“One of these days they’re gonna sail away, sail into eternity, some kind of ecstasy’s got a hold on me. And I’m wondering where the lions are?”

-       Bruce Cockburn, Wondering Where the Lions Are?

The great American invention, daylight savings time is upon us once again, winter is waning as the cold fronts become warmer and warmer, losing their punch and duration as another season of hellish heat waits in the silent atmosphere ready to descend upon us like a tropical cat waiting in the jungle ready to devour a hapless missionary.

Mark is still holed up in front of his computer, watching the registry tick off arcane and meaningless files of data, stoned out of his mind in what was his apartment at Pelicans Point Marina…no longer Anchor Marina.

 He is the one remaining, last vestige of the old façade.

Rick (NOT Rick the Moon) the new owner, is busy everywhere directing his crew to dismantle, overhaul and improve. The cul du sac at the end of Tarpon Street is a beehive of activity.  Carpenters hammer and nail, painters scrape and paint, electricians wire and splice, Bookkeepers type and hum.

Life in general seems to have taken on some sort of altered, frenetic tempo of purpose.

The Tarpon Street Old Salts(farts) club now meets at regular intervals to discuss the latest improvement or situation. Before I left yesterday afternoon it was Dock Boys showing up the night before. It seems as though he just can’t stay away from the place, even though Rick has promised him a liberal dose of elemental Pb if he insists on continuing to invade the sanctity of the new owners domain.

We had just gotten done transporting the final spoils of the great plundering episode to Laguna Vista Thursday evening, and had gotten back to Jim and Janice’s place when we noticed Dock Boy on his little green BMX kids bike, talking rather loudly to ET’s companion (one of course never owns a cat, rather a cat owns the individual) down near the docks, having accosted him just like he does to any of us, not letting him get away until he had thoroughly explained his own unique existential view of things.

Jim and I saw Don heading over towards Ricks house, and we stopped to chat for a minute, but Don was in a hurry, just kept walking looking back over his shoulder saying; “I gotta go get Rick so he can shoot the hell outa Dock Boy”, as he continued walking quickly towards Ricks temporary trailer abode.

We got another beer, and Jim went upstairs to get his camera to record the event, but by then Dock Boys Replacement, who still lives at the Marina aboard a rather derelict Buccaneer was already across the street animatedly waving his arms and pleading with Dock Boy to leave before Rick came with his 20 gauge and shot the hell out of him for trespassing.

Soon Don came back and hollered over in the general direction of both Dock Boys telling Dock Boy proper that Rick was on the way to shoot the hell out of him and that he’d better get the hell out of here because he was trespassing.

Dock Boy arched his back, stomped down on the pedal and spun a brodie on his green kids BMX bike, slinging caliche against the old dilapidated pick up parked next to the blue dumpster, shouting indignantly;  “ I didn’t rape, pillage or plunder….so why do I have to leave?”

“Because you’re trespassing…and no one wants you here” Don shot back, as Dock Boy peddled furiously down Tarpon Street disappearing into the gathering twilight, turning around to shout back over his shoulder: “I introduced Rick and Mark”…as if maybe this alleged incident might privilege him into some sort of inner circle that might negate all of the antics that he’s pulled as of late, antics which allegedly include things like stuffing dead rats in the sewer hose of Ricks temporary  trailer abode, so it would back up inside causing great consternation to the new owner.

I don’t think Dock Boy has come to grips with the fact that he, Dock Mama and the Sea Lyin’ no longer reside at the end of Tarpon Street. He has been uprooted from the familiar, by circumstance he cannot comprehend, and so, he returns there as if by instinct, on the glimmer that maybe, just maybe he can defeat by further use of aggravation and more negative energy output all of the nay-sayers, the judgmental masses, overcome all of the negative energy that pushed him off of that spot in the first place.

After Dock Boy left, Dock Boys Replacement ingratiated himself among the Tarpon Street Old Salts(farts) Club explaining in his own rhetoric, (reinforced by repeating the same line several times); “I told him to just leave before there was trouble”…then reiterating with an echo as if no one were really listening to him “I told him to just leave before there was trouble.”

We tried to make him understand that we had a camera ready and everything, but apparently the idea of good theater was completely foreign to him….

Dock Boys Replacement continued on with his monologue, and eventually he steered it to his recent, most favorite topic, the one about how he is going to head out into the bay, and just put the old Buc’ on the anchor, just live out there for awhile. But, I’m not sure if he even has an anchor…the boat itself having neither sails nor engine. Nonetheless this is his most recent favorite dream….His long range plan is to eventually migrate to South Point Marina also, set up his boat washing bidness there and live happily ever after.

Eventually though he just migrates back to his slip, reposing under the blue plastic tarp he’s set up as a bimini, and opens up a tall boy just like his counterpart, Dock Boy, eternally watching the waning latitude 26 day pass into dark once again.

I don’t think that Mark can come to grips with the reality of his situation either, and so he sits in front of his computer screen in an eternally darkened room waiting….waiting for the inevitable. Downstairs, his new old class-A motor home patiently waits for its owner to fill it with the few worldly belongings he chooses to take along on his new ride into the unfamiliar.

I think that beyond all these three peoples delusions, addictions and insanity, within each of their unconscious beings they are waiting to be literally shoved into the the vortex of unknown, beyond some nexus of change. Mark into his motor home, Dock Boy as a result of his negative and confrontational karma into community decreed exile - to live forever apart from civilized society, and Dock Boy Replacement by some as yet undetermined personal cosmic flaw into another muddy environment where he can float lazily on lifes waters requiring little, contributing less.

 Each one according to their nature, fights the inevitable change tooth and nail, not unlike a child prior to birth, snug and cozy in the womb of familiarity (however strange and aggravating it may seem to us), floating secure in the amniotic waters of life, fighting tooth and nail to stay in the only environment they know until by virtue of their deeds, they became so cumbersome and heavy that they are unceremoniously plopped out into the bright and indifferent world.

I am more than sure than not one of the three understands they are being given a Tabula Rasa, a clean slate, the chance to begin fresh.

I am writing this from Corpus Christi, where as a good Dad I am patiently waiting while the twins perform their dance routines in a competition at a local high school. Of course, the local West Marine (which we don’t have a hundred and fifty miles south) might also see a bit of my presence today as well as the Boaters World, and there are the T head docks, and the Marinas of Port Aransas, Aransas Pass, Rockport and Fulton where many sailboats reside. Tomorrow we are going to try and get together in Rockport with Art, Valerie, August and Olivia (our boats namesake). We have not seen them since we delivered Olivia south almost two years ago.

Today is the anniversary of the date of D's birth and therefore I am going to treat my companion to a fine dinner, drinks and more of this nonsensical contemplative hyperbole...