Others may disagree but with the possible exception of one fellow, this latest Tadventure© had all the earmarks of a thoroughly thought out and flawlessly executed plan.
It began innocently enough, four intrepid sailors, two with no offshore experience (sort of) and two who should have known better. At the time, moving my boat from St. Augustine, Florida to Norfolk, Virginia with the aid of the Gulf Stream over four days seemed like a cakewalk. Like most things, reality reared its ugly head.
I lit out of Tallahassee on Friday night to get a jump on preparing the yacht, Marieusz, for her journey. Arriving late in the evening, I managed to get the hatches open and turn on some fans in hopes of flushing the rather malodorous stench of mold, a byproduct of seven months of storage with nary a whisper of breeze below decks, from inside. The bilge was clear and two recent stowaways, Gordon and Gladys Gecko, had done their parts to devour any and all crawling critters.
I spent some time attempting to send and receive emails to and from my satellite communication system (I’d recently ensured my account was up to date and authorized three people to send email directly to the boat; it costs per character; a lot). You can’t be too careful about robust and trustworthy communications when you’re on an offshore passage, even if it’s only 70 miles from land. Satisfied that I could transmit and receive numerous messages consisting of the single word, “Test” with my son, I found a cold beer in my brother’s fridge and made an early night of it.
The next morning, I headed up to the Jacksonville airport to gather two of the three crewmembers. I was pleased to reconnect with Captain Danger, stalwart fellow that he is, and surprised to see my old friend (we’ll call him “Pete” for now) “Pete” had actually shown up as promised. “Pete” and I had sailed the Chesapeake for many, many years; our destinations usually involved places that served adult libations. I’d been inviting “Pete” to sail on my trips for almost 20 years and, for reasons that escape me completely, he finally accepted.
I welcomed the lads and we headed back toward the boat, only ten or eleven “quick” stops ahead, Captain D lamenting my poor planning, demonstrated by a complete lack of a 12 pack of “road sodas” (aka, cold beer) the entire time. I turned the radio volume up to 70 decibels, feigning an unnatural interest in whatever the hell Rush Limbaugh was droning on about at the moment.
I wanted to stop at the West Marine store in St. Augustine to check out their new life jackets. I had discovered the previous evening, much to my dismay, that BOTH of my inflatable life jackets had been rendered inoperable due to what I consider to be an engineering design flaw (read: what the hell were they thinking?). The manufacturer had decided to use, as an integral and vital part of the inflation mechanism, a plastic cup. The cup was shaped like a shot glass with holes in the bottom (to let water in) inside of which sat a spring that was, theoretically, released when moistened and which, automatically, inflated the vest should the wearer fall in the water. The cups on BOTH of my life jackets were missing critical pieces: the bottoms. Ergo, the brightly colored springs, when exposed to aqueousness, had nothing against which to push. Bupkes. In layman terms, them life jackets weren’t gonna do squat. Therefore, I considered a brief West Marine drive-by to be a “reasonable” delay.
Meanwhile, back in Panama City, Florida, my brother-in-law (nom de sail: Driver) was scurrying about looking also for life jackets to ensure that we would “not leave home without [them].” I remember I just kept telling him, “If you find them, buy them. We’ll worry about the money later.” I’m all about trading money for lives.
Captain Danger and “Pete” and I perused the West Marine life jacket offerings and found them decidedly lacking and so we spun on our heels and headed for the door instanter, “Pete” eying the West Marine sailing shoes with rapt attention. “Pete,” despite numerous instructions and advisories, had arrived for an offshore passage with completely insensible chick-like footwear. He eyed with envy and grief the manly and fully functional sandals that shod the four feet that were Captain Danger’s and mine. “I told you about the shoes,” I said.
Captain D spotted a nearby cell phone store and ran inside in search of a DC charger. I had barely time to say, “Hey! We’ve got to get going!” when “Pete” disappeared, heading off toward a Sears store, mumbling that they “must have sandals in there.” I stood alone in the parking lot, my carefully laid plan and schedule torn asunder. I busied myself stomping ants.
After a while, the wayward souls made their respective ways back to the car, Captain D muttering about the “crappy collection of car chargers” in the Sprint emporium, “Pete” muttering that he “could have sworn they’d have sandals at Sears.” Captain Danger, not to be outmuttered, muttered back, “Well, duh. It’s a Sears APPLIANCE store in a strip mall, you idiot.” I muttered to myself, “Great,” as we headed off to the Giant WalMart in Palm Coast, there to provision for the arduous passage ahead.
[In case you’ve been asleep through all these Tadventures© (perhaps you dozed off listening to Tadventures© on tape), it bears repeating that the only thing Captain D is better at than drinking beer from sunup to sundown (without ever appearing inebriated) is cooking. He is the consummate chef de bateau (that’s French for galley slave).]
Armed with a shopping list as long as his arm, we three strode confidently into the Giant WalMart, deftly avoided four or five hundred geriatrics, pushing their carts, three abreast, down every aisle, at a speed carefully designed to ensure they didn’t snap a vertebra should they spot something on sale and have to suddenly stop. I assumed my normal duties, propelling a cart of my own, following Captain Danger to and fro, my eagle eye on the lookout for some hot babes (in this case, someone under sixty). “Pete” disappeared.
Tradition dictates that the skipper/owner pay for all provisions (to include alcohol and beer) so I became somewhat concerned as the giant Giant WalMart shopping trolley began to show signs of strain, its wheels creaking, its forward motion resisted by the ever-growing prodigious pile of provisions as Captain D darted (“darted” may be a bit of a stretch) and sallied forth, returning each time with armloads of [something I didn’t recognize]. At some point I said to Captain D, “Um. Cap. Just how long do you think this passage is gonna take?” He said he had planned for eight days. I mentioned that if we were out there for eight days, we could probably just grab a bite in a local pub because eight days would give us plenty of time to reach Bermuda; with three days to spare. He gave me a “look” and began removing and then scattering various and sundry sundries wherever he could put them without too much notice and tsking from the ever-present octogenarians. I was happy that the load had been lightened; plus, I had a really good view of the cart contents to make sure he hadn’t snuck in any okra like he did last fall.
Captain Danger and I continued to forage, “Pete” continued to not be anywhere to be seen. It was now two in the afternoon and I hadn’t eaten so I grabbed a box of doughnuts and began to nosh; just to keep up my strength while Captain D molested vegetables and fresh fruits. As the last of the doughnut remnants made its way into my gaping maw, “Pete” returned, a shit-eating grin upon his visage and a pair of Giant WalMart sandals in his tiny, feminine hands.
“Agu” (Captain Danger’s nom de plume) and I eyed “Pete’s” most recent acquisition and suppressed our urges to make light of “Pete’s” girlie sandals. Well, we might have been more successful if we hadn’t started laughing loud enough to solicit a whole cacophony of tsks from our fellow shoppers. Regaling “Pete” with the obvious benefits of our manly and fully functional sandals, we naturally compared and contrasted his own with our own. “Pete” disappeared yet again, muttering (not exactly soto voce) something; we assumed he was off in search of jam because it sounded like he said, “Smuckers.”
The shopping was finally complete and we headed back to my brother’s house to ready the boat (it was in my brother’s slip) and to give Captain D access to a fully stocked kitchen within which he could begin to make magical things to munch on our trip (and where he could find a cold beer; something I hoped he’d stick in his pie hole to drown out the constant whining about the lack of “road sodas”).
“Pete” and I labored like pack mules, toting all the boat stuff from the garage to the yacht, inflating and launching the dinghy (so we could stand in it to attach 007 to the stern), and moving the groceries to the boat’s fridge. After three hours or so, I was dead tired and retired for a nap.
When I awoke, the house was filled with the homey smells of “Agu’s” cooking and I ventured to the kitchen to see what he was making. What confronted me was classic Captain Danger; every pot was in use, every knife soiled, and every utensil was covered in spatterings and smatterings of mysterious food particles. Captain Danger was flitting about, stirring this and poking that, a beer his constant companion. As is his wont, the man was partially (mostly) nude. Captain D, while no spring chicken, has plenty of skin resembling same…just sayin’.
Captain D asked me about my nap and mentioned that “Rachel” had stopped by. Who, I enquired, was Rachel? “Agu” said he didn’t have a clue and then turned around, his attention taken by a large pot of something trying desperately to overflow on the stovetop. I shook “Pete” awake and we headed back to the boat to complete our chores.
When we returned an hour or so later, “Agu” had turned the kitchen into the Nagasaki Café; I wondered if I could get it sufficiently clean to keep my brother and sister-in-law off my back…the house was on the market. I asked if “Rachel” had returned in my absence and Captain D replied in the negative. I muttered aloud [lots of muttering in this story; I sort of miss the poop parts; we’ll get to that], wondering who the hell “Rachel” was.
“Pete” busied himself digging into anything that resembled “cooked” and generally ignored us. “Pete” is a good eater.
Eventually, and completely out of the blue, “Agu” said, “Maybe her name was Gretchen.” I congratulated “Agu” on his ability to conjugate “Rachel” from “Gretchen” and then felt a great stabbing sensation in my heart as I considered that my brother’s real estate agent was also named “Gretchen.” Coincidence? Of course not.
“Did you answer the door, Captain D?” I cautiously queried.
“Of course I answered the door, you moron,” he replied.
I looked him up and down (not too much, mind you).
“Like that?” I said, my lip quivering.
“Sure,” he said proudly.
“Oh, shit,” I remarked as the blood drained from my face.
