Having just returned from Port Aransas, the end of the Harvest Moon Regatta, I figured I ought to put things to paper before it all becomes any more of a blur in my significantly frontal lobe shrunken little brain. So here’s the epic:

Wed. October 24, 2007

I tried……Lord, I tried to stay interested in my phony-baloney administrators job until 1500, my scheduled leave time. I even busied myself with various meetings (Are you lonely, don’t like working on your own? Hate making decisions?....than call a MEETING!), but to no avail…..my mind was already OUT THERE. Finally succumbing to the temptation, I slid out of the workplace (I love that term, “workplace”…..is the sea therefore a “playplace”?) and headed home to finish packing my seabag.

The commander came charging in at 1600, and we roared off down the back road toward Harlingen Airport. For those of you who don’t know me, I hate to fly. Ever since I earned a degree in aviation maintenance (before I became a highly educated and highly underpaid biologist) and found out the quality of people who work on aircraft, as well as the minimalist approach to maintenance that a lot of these flying rickshaws receive, I just won’t fly unless it’s absolutely necessary.

Unfortunately this time it was absolutely necessary.

Arriving at the aeropuerto with sufficient time, we survived the violative process to make sure we were not international terrorists. Off came the flip flops, make sure the video camera isn’t really a tiny nuclear explosive device and triple check the ID cards to make sure that I’m really, me. I don’t know about you, but I really don’t like the idea of the government keeping me so safe that some of my own personal freedoms get compromised.

Like the right to fly with my own rum.

A requisite seven dollar huge pilsner glass of Sam Adams, and it was time to board. A cuba libre at thirty five thousand feet, and we were on the deck at Houston Hobby.

Heading towards the baggage carousel, Gene ambled up from behind and we loaded up our things in his truck and headed to Kemah. Provisioning at a Wal- Mart that I swear you needed a GPS to navigate around in (remember, I’m from a third world country, the border of the Rio Grande in South Texas), after stowing the groceries,  we hooked up with Captain Sean and his girlfriend, Pam and had a late dinner at Chili’s, before turning in the V berth aboard Ciclon. The night was cool, with winds gusting from the North to around 30 or so. Weather radio was calling for seas from five to seven feet and diminishing north wind.

Thu. October 25, 2007

Up at 0500, and the wind seems to have dropped from the previous nights lively condition. Walking up the dock to clean up one last time before Port Aransas, the wind generators on the big cruiser across from Ciclon now sits quietly, blades barely stirring in the still black before the dawn. Back aboard, the engine goes on at around 0600, and we take dock lines aboard, anticipating their next contact with terra firma at Island Moorings in Port Aransas. Motoring out east into the channel, following an Endeavor 37, we momentarily went aground as the Endeavor strayed outside the cut and onto the muddy flats. Fortunately, we were able to wiggle off and back into the channel without incident, where we resumed our outbound trek, wind and current on our side as we trucked along at a good 7 knots past the silent Kemah boardwalk, and out into Galveston Bay.

As the day began to dawn, a thin band of red from the East, we found ourselves pretty near the front of a giant procession of literally several hundred boats. The winds were now out of the Northwest at around 10-15 and it was cold, so I went below and put on my foulie bottoms over my shorts, and grabbed a wool cap and gloves. Back topside we hoisted the main, and were soon cruising along at over 8 knots. At this speed, we would be out at the flagship, and in what we assumed would be rolly seas well before our start time at 1400.

Around 1100 and with the help of the now unfurled jib, we were at the mouth of the Galveston Jetties, along with a huge flotilla of other sailboats, and the Elissa, who was already offshore. The Galveston jetties are some of the busiest in the US with hundreds of huge ships entering and departing every day from the port of Houston. Coupled with over two hundred and fifty other sailboats, it was like a Monday morning rush hour on the Houston beltway.

I wanted to save a fix on my own GPS, but it had crashed, due to dead batteries, and I had forgotten to get more while we were provisioning. I figured that the commander would have some, and of course being the resourceful and always prepared professional that he is, he smugly answered that he had brought some along….and then added that I seemed to have battery issues, referring to our survey work the previous weekend when I had to plunder every single double “A” cell from every flashlight and electronic toy aboard Olivia in order to finish our work, owing to the same reason: Plunderin’ Jims battery issues……

So he went below to find the brick, but they were nowhere to be found. Hmmmmm….maybe they got plundered at the aeropuerto by some DHS goons who thought that they might be small nuclear exploding devices incognito…..

Or something.

Every spare double “A” cell battery was plundered from every flashlight and electronic toy aboard Ciclon, and we ended up with six for the whole trip. No worries, we could always navigate the old fashioned way……dead reckoning.

A new hunt was initiated for the boom brake, it appeared that we might be going downwind a good portion of the time with the predicted winds, and this device would for sure come in handy to eliminate the risks of an unwanted jibe. The big boom on Ciclon is right about eye level across the cockpit, a real widowmaker. The boom brake however was nowhere to be found either, and I assumed that it too may have been lifted while we were asleep by the feralgovernment who probably reasoned that it too might be some sort of a terrorist weapon of mass destruction.

We turned around and tacked back into the forest of masts, slowed down from the 10 knots we were making, not wanting to go out into the open Gulf and get spanked, having to do a lot of jockeying in what we were told was gonna be big lumpy seas out in front of the Flagship hotel on Galveston Island.

Around noon we just decided to go for it, and headed out of the jetty entrance and crashed headlong into……..seas all of two feet, a calm and sparkling surreal day as we zipped along on a starboard broad reach southward down the beach.

We danced with many boats for the next hour and a half waltzing back and forth north of the starting line, a promenade with a Benateau, a foxtrot with a Formosa…….

Now just ten minutes to go, and we are making one final northbound tack, we turn around and pull out the jib, assuming a starboard broad reach, just as the starting cannon belches from the shoreline and off we squirt in the back of the first group of about fifty other boats.

…..And then this cornhole idiot aboard a Hunter Chlorox-bottle on our starboard side starts to squeeze us on the starboard flank, and we are now in his wind shadow, and unable to advance forward. Like this is some sort of America’s cup race or something. Incredible. I watch these worthless yuppies come alongside, so close we could hand them a beer. Only we won’t. Soon, another moron on a big Morgan cruiser (who by the way, and we saw you, and you know who you ARE....you were...UNDER POWER ) is squeezing us from the port side, and now we are the piece of meat in the sandwich.

All the while we are heading toward shore, and it is evident that we need to tack back out in order to establish some sort of workable rhumline. After about forty five minutes of this nonsense, we agree to do so, and the commander nudges the boat ahead of the Morgan just enough, and we jibe to the Southeast.

I am handling the jib, sheeting it to the starboard side, beginning to crank it in, intent on the self-tailer when I hear someone holler “DUCK!”. I don’t figure that means Mallard either, so I instinctively flatten low as the big boom whizzes just past the top of my head.

When I straighten up, I see Gene slumped down in the aft of the cockpit, blood streaming from a gaping wound in his forehead.

He’d gotten cold cocked by the boom.

Shaken, we applied first aid, and immediately turned around heading back to the Galveston Jetties and the emergency room.

Gene appeared to be alright, and the bleeding had stopped as we called the race committee and told them our situation. 

It took several hours to reach the Galveston Marina, where two of Captain Sean’s friends, Ken and Richard, who had gone to the island to catch the start of the race from shore were now waiting to carry Gene to the emergency room at UTMB Galveston. We figured, being a premier medical research institution that he would get the best care there.

I talked about Ken back in another entry, when I went to Kemah last winter to pick up ‘Divs dink. 63, he lives with a gimpy cat aboard a 32 Choy Lee which he happily singlehands. He is, along with Gene,  another hero of mine.

We cast off the lines, and somewhat worriedly the commander, Captain Sean and myself began the long motoring back up the busy channel back towards Watergate Marina. The winds had now kicked up the bay to two or three foot closely spaced swells as we negotiated our way in the fading light of late afternoon. We hooked up the auto pilot which now seemed to be working correctly, not having to try and compensate for yaw. The commander went below and made his world famous frito pie, and we dined in the cockpit, kicking back a couple of recuperative beverages.

Not long afterward, Captain Sean assumed the helm, and narcolepsy began to rear it’s ugly head. I descended the companionway steps muttering to my shipmates; “I’m gonna take a ten minute nap.”

……Two hours later, I slowly stirred back to consciousness, as we glided along on a perfectly glassy bay, closing in just outside the Kemah Boardwalk. Tying up around 2200, after all was secure,  I went topside and took a shower.

When I got back to the boat, the commander was in the aft berth, asleep. I woke him up and he shot back rather wryly; “I’m just taking a ten minute nap.”

Gene finally got back to the boat around 0400 Friday morning. A plastic surgeon had to be called in to repair the torn facial muscles around his eye, so that he could once again lift that eyebrow whenever he makes a dry comment regarding the state of things.

Fri. October 26, 2007

I got up fairly early and went up the dock and into a morning that was brilliant, dead calm and warm. While brushing my teeth, another sailor came in and decried that the entire fleet was becalmed out there, and already partying.

Shades of “Race to the Border”…..

Later after breakfast with Ken and Richard, and listening to the horror stories of yet another emergency room debacle, Captain Sean and I hit a few chandleries, where I acted just like a kid in a candy store. Olivia will now get a new coat of nonskid, a new (to me, but purchased in a marine resale shop) Weems and Plath lantern, and….yes……A NEW WINDSCOOP!

Getting back to Ciclon, Gene was up and seemed to be doing fine, the repair looked excellent, and there was never any question about heading south (albeit by car now) to join in the festivities…..

We arrived in Port Aransas around 1600, checked into the hotel rooms and freshened up a bit, had another swell ten minute nap and a couple of Flor de Cana flagons, then it was off to the first night festivities, where we enjoyed a great Cajun boil (but not as good as the commander does), and several more beverages of the adult nature.

Rumor has it at some point I almost joined in on a conga line……..

Sat. October 27, 2007

Up early, we had breakfast at the San Juan, a pretty good Mexican joint, and thus fortified were off to the Port Aransas municipal marina to resume the festivities. So many boats rafted together, everybody partying on the docks. We walked up and down the fingers, drooling over boat after boat. In my mind, I was hoping to run into the yuppies on the Chlorox Bottle Hunter and bend their collective ears, a stern talking to on etiquette, but alas, they were no where to be found. The slimy bilge rats were probably still out there, as many boats were still trickling in after having been becalmed for hours before another decent north wind finally kicked in.

We were sitting under the pavilion enjoying a cool beverage, taking a break from the festivities when Rocky, the master of Night Magic, materialized out of the chaos making his way to our table.

“Hey man…..I crewed aboard this boat, and we got in at 5am this morning. What time did ya’ll get in?”

I replied; “Ohhhhhhh, about 1600 yesterday afternoon” ....and just left it at that.

“Man” he replied, “You must’ve really been flyin.”

“Yep” I said, “About seventy or so.”

“And we had real good conditions too, smooth as silk, perfect temperature, about 70 degrees.”

Aftermath

Yesterday, we left the island around 1030, headed over to Aransas Pass on the Ferry and caught up with Captain Sean and Pam at the Bakery Café, as fine a Texas Country joint as you could want. Sean was worried about his friend Ken who appears to be missing in action.

The night before, Ken and another sailor friend, Chris had gone out on the town in Kemah. Unable to gain admittance into a costume party at a certain nightclub, they had gone to a local Hooters restaurant and stolen a roll of paper towels, wrapped themselves up and went back to the party as mummies.

They gained admittance this time, and after imbibing in unknown quantities of freebie mixed drinks, went back to Chris’ boat to pass out. While fumbling with the gate combination they were summarily stopped by a member of the local constabulary who wanted to know just whothehellareyouandwhatthehelldoyathinkyerdoing? and then unbelievably let them go with the admonition that he would haul them both in, if he saw them again. A free pass from the police.....Jeez....

Why doesn’t that ever happen for me?

So they went aboard, and passed out. Later Chris woke up to take a leak and Ken was nowhere to be found, nor was his car. Chris figured that he went back to his Choy Lee at another marina, but when he drove over there he was nowhere to be found. And now his phone was going directly to voicemail. It all looks rather ominous.