Never have enough room for those things. We built lots of self storage, Calypso poet shortage, Calypso poet shortage!                                            -Jimmy Buffett, If it All Falls Down

Island Time Jim called early Saturday morning excitedly saying that Dock Boy was on his way out. He was being towed to South Point Marina, which is about a three or four nautical mile trip. It’s a whole lot closer  if one can fit under the highway 100 bridge. Like maybe a quarter of the distance. Only trouble is that a boat with any more than about two feet of freeboard can have a rough time if the tide is anywhere near high. I’ve almost snapped off fishing rod tips going under there before. Not to mention the hellacious current whenever the tide actually changes. I once took a 25 foot pontoon boat under there along with the retired University President, Dr. Nevarez. We barely made it on an outgoing tide, only had about two inches to spare before ripping off the top of the seats and the folded down bimini on the underside of the road, as cars whizzed overhead on their way to the Island, oblivious to the (almost) drama taking place on the dark water below. I glanced at Dr. Nevarez as we exited the thing, and his eyes were as big as dinner saucers. I assured him I really knew what I was doing.

I had told Dock Boy that it might be possible for him to make it underneath the bridge with his floating turd world country, Sea Lyin, provided he attempt it on a low tide, knowing full well that he couldn’t, but I thought that it would be rather interesting to at least see him try. Besides, I figured when he did get stuck he and Dock-Mama could just exist as trolls under the bridge, maybe charge yuppies trying to take the shortcut a small fee when they failed to correctly answer some obtuse and vague riddle:

“What’s the secret of life oh ye unworthy yuppie?”

“I don’t know” the yuppie dressed in the latest Columbia fishing shirt and short ensemble, replete with Keen fishing sneakers would answer back, aggravated,  just a bit perplexed and of course, perennially short on time.

“Comfortable shoes and a varied diet, knave” Dock boy would retort. “That’ll be four fifty”  -  Just enough to cover the cost of a six pack of ever present tall boys.

But alas, no such luck. Dock Boy apparently worked a deal with a guy on an ancient tri- hull, and early Saturday morning they exited the fingers channel like some ungodly fetus umbilacled  to an ancient and not very seaworthy mothership unit.

Island Time Jim, ever the erudite and diligent keeper of record recorded the entire event for posterity and I offer it below in lurid narrated blow by blow detail for your viewing edification.

"The Bud Girl" and driver towing something....Could it be?.....NO it isn't...It couldn't possibly be.

Ahhhh...but it IS! It's the Sea Lyin', with Dock-Boy surfing on the foredeck, like Laird Hamilton at Makaha...

The big qestion remains....will they make it through the open Laguna Madre?

After a harrowing journey, they MADE IT, Dock-Boy leaps to action to tie off the Sea Lyin'. But alas it is not to be. The management of South Point, once they saw the floating turd world country decided to revoke their slip lease and offer them TWO MONTHS rent in CASH to just leave. Stand by for the continuing saga....

(Now back to our narrative):

Later, after a leisurely breakfast of chilequiles at Costa del Mar the commander called and we chatted for awhile. I had made plans since early in the week to sail if the wind was anywhere near cooperative. I desperately need some canvas therapy.

And it was

The wind was moderate, about 10 to 15 out of the north-north east and the sky was sunny and warm. A perfect and rare day. I watched as sailboat after sailboat exited the harbor, looking for wind.

The commander called back saying he had gotten some shore leave, and asked me my status. I told him I would be moseying over to the boat directly to hank on the headsail and sheets. Then I called Island Time Jim and invited him too. Like me, he needed a fix of canvas therapy, especially since his boat is currently down south in Rio Dulce.

I figured it’d be a perfect day for the boys to play.

First though, Jim suggested that we remove the roller furling foil from the dock in front of the eighty dollar San Juan since the new owners were on premises, and were intent on cleaning things up already. They were literally kickinassandtakinames . Trash was flying, rent delinquent trailers were being jerked off of pads and a general sense of something-in-the-air change had come over the old dysfunctional marina.

So, the three of us carted the stuck together foil sections up the dock, like some sort of metal snake, to Jims house across the street.

We also figured to do just a bit of plunderin’, somewhat concerned that perhaps we might not get a whole lot more chance to do so. I magnanimously let the commander have reign over the eighty dollar San Juan and immediately he scored a teak fishing rod holder and a couple of small teak bulkhead boxes, along with some assorted tools and other things.

Heading back to Jims, we ran across Mark, and just couldn’t resist one last hit. For $17 (hey it was all the cash I had), I negotiated a pair of oars, several storage step stools filled with marine wire, shackles, blocks, a brand new Racor filter housing and filter, a roller guide snapper rod, and some more tools for the commander.

Figuring we were about done, we headed back to Jims house to get ready to get underway.

But alas it was not to be.

D had negotiated a deal on an entire bedroom set of furniture along with a washer and dryer, and was in the mood to slay us poor sailors for being absent on watch.

It wasn’t long before we were rather gainfully shanghaied to carry box springs, chests of drawers, headboards, endtables and the like down the stairs of Marks house, all the while tortured by the sight of endless sailboats leaving and returning to their slips. The sight of all of that canvas was maddening, and I had to tell myself that vengeance is mine sayeth the Lord…

There will be other days of wind soon, the season is upon us. It was a time to plunder, and plunder we did.

So much so in fact that I had to lease another self storage to accommodate all of the booty…

Anchor Marina has forever changed. Jean continues to die of incurable cancer, and Mark will soon be gone from Port Isabel for good. The new owners are dismantling the mess piece by piece and carting it off to the big blue dumpster at the head of the cul-du-sac.

And perhaps that is the justifiable place for it all.

I have memories and stories however to fill the pages of several novels, and in spite of all of the tragedy I will always remember the laughter and all the smiles (and madness) of all of the people who made up this pica Latitude 26 salsa that was, and always will be, Anchor Marina.

I found myself humming the words to another Jimmy Buffett song when it was all over:

“Now the times are rough I got too much stuff, can’t explain the likes of me” (from One Particular Harbor)