  I then correctly surmised that Hurricane Ike churning offshore, though not coming here, was close enough to provide a mild storm surge along with the howling winds and overcast skies.  I still should fix that drip!

Climbing down the almost vertical ramp from the deck to the dock with a fishing pole was no easy feat for an aged overweight retiree, but I managed to scale down it like a mountain goat with no serious injuries.  I had about an hour to fish, casting my lure as close to the pilings as I could before Bill emerged and it was time for our adventure to begin.

High water in the marina

Mike was waiting for us at the 4 door Chevy Malibu and after initial pleasantries, we cast off and were underweigh with Bill at the helm, Mike sitting aft, and me up front beside Bill.  I was paying close attention to the navigation but was soon completely lost as our voyage consisted of many, many, course changes as we wound our way through down town Tampa.  It was interesting; watching the young pretty people all dressed up, some scurrying along the sidewalks from office to office, and others, seemingly maintaining station at the intersections watching the light signals changing from little walking men to an open hand.  Old memories came back to me of times long gone when I sometimes interacted with such people.

Eventually, almost as if by magic, we were on the Howard Franklin Bridge and with a view of the water, I immediately regained my bearings as I looked longingly out across the open uncrowded expanse.

With our return to the land, my navigational awareness again departed and I just enjoyed the rapidly moving sights until Bill announced that we had arrived.  I was almost disembarked before the car was completely docked.  The sight I was beholding would entice any sailor to jump ship.

I had never even thought of an auto salvage yard for boats.  But here I was, confronted with the enormity of it all.  Bill, Mike, and I, were quickly separated and only occasionally crossed wakes as we cruised amongst the rows of junk and the buildings, sheds, trailers, and racks of more junk.  For a guy, this gigantic place of junk was as beautiful as a sand bar with a palm tree.  Whatever any boat anywhere needs, it’s there among the rows and rows of stuff.  You might never find it, but it’s there!

Several hours later we met back up at the car.  Bill had a spinnaker slide track and a hat full of stainless fittings and bolts, screws, etc.  I had a plastic thru hull that cost me $2.50.  Mike was just puffing on his corncob pipe, empty handed but with the look of someone just emerging from a burlesque show.  I don’t know how to measure our success, but it would require a philosophical approach to do so.

We loaded up, cast off, and pointed our bow toward home, but didn’t make it all the way.  The toil of working the junk yard had taken it’s toll on us and we ended up having to strike our colours and pulled into a Wing House.  Besides the several beers apiece and my grilled grouper sandwich, we managed to render a flock of chickens flightless.  Our waitress, Lisa, had a most interesting hull.  With a bulbous bow and racing transom, she was one of the fastest sloops in the place.  I was proud to sign the papers adopting her and may now have to return to the work force to put her through college.

The absolutely necessary spare part for something

Reluctantly, we climbed back aboard and put the Wing House astern.  The rest of the trip was rather quiet, yet it seemed only a short while later I could see the masts of my beloved boat and home.  The tide may have gone out, but the water had not.  I climbed up the steep incline of the ramp reminiscing of the fun day of adventure ashore and wondering what the hell I’m going to do with a small plastic thru hull.

I hope you enjoyed the road trip with us and may the wind remain abaft your beam.

Nat