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)

I showed up over at Anchor Marina on Wednesday after almost an entire week of plundering the San Juan…..it was beginning to get down to bare bones, sort of like the week after an Easter Egg Hunt….Depending on the weather one opens the eggs that have been turning up all week long with great caution….

Island Time Jim was just coming out of his workroom as I rounded the corner. “Check this out” he said. On the table were many feet of unused single pair marine wire, countless stainless steel fasteners, a new battery isolator, a working leaf blower and a 200+ qt storage container that would make a fine dock box….big enough to house a medium sized family of illegal aliens.

“Twenty bucks” he said.

I nodded gravely. “Looks like Mark is in the market to play ‘lets make a deal’ again.”

We headed over there, and sure enough, Mark was definitely in the mood to spin the wheel of fortune.

“Hey, how about that computer, the one upstairs that Jean used to use?” I queried. “Yea….sure" Mark shot back, voice eager with anticipation. “And how ‘bout this” he continued as he threw open the door to the garage. “Here’s something you just can’t live without” he said motioning toward the 10 foot nearly new jon boat on it’s side in the corner.

“Wellllllll…..” I said, letting my voice trail off, acting somewhat disinterested, I”I guess I could use a work boat.”

“I’ll give you a hundred and fifteen for both” I remarked,  thinking of the eighty dollar San Juan and mentally making a ratio scale in my mind, figuring he was getting a hell of a deal from me….based on that rate.

“SOLD” Mark replied, voice high pitched, loud and eager with anticipation.

I mumbled; “I have to go to the bank and get the cash, it’ll about wipe me out….but oh well.”

I headed toward the Caddy and Mark caught up with me, begged me to take him to get something to eat. I hesitantly agreed.

And so he rambled on and on about his liberation, how he was going to take the proceeds from the sale of Anchor Marina and head south, to the jungles of maybe Panama. Maybe buy a four wheel drive RV and just live like a bum.

Now you’ve got to understand that I’ve known Mark for quite some time, even teamed up with him before he fell into the depths of depravity, did some very worthwhile projects. Extended the benefit of the doubt and had it rudely thrown back at me, until finally wising up and leaving him to his own devices. So as always I tried (although this final time somewhat half heartedly) to get him to understand that being a bum is fine, hell, that’s what a lot of us would like to be, or at least strive to do, but like the old saying goes: “It ain’t what you do….it’s HOW you do it”.

Failing to get this point through, I paid him for the boat and computer and took him to the Whataburger  simply listening to him ramble about what he was going to do and how the world was taking advantage of him, and that it was none of anyone business what he did with (or to) himself.

Back at Anchor Marina, I knew better than to let him get away with the money. I wouldn’t see him for the next several days if I did, so I asked him to unlock the upstairs office where I used to sit and visit Jean when Olivia was docked at Anchor next to the eighty dollar San Juan, so that I could get the computer.

Noticing that a high dollar scanner-fax-copier-printer  was attached to it, I was sure that he had included it in the deal and so I began to not feel so bad about paying $115 for the boat and computer. I struggled the massive thing downstairs and into the back seat of the Caddy.

When I came back upstairs, Mark asked to borrow my phone since they had long ago shut off the phone to the Marina, along with the water and soon the cable and electricity.

No problem. I had things to carry downstairs.

So I took the CPU and monitor, came back for the keyboard and mouse. Mark was on the phone shouting animatedly at the person on the other end, waving his arms and stomping around the office, which by this time resembled a house on New Orleans Nineth Ward after hurricane Katrina.

“WHAT? DO YOU MEAN TO TELL ME I OWE FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS RENT ON THOSE &^%$* THINGS? WELL THAT”S HIGHWAY ROBBERY!.......WHAT?.......WELL I NEVER READ THE &^$%^  FINE PRINT!”

He covered the diminutive mouthpiece of my cell phone with his ham like hand and glared at me; “These people tell me I have a TEN YEAR lease on those &^%$* washers and dryers down there” he said, gesturing toward the Anchor Marina Laundry Facility….”And I OWE three more years LEASE on them.”

I looked up from under a table where I was unhooking a flatbed scanner that I was sure that he wanted me to have as part of the deal, and said to myself; “Mustn’t Laugh…..Mustn’t Laugh.”

I spied a copy of Chapman’s Piloting reposing on the bookshelf, and I seemed to remember that he mentioned something about wanting me to have this also, and suddenly it was all too much, and a hint, just a hunt of a snicker escaped.

“IT’S NOT FUNNY!” he roared, glaring at me.

I exited, stage left and once safely outside melted down into a writhing mass of hysteric laughter. Upstairs I could hear him screaming, bellowing and gnashing his teeth, and I was a bit concerned that he might throw my cell phone out of the door and into the harbor.

Thank God I have insurance.

Making sure that the garage was open so that I could get the jon boat out, I went back to work on the San Juan, pulling out a few more interesting items.

Mark came back down, for the moment satiated, stating rather morosely that he had to pay off the five thousand dollar washing machine debt before the deal could close on Friday.

He handed me back my cell phone and immediately asked if he could use it again, and I handed it to him, rather absorbed at the time with the Whale pump mounted in the San Juan’s cockpit locker.

No sooner did he hand it back to me than the voice mail alert rang, and it was Jack, the local candy man. I started thinking about phone charges. Literally.

“Well I guess I’m going to have to pass that along” I thought to myself

Later, D dropped off the utility trailer, and Jim and I loaded up the jon boat.

Going back to the garage, I noticed a brand new inflatable boat complete with oars and bag in a shopping cart, I immediately grabbed it out of Jim’s hands and threw it on the trailer.

“I’m certain this was part of the deal too” I hissed, noticing that there were also several boxes of fishing lures, some stanchion mounts and a stash of teak that were part of the deal as well.

Outside the garage, Jim looked at me and said; " Have you no shame?"

"No" I whispered,  returning to the task at hand.

I saw Jim eyeing a yellow tool box….and I later told him that I was pretty sure that was in the agreement too.

(Part 1 of a multi part series)

Since Mark got out of the big house, he has been out of control, pathetically so. Anchor Marina has been up for sale, and Mark says he is going to Panama, where they have no extradition charges for crimes like the ones he insists on continuing to commit.

Island Time Jim called and furtively whispered into the phone:

“Hey is that your San Juan moored next to where Olivia used to be?”

“Naaaaaahhhh" I said, "my SJ is a 23 and it’s over there on Don’s dock, across the street from the Yacht Club. That San Juan is a 28, and the guy that owned it bailed, went to Louisiana never paid slip rent. When he finally did, the check bounced. Jean filed the paper work, and Anchor got the title.”

“Ahhhh, allright : Jim said, “cause Mark wants to sell it to me for 500 bucks. Apparently the deal on the marina is about to close next week, and he’s starting to sell stuff off”

I thought about it for a second and replied; “Well, there’s a pretty late model radar, and a chart plotter and lots of other stuff aboard that might make it worth it….lots of blocks and things and there’s the roller furling. I think the engine even ran when he put it away a couple of years ago. Hell, I’d be interested in the thing for the right price.”

“Well” Jim said, “I might wait till he gets down to three fifty or so and maybe talk to him about it then, maybe fix it up, flip this boat…” his voice trailed off. “He’ll just turn the money into dope anyway.”

“Let me know I said”, already envisioning the JRC radar and Lowrance chart plotter adorning ‘Divs recently upgraded pilot station.

The next day Jim called and said that Mark was down to $350 dollars, but I held my breath knowing that like the Dow Jones, it would probably sink a bit further, then I could get a deal that was beyond unbelievable.

The following day, Jim called and said that he had scored some pretty righteous stuff from Marks old office, a big old Persian rug and a couple of other items for a really sweet deal. He said that Mark was around, and hungry to deal. It was a good time to catch him since he was out of money, and was itching to see the candy man.

Jim had decided against the San Juan, owing to the fact that it was just too much work to tackle to make right. The interior was a wreck, and to put it back into shape was more than he wanted to do. So that left it open for me. I didn’t want it either, although someone with patience could’ve probably put it back together, but like a lot of sailors, I’ve had my share of projects and have sworn off of that sort of thing for life….

So I sent D over there to act as my emissary  to try and work up a pluinderin’ contract as it were.

She agreed to do it, but only on the condition that she buy the gigantic two hundred pound solid oak table and chairs, with three leaves that was reposing in Mark’s old office. A table so huge that it could seat the entire royal family and their attending entourage. Of course, I agreed. My mind was keyed in on the radar….

And Mark was hungry. Real hungry.

So hungry in fact that in the end, he agreed to $100 dollars for the boat, lock, stock and radar. Yes you’re reading this right, one hundred dollars, title included.

Ahhh, but as it turns out we were a bit short, so he settled for eighty dollars, cash.

So Mark immediately called his connection, Jack, who immediately rushed off to the white house on the corner of Tarpon street, which has now become the community poison hole, and when he returned Mark immediately rushed upstairs and sequestered himself in his bedroom, and needless to say, I immediately bailed from my phony-baloney administrators job (which by the way I probably am a “short timer” at by time you read this…..perhaps I will soon be a man of leisure, but that’s another story), and headed over to the thing with tool bag in hand intent on plundering errrr I mean salvaging many valuable parts.

By the end of the day, my utility trailer was loaded down with the radar and chartplotter (of course….those were the very first items off), several self tailing two speed Barient winches, a brand new fully battened mainsail, the bimini, a dozen or so blocks, the single hand bridge from the coachroof, five West Marine stainless steel fishing rod holders just to name a few things.

Mark had already sold the Barbeque from the aft rail.

The nerve of that guy.

I have since returned for the headsail (also brand new), the roller furling and many other items. And I’m not done yet. I have an offer for the engine, a single cylinder Yanmar. I figure about five hundred bucks ought to do the trick. I understand that the perspective buyer will do the removal himself. That’s fine with me, but I probably will monitor him rather closely during the process, as there’s still a lot of good stuff aboard

I don’t want to get ripped off.

(Part 2 Next. Yep. There’s still a lot to go!)

Olivia's New Bimini and MOB pole

Almost Ready to Go......

"Freedom is what you do with what's been done to you"

-John Paul Sartre

Well....lest anybody believe that this site has turned into a strictly tall tale and shoreside BS thing, I have included for your edification a recent photo (above) of the work we've done on 'Divs backside. I constructed a reinforced aluminum tubing frame attached to the stern pulpit and supported by the mizzen mast. D then sewed from sunbrella the bimini top, and installed the 50 odd reinforcing grommets.

I also fabricated the handy-dandy (and hope to never be used) MOB pole from CPVC, a foam filled PET bottle and lead weight at the bottom, flag at the top a la Ferenc Mate's The Finely Fitted Yacht (I highly reccommend this book!). We are currently incorporating other improvements in accordance with this excellent text.

And, we will be installing radar and a chart plotter, recently acquired. The deal was sweet, and soon I will be at liberty to divulge the story....

Another recent purchase, and one I have ulterior motives for is a portable Algae-X fuel polishing system...more on this later too.

Perhaps the biggest change is one that could possibly be taking place within the next month to six weeks. It seems as though I have reached the tolerance level surrounding my phony-baloney administrators position. It isn't one big thing that has led to this, but rather a series of unfortunate (for my employer) events. As if waking up, I realized that I am, like it or not, burdened with a conscience, morals and ethics, something that the world of conjunto politics, where I operate, is not. Rather than (continue to) compromise myself, it appears that it is time to saddle up El Rosinante and gallup off into the third world sunset, tilting at windmills.

Five days a week I get in my truck and drive the eight or so miles to my phony-baloney administrators job here on South Padre Island. In the process I drive through several communities nestled on the shoreline of the Laguna Madre, the shallow embayment behind the island, before crossing the three and a half mile long causeway spanning the Bay.

As I drive through Laguna Heights, I pass the canvas shop there where I take my sails for repair. It’s run by a genial and genuine couple, full of pride and craftsmanship. I pass Bayside Marine, the metamorphosis of CRC, the only other travel lift that we had in the area, now as extinct as the shrimp boats that it once catered to. A hand full of other businesses are located there as well, places like Reyes Seafood, where one can enjoy a sumptuous buffet with items ranging from Caldo Mariscos to  Enchiladas, or buy a pint of freshly shucked oysters. Laguna Heights, a former bustling community once know as Bayside, is now, unfortunately represented en masse by illegal aliens and drug traffic, crime and poverty  in the wake of the collapsed and almost extinct commercial shrimping industry.

Port Isabel, one step beyond Laguna Heights, is the current home of Olivia. It is festooned with the last vestiges of yesteryears commercial fishing industry, and is the home of the rotting and derelict shrimp boats that earmarked this once bustling commercial fishing town. The Port Isabel Lighthouse, it’s most prominent landmark and claim-to-fame stands at the highest point of town, on a clay loma overlooking the often blue and tranquil waters of the Mother Lagoon. Port Isabel is the last stop before crossing the causeway to the tourist haven of South Padre Island, where soon, multitudes of college children, all bent on shameless debauchery will converge for the annual super-party known as Spring Break.

Everyday at the top of the causeway, I can see to the south, the very tip of the thirty something mile long barrier island, the Brazos Santiago Pass, the only natural cut for over a hundred and forty miles north and south. The pass is lined on both sides by stone jetties that were emplaced in the early part of the twentieth century, assembled from massive blocks of pre-Cambrian red granite, quarried in the distant central Texas hill country some three hundred miles distant, transported by train, craned out into the churning and seldom placid Gulf of Mexico almost a mile offshore.

Off the end of the jetties, flanking the channel, the mixmaster, red and green whistle buoys wail their mournful song, which can be heard in times of tumultuous weather all the way to my office on the back side of the island, snuggled up against the Sea Ranch Marina.

Sometimes the Pass is quiet and serene with the blue waters of the Gulf of Mexico extending far inland, west towards the Port of Brownsville. Other times, it is angry and violent, characterized by crashing waves as far back as Barracuda Bay, long rollers plunging down the channel, breaking on the north side against the beach at Dolphin Cove.

Outside the pass the open Gulf of Mexico beckons, out past the sea buoy, the anchored tankers and the nearshore rigs populating the shallow continental shelf.

Fifty miles or so out, the shelf break signals the abysmal depths of the wide open gulf. Few sailboats venture this far, most choosing to stay within close proximity of the shoreline where they can beat a hasty retreat, lest they suffer the inevitable pounding that the Gulf of Mexico with her penchant for short period violent waves and high winds doles out.  

I have been out that pass more times than I can remember, always returning to home port, here. Always returning to my phony-baloney existence.

Each and every time I drive over the causeway, see that pass, hear the whistle buoys calling out to me, I am filled with longing to simply head out there and not come back for a very long time.

With each passing day, I am drawing ever nearer that time.

I just ran across this video from the Lighted boat parade back in December....

There's a pretty good view of 'Div showing off for the judges towards the end.

As I have written in the past, Anchor Marina is in the process of reaching some sort of critical mass. No sooner did Mark return from his graybar hotel sabbatical than he fell right back into his former pattern of behavior that got him into trouble in the first place.

I do not pretend to understand the lure that those sorts of things hold over human beings. The closest that I can come is to try and understand it in terms of my own sailing addiction. That however, is part of my own soul, and comes from the inside out, so therefore, I can’t help but wonder if perhaps the other is the same, that destructive behavior is a manifestation of a rotten interior, a morally decayed soul. It leaves me melancholy and rather jaded to consider this though, and so I try and think about other things, like changing out the raw water pump impellor on ‘Divs iron heart, or tackling some other project on the list.

 The combination marina / RV park is pitifully behind on paying its required bills, even though it is at capacity with tourist land yachts, and most of it’s slips are full. No, the money collected is quite probably being diverted to self serving and destructive purposes by the owner, and any money that does happen to find its way to legitimacy more than likely goes to fund overdraft charges at the bank. It is a pathetic situation, which has resulted in the various utility companies issuing deadline ultimatums regarding the termination of services if bills are not paid.

AEP gave a cut off date for electricity, and Laguna Madre Water District gave notice that the water would be shut off if not paid by last Friday.

Some of the fishing guides who keep their boats up on electrically powered lifts have moved out, fearing that if the electricity gets cut off they will be unable to get their boats back down and into the water, and some of the tourists have withheld payment until they can make sure they too will be provided with ongoing services.

I rely on Jim and Janice to provide me with updates from Anchor Marina now that ‘Div is down the street, tucked into her own quiet (but in the face of northers, tumultuous) existence next to Wind Fit.

On Friday, the water bill was still not paid, and just before five o’clock the service truck showed up, and out jumped the field guy, tee wrench in hand to secure the water line. Horrified tourists lined the cul-de-sac wondering if they were going to have to resort to their on board water tanks, and what the next chingaso would bring.

Suddenly, Mark came charging down from his upstairs mausoleum into the broad daylight, folded check held high overhead as if to hail down a taxi cab, pleading with the water district field guy, telling him that he was on his way to the billing office over on Port Road to settle the account and to please not turn off the water.

Just then Rick the Moon (remember him from “Never Moon the Possum Cops”?) shows up as if on queue with his new sidekick, Dock Boy, and the three of them pile into the cab of the tiny import pick up truck and speed off towards the Laguna Madre Water District office. It is now 4:55, and the water district field guy is poised over the tee wrench, waiting, waiting for word whether to secure the services, or let them be. The folks lining the cul-de-sac stood on the curb in front of their motor homes, fifth wheels, and travel trailers and held their breaths, suspending all operations, waiting too see what would happen next.

At 4:58 the phone rang in the water district field guy’s truck, and he walked back there to answer it. Saying nothing, he removed the Tee wrench, climbed back into the cab of his truck, and turned around in the cul-de-sac, driving out of Tarpon Street.

The water remained on.

Tourists returned to their R/V’s, fifth wheels and travel trailers, and time no longer suspended. resumed its forward march as people began to prepare dinner, or settled down in front of television sets, another crisis narrowly averted.

I wonder what’s gonna happen though when the check inevitably bounces?....and believe me......it probably will.

“Getting old is hell…..but it sure beats the alternative.”

-Captain of Olivia

I am not a “lister” by nature…..in fact I abhor keeping lists of things. It just seems so antithetic to tropical living here at latitude 26.

However….

The older I get the more necessary I find keeping a list of boat projects to be.  And after all, that is a priority in itself. So I set aside a long ago pilfered-from another-employer yellow “writes in the rain” book strictly for lists, drawings, brainstorms and other aspects of keeping ‘Div looking and feeling her best.

Now, instead of trying to remember what it was that I wanted to do next, what project there was to start, continue with or finish, I am constantly trying to remember where I put the stupid little yellow “writes in the rain” book where I keep the essence of the kabala, the incantations so necessary to keep the various chores moving ahead. It seems to be as slippery as its cover, and I am forever asking the admiral, or the crew (or any other individual who happens to be nearby for that matter);

“Have you seen the little yellow book? I know I placed the &%$^# thing down right there not more than thirty minutes ago….”

And then as if by magic the stupid thing materializes in some completely different area long after the need for it has passed. How did it end up with the stern anchor line in the lazarette fer cryinoutloud? I know I had it in the forepeak just ten minutes ago……

I do not believe that this is entirely my fault though. How could it be?

The little yellow “writes in the rain” book seems to be possessed, it seems to have a life of its own, its own maniacal cellulose brain, and it seems to have it in for yours truly.

Maybe it’s the soul of the trees so unceremoniously cut down in the prime of their existence to produce mere paper, and not the bulwarks of boats…..

I do not know the reasons “why” but the thing mocks my best efforts at organization, and will often conceal itself in an area that I have meticulously cleaned and reorganized, causing an ensuing snarl of rubble as it burrows down through piles of tools and stacks of papers, never reappearing until long after its usefulness has passed. The little yellow “writes in the rain” book is an infernal poltergeist that I summarily hate, but cannot live without. It is the stuff that Alfred Hitchcock would adore, a vicious, scornful entity bent on ravaging the innocent, wrecking revenge on the unsuspecting.

So I end up duplicating the same lists on small scraps of paper napkins, empty matchbooks, discarded paper bags or the like, all crammed into my pockets to become unintelligible masses of pulp after the spin cycle.

They do not seem to have a possessed life of their own….

During this most recent project, the construction of ‘Divs new bimini. I dedicated a master page in the yellow “writes in the rain” book just for drawings, materials, lists and other related items, only to have the whole thing disappear into the void and blackness again before I could even make the first trip to the hardware store for stainless steel screws.

And the guys there know it too.

When I pulled out a small piece of aluminum pipe on which I’d carefully penciled in the quantity, length and thread pitch for my chosen fasteners, the clerk just chuckled and remarked; “lost your little yellow “writes in the rain” book again eh?”

I will not have them believe that I am absentminded, or, growing old and feeble, becoming a victim of the dreaded mentalpause, or worse yet, oldtimers disease. Even more nefarious, I would not let them know my true belief that this book is possessed by evil mal-intent,  and so I casually replied:

 “Nahhhhh, the darn thing is just full, and I haven’t had a chance to buy a new one yet.”

I gathered up the eight dollars worth of 10-24 screws, nuts and washers and paid for them.

As I was on my way out the door, the clerk caught up with me and handed me my little yellow “writes in the rain”  book, and said, laughing;

“You left it on the counter last time you were in here.”

That was their perception though.

In reality, it looks like my arch enemy is expanding his infernal hiding territory. I am going to have to increase my vigilance accordingly. Maybe as punishment I’ll have to confine him to the tool locker on the starboard side.

The one that I just reorganized.

“Anyone who’s house payment is more than his boat payment has screwed up priorities”

-Jim M., Island Time

On Sunday I was working in my ‘shop’ cleaning up a few things – fabricating some parts for ‘Divs new Bimini. The rest of the crew were cleaning up around the homeport, getting things ready to move to the new location. The weather was warm, a marked contrast from Saturday, when another winter gale pummeled Olivia on her moorings while I tried to make some measurements and install a few items down below. In fact it was so windy and rough that I had to hold on to things in order not to get tossed about in the nether world that is ‘Divs ‘down below’.

While I was wrestling with the Avon dink, repacking it in it’s canvas cover, my daughter (one of the twins) Savannah appeared in the garage asking if she could mow the African Savannah which our lawn had become. Standing about three feet tall in places, I was afraid that perhaps it might be serving as a refuge for Cascabel (rattlesnakes), or that maybe she would stumble upon Jimmy Hoffa’s remains somewhere out there in the ‘thicket’, but nonetheless, hesitantly I agreed.

If you have followed this journey at all, then you know my opinion of lawns.

Lawns serve as useless ornamentation for a homeport, and are better replaced by dock infrastructure, or at the very least, low maintenance rocks. If the eye absolutely insists on a verdant landscape, than why not pour a concrete slab and paint it green with a good polyurethane topside paint like Interlux or something? I have no time for lawns or other terrestrial accoutrements, but acquiesce only because of the admiral and my crew.

Besides, lawns are a truly dangerous thing, as evidenced by the number of people who succumb annually in the course of their maintenance and upkeep. It is a subject I have harped on extensively before and will not do so again in the discourse of this entry, except to reiterate my strict “No Lawns Policy” of 2008.

So after finishing servicing our 1200 watt portable generator, I went inside to get a drink, listening to the happy sounds of the lawn mower outside. “I sure have good children” I thought to myself as I mused over a recent visit with my Dads old friend Dick Ostos up in Arroyo City, who remarked that he too genuinely hated lawns, and the happiest, most gratifying sound of the week was when his lawn care mans mower could be heard on Monday mornings, a time when he could genuinely take pride in the perfect lawn that he did not have to do a thing to maintain.

Suddenly, my pastoral reverie was shattered by the sounds of silence. As in, the silence of the non-sounds of a lawnmower engine not running.

Alarmed,  I walked out on the front porch, and there was Savannah eying the gnarliest, most overgrown portion of the lawn, a rectangular plot complete with sunflower blossoms and dense bamboo like growth. I shuddered thinking of Steven Kings “Children of the Corn”.

Pobresita.

I knew that she had bitten off more than she could chew with this one. I could see it in her eyes, hear it in her voice.  No, this was no kind of territory for a mere kid to navigate. Lush vegetation like this requires all of the skill and cunning a true professional possesses, someone who wasn’t afraid to step in there and get the job done. It was dangerous, risky business. Lesser men have died in their quest to conquer the sinful overgrown jungle called lawn. I knew that there might be bloodshed before it was all said and done.

So, like the good captain that I am……..I hollered for the admiral to complete the task.

As I have said. Lawns have no place in a sailing mans vocabulary.

How does a duck know which direction south is? Or how to tell his wife from all the other ducks?

-Crash Test Dummies, How does a Duck Know?

It is raining hard this morning, something that is somewhat unusual for wintertime at Latitude 26

I have never quite acclimated to the heat. The Bering Sea forever altered my thermostat, and it is much easier for me to work in the cold than the scorching summer here, so I like winter time in the semi tropics allright.

Generally the days are mild, and even the cold fronts that come send little in the way of rain. Certainly not like tropical season. The cold northers that do make it here come with some degree of regularity, and one can almost set a schedule to them. Predictably, the first sign of an impending weather system are gusty strong winds in response to the tightening pressure gradient, winds that howl in from the opposite direction, our normal south-southeast. Then, just before the front arrives, the wind backs off to westerly, offshore. It is a transitory period of ideal wind with which to ride the surf that has piled up from the long fetch southerlies of the preceding days, and surfers crowd the waters next to the granite jetties of the Brazos Santiago Pass.

And then, the cold front bears down, pounding through this flat, featureless landscape like a Goliath freight train locomotive, more often than not setting up gale force conditions, confining all but the biggest ships to port as the brutal north wind whips the open Gulf of Mexico into a churning confused caldron of steep, violent short period waves. Waves which die exhausted against the sand dunes of the barrier island, carrying with them secrets of the open seas and distant shorelines, Portugese man ‘o war, Sargasso seaweed, fishing floats, driftwood and all manner of other gifts from the insistent and unrelenting sea.

Finally, after the front expends its frenetic energy, it begins its flaccid exit and a period of Lilliputian winds usually follow (if another front is not barking on the heels of the last), bringing ideal sailing winds, and anyone with any sense can be seen ghosting along under full canvas on the now tranquil sea, taking full advantage of this magical period before the augmentative period of growing wind develops in anticipation of the next norther, thus beginning the cycle all over again.

Yesterday was an indecisive day of wind, clocking around seemingly from all directions as this low pressure system developed offshore, an odd and atypical condition for the time of year.

I have been steadily pushing ahead with a project to construct a bimini for ‘Div. Several times I have contacted the folks at “Towers etc.” in Laguna Heights, wanting to just contract out the chore, but have been unsuccessful at getting them to come out and even initiate the project by looking at the boat and taking measurements. It’s not that they’re even all that busy, especially right now. No, rather it’s the mind set of the tropics, especially here, where everything is pretty much relegated to the status of manãna. So, being a former aircraft structural mechanic, I decided to just do the job myself. Besides, it’s an excuse to acquire a few more replacement tools…..

The thing is constructed of aluminum, stainless and composite, and when completed it will be an elegant, lightweight and extremely strong unit. The aft portion will serve to mount a solar panel, the rest covered with ‘Sunbrella’.

Taking the measurements and design drawing at the boat, the top was constructed in my ‘shop’, and yesterday I brought it down to Olivia to install and trial fit, needing to get measurements for the supports. I bailed from work right at 1700, hoping to get that chore along with several others knocked off before the dark and rain set in.

Hopping out of the truck, key in hand ready to hurridly unlock the Wind Fit compound gate, where I am now moored, I glanced up the street toward Anchor Marina, noticing Dock Mama (sans Dock Boy) furiously peddling her miniature bike directly towards me.

“Oh Lord, this can’t be good” I mumbled to myself knowing full well that I was probably going to get waylaid for a goodly amount of time, but seeing no way out I just braced myself for the onslaught.

And the onslaught came.

“Do you know what is happening now?” she queried. Not waiting from me to reply she continued; “We have charges filed against us. Assault charges. We got served by the police. Benny wouldn’t throw the new charges out. We went to the judge and she asked us what we wanted to do about the other charges. What did we do to deserve this? Don walked over to our yacht and took pictures. I don’t know why. We can’t sleep, we can’t eat, we can't have sex.”

Ohhhhhhhnoooooo, I shuddered and mumbled; "That's waaaayyyyy to much information for me"

On and on it went, scattergun, rambling, disconnected jargon until I finally stopped her and asked the logical question;

“What do you think it will take to make this better?”

Dock Mama stopped her tirade for a moment, with a single tear rolling down her cheek and said somewhat introspectively that she didn’t know, and then again launched into another lengthy dissertation bordering on the philosophical, failing however to elucidate, to identify any reasons for the conflict.

It was beginning to get late, and I almost felt sorry for her, but try as I might I could not get her to realize the cause, the raison d'être of the conflict that they have brought upon themselves.

It is a simple failure to live harmoniously with others, a lesson not easily learned by some. In fact some never learn it. On a grand scale, some societies never learn it. It is beyond a simple matter of being a square peg, it is a matter of trying to force a square peg in a round hole with a sledge hammer.

Jim tells me that Anchor Marina might soon be sold. Apparently Mark has a perspective buyer, but in typical Mark last ditch-get-what-I-can-for-me fashion, he produced an ancient and superseded survey which included both Jims and Dons properties, attempting to sell them along with the marina, much to the aggravation of the homeowners.

I fear that Anchor Marina will soon be swallowed in a vortex of negative energy and bad karma, but I hope that, like the aftermath of a violent storm here at Latitude 26, there will be a subsequent period of calm.

Jean is back at home now with hospice, and we will visit her this week. I will try and keep it together just one more time.

Here's a short video of some of the sailing that Olivia and her crew experienced in 2007 at latitude 26 and points beyond. Hope you enjoy it. Let us know!

The commander, pulling a dock cart poses as 'Pseudo-Dock Boy'.

“There was this patch you could download for ‘Tomb Raider’ that turned it into ‘Nude Raider’” the commander said as we headed north to Kemah on Friday night “I liked that one” he continued as the twins and Savannah the elder played video games, which included the latest Laura Croft adventure in the back of the van.

We arrived in Kemah around 2300, and immediately found a dock cart to offload the crew of Olivia’s stuff and haul it down to Sean’s Pearson 365 (nee Full Moon). After stowing the gear and cracking open a couple of cold ones, lights were out by 0100 Saturday morning.

Saturday proper dawned warm and somewhat overcast with the occasional downpour that the Houston area is famous for, and after a great breakfast at Skippers with Sean, Pam, Richard and the ‘Senior Citizen’ (Ken), we hit the boat stores buying much needed items for ‘Div. New low stretch double braid for halyards and topping lifts, a new soft bosn’s chair, a dodger, a new jib bag (thanks Richard!) and various and sundry other stuff. We even went to a Barnes and Noble bookstore (Not all Barnes and Nobles were created equal) where I spent a great deal of time (and money) in the nautical section.

It was like Olivia’s birthday or something, and now I have a lot of work to accomplish. So much so that I should probably take a couple of days off and just do boat things… some things just take precedence.

Splitting our time between lots of folks, new friends were made including Troy and Deana on Different Drummer, a 37’ Morgan Out Island that I literally fell in love with. Immaculately and lovingly maintained, the boat is roomy as a cavern, with enough room to dance down below. Sean knows them as former neighbors when his 32 Choy Lee, Sea Pearl was moored at the now defunct Blue Dolphin Marina. I have linked their site in the side bar, so check it out.

An actual intention for the trip was to check out a 34 Columbia that one of Capt Seans friend is wanting to sell. Thinking that a deal might be had based on pictures that he sent me, and having actually seen the boat (albeit on a moments glance) I was curious. Photos can either hide flaws or they don’t do justice to the subject, in this case the former.

The engine was a mess, an old Yanmar of indeterminate age and hour, obscured in a filth of oil and leaking coolant from the heat exchanger that looked about ready to rust off, and that’s just the start of the litany of problems I observed in my short walk over. Soft decks, haphazardly repaired with bondo, scarred and cracked gelcoat, and who knows when the fuel tank has been cleaned out or whether there are blisters under the long overdue bottom paint. So rather disappointedly, I dismissed this vessel as another big project that I just wouldn’t have the time for.

Saturday evening we got together with the commander and crew, Gene and Kim’s brother Mike at the Kemah Boardwalk, pigging out at Joes Crab Shack watching boats exit into Galveston bay, afterward taking the kids to ride the roller coaster and other attractions.

Because Saturday night had been sort of a B-I-G time, I was rather taquache (for you non-Spanish speakers out there that’s pronounced tah-qwa-chay. A taquache is an opossum), and so it was almost eleven before we caught up with Sean again for breakfast. I left a pretty intact bottle of Ron Zacapa behind, aboard the Pearson in appreciation of his kindness, along with the following note:

WARNING! It is a violation of ancient law to mix this 23 year old rum with anything. If it is done, the Mayan god Quet’zal will appear and escort the offending individual to an obscure jungle Quek-chee pyramid where their heart will summarily be removed with a dull obsidian knife.

 Later I helped the commander with his hard dodger project aboard Ciclon. Sean, Pam, Ken and Richard had taken the Pearson out for a stroll when the phone rang.

“We have an onboard emergency out here!” Sean’s voice crackled over the phone “Ken accidentally mixed the Ron Zacapa with ice cubes before reading the note, and he’s real worried something might happen.”

I assured him that ice cubes probably do not qualify as an adulterant, but cautioned him to tell the senior citizen to drink the elixir before they melted and could be considered so…..

Leaving Kemah after a great lunch at the Beer Garden, we headed directly back to Latitude 26, arriving around 2200.

On the drive home I called to let Sean know that we had arrived OK and to get a sail report from his maiden voyage of the Pearson. It seems that a good time was had by all, especially by the senior citizen, who fell under the trance of Ron Zacapa and almost had to be escorted back to his Choy Lee. But that’s another story.

If July is a season of truncated schizophrenia at latitude 26, then January is a season of corresponding anger and cynicism. The tired out old year has passed, and a new one begun. Holiday indulgence is put to pasture, and incurred debts are pushed forward. Boats hobby horse on their moorings buffeted by the cold north winds, waiting for a window between the repetitive cold fronts that blow in like the ill winds of reality, waiting for their masters to point the bow into the wind and slide away to a warmer, friendlier climate.

Jean is dying.

The matron of Anchor Marina is in the hospital and on life support. I have watched this drama unfold so many times in the past several years that it taints my vision and clouds my soul. I am uncomfortably numb, a cold narcosis like standing in the raging north gale that is blowing across the Laguna Madre staining the azure waters murky brown.

And to add further aggravation, Mark has returned, and it appears that he has instantaneously attained the zombie like existence that sent him up the river in the first place. Janice yells from her porch overlooking the whole mess admonishing the derelicts that have come out of the shadows to cater to his addiction, to just leave…..leave this place.

Like the transition between low pressure cold fronts and building high pressure, things here are in a state of chaos and flux. Inevitable change is on the wind.

Dock boy has been seen scavenging PVC pipe from the dredge project before the dredgers even have a chance to utilize it, snaking up the road before first light, but Don, in his ever vigilant vendetta busted him in flagrante delicto. Predictably though, the Port Isabel Police department (modeled after the Keystone Cops) refused to take action, and so once again, anarchy rules.

Like it always does.

The ongoing dispute between Dock Boy and the Community has escalated into covert currents that are a harbinger of ominous things to come. The ‘possum cops wrote a ticket for his long expired registration, but the local federale, Bennie, tore it up telling Dock Boy that he only needed to register the vessel if it were in operation, not tied to the dock. This of course violates maritime protocol, but then we do live in the no mans land known as La Frontera, so it remains to be seen whether or not the rule of law shall be enforced….

There is momentum within the community to boycott renewing registrations on their vessels in protest, citing that if the law allows this for Dock Boy, than in fairness it will have to allow it for them too.

Unfortunately, I have already renewed ‘Divs registration with the state, and my USCG documentation is still good for several years.

Meanwhile, Dock Boy seems to be the presiding slum lord over the crumbling empire that was once Anchor Marina, insinuating himself in every situation, acting as the ambassador and spokesman in the absence of any rational or coherent management.

(I am posting this prior to updating the sailing that took place during the holidays. I will back date those entries, so look for them in slots behind this. I hope you all had a fine Christmas and New Year, and our fervent wish is for prosperity, safety and adventure during 2008 and beyond.)

Date: 12/30/2007 / Depart: 1300 Port Isabel Fingers / Arrive: 1700 Port Isabel Fingers / Wind: NNE 12-14mph / Temp: 70 deg F / Skies: overcast / Water: stained / Waves: 1-2’ / Tide: standing high

I promised Steve that I would take him sailing whenever he wanted. So when he called and told me earlier in the week that he was on his way to Latitude 26, I made plans to take Olivia dancing at the first weather window opportunity. We were on the back side of a rather strong cold front that blew through just before Christmas, with another one on its heels, but the NWS predicted a brief window over the weekend.  I made plans to sail on Sunday.

Saturday I washed and scrubbed the decks and cockpit, even removing the grates and scrubbing every nook and cranny, hanked on the 135 and new jib sheets, bagging the whole thing, cleaned and dusted the interior before buttoning up. Sunday I slept sort of late, one eye open watching the little breeze stir the palm trees outside my window.  Heading over to the boat around the crack of noon, I called Steve and he told me that he and his two brothers, along with three kids were coming, so that brought the contingent to ten bodies aboard ‘Div.

The tide was slack as we streamed out of the slip, and past the dredge which appeared to be working. Finally.

Just outside marker 17 we raised the mizzen, main and genny, sliding happily along on a port tack toward the causeway pass. Northeasterly winds as they taper off after a cold front bring the very best sailing at Latitude 26. It is then that we basically sail anywhere we want on a beam reach or better, and today was no exception. At the Brazos Santiago Pass, we headed outbound for a way, about halfway into the open Gulf of Mexico, riding swell and current, entertained by an occasional dolphin rolling and jumping. Steve and company were mesmerized, but I finally had to call everybody off of the front deck so that I could spin us around and head back, past Fish Tales and Isabella, both on dolphin watch near Children’s beach.

Heading north up Tomkins channel, we pinched tight on the wind, and I hoped we would make it past the last channel marker before the powerlines, but alas, we made a single tack for position near the entrance to Sea Ranch on the Island, gaining the tack we needed, slipping past, between the poles. On the north side, I was momentarily distracted by a parasail boat. They are a menace to sailors in this stretch, often heading directly towards you, even when under full sail, seemingly on purpose as if to challenge you, telling you that they own the bay…..

“What was that?” Steve inquired as Olivia drug her heels on the shallow shoal near the old causeway. “Awwwwww, nuthin’” I said. “Just a little aground”, as we lazily switched tacks and slipped off of the sandbar back into deeper water, once again changing tacks back towards the causeway Pass without further adieu.

The wind was picking up, and little whitecaps danced on the late afternoon water as we made our way underneath, bearing down on the fingers past Pirates Landing, dousing the canvas near new Raybec harbor, Savannah at the helm keeping the nose into the wind. I am so blessed to have kids that can handle a boat like this.

Near marker 17, the dredge had left only a narrow passage, and a sportfisherman on the other side let us through first, as we made our way back to the slip without incident. With so many people aboard, it was a bit of a challenge just to see the approach, but I managed to frame the slip in a gap between several bodies, and we nudged up, stalling just so…..grabbing the dock lines and tying off like we really knew what we were doing.

Steve and company quickly left, but I could tell they had a great time, and certainly the wind gods cooperated. So much so in fact that I fear this first impression might spoil them for life.

Little do they know that sailing is rarely like this.

Later after covering the sails, folding and stowing the jib, coiling sheets and cleaning up, we sat below enjoying a cold beverage and reflecting on this fact. We live for these days of perfect sail, knowing that we will rarely get them. But each and every time we sail, every time we play in the song of the wind, we are treated to a new lesson, a new step. Some are hard, few are easy, but we would not miss the chance to participate in the dance.

It has been nearly a year since that appendectomy that nearly turned my lights out. Now more than ever, I know that life is far too short to spend doing things that you don’t want to do. You only get one ride on the merry-go-round, and then it’s done. Why waste it?

The commander got a new power washer from his wife as a Christmas present. Ostensibly it was to blast the sides of his house back to their original pristine color, but in fine piratical style, he shanghaied the thing and dragged it down to Renaissance, restoring the original gel coat finish to a blinding white sheen. He wanted me to make sure that I got it right, report that not only had he used it on Renaissance, but he had also hauled it up to Kemah and given Ciclone a thorough cleaning as well, before doing only half his house….

The commander claims that he knows almost nothing about houses and is afraid to use this type of technology on them anyhow, because one never knows what might happen to inferior latex based paints under the pressure of a concentrated stream of water. Then he might have to repaint the infernal thing as well….

I suspect differently however.

I did not see the commander at all during the Christmas holidays, so I figure he was probably trying to build up a little shore leave by power washing not only his, but his contemporaries’ shoreside abodes too. Currently he is tight lipped concerning his absence from the water front, so I fear the worst.

On the Saturday just prior to Christmas he called though, needing a bit of crew for some heavy weather sailing right on the cusp of an incoming cold front. I wondered if he was mad, sick with not having sailed in a month of Sundays, sick of power washing and crown molding installation,  or was he really serious?

The front was due in after noon, and it was close to eleven when he called saying that he and his brother in law would be at the boat in about twenty minutes.

I hurried over there, and he was in the process of installing the new tiller pilot, putting in a five gallon jerry jug of diesel and stowing the beverages. I hanked on the headsail, rigged the sheets and about noon we chugged out of the channel at Port of Call, into the bay. The wind was already north-northeast at around ten or twelve knots when we upped the canvas, heeling over on a port tack, heading for the powerlines, broad reaching.

Three biologists aboard a single boat means that the collective mentality is divided, not multiplied by the number of bodies present, and today was no exception.

Looking north, a line of black was marching down the Mother Lagoon, and I discreetly inquired about reefing lines. Prudently, the commander switched on the engine as we jibed around on the ship channel, and we both went forward to douse the jib just as the first blast of cold front wind shook the bow and cracked the leech of the genoa like a bullwhip. Wrestling down the main, we powered back into the bay beyond the power lines as whitecaps and swell gathered in impending crescendo. Under bare poles and well heeled, Renaissance plowed back into the side channel, stuck for an instant on the bar at the entrance, probably in response to the water now blowing off of the west side, freed again, motoring back into the slip where we tied up and sat in the lee of the blow, behind tall condos sipping beer.

Afterward I slunk over to Olivia and adjusted the mooring lines as the cold front churned and howled, hoping that it would soon be our turn for a workout. It’s been too long since the canvas was up and we were under sail together. But then, that’s winter sailing at latitude 26.

“Now and then we had a hope that if we lived and were good, God would permit us to be pirates”

Merry Christmas Everyone.

-The Captain and Crew of Olivia

In November, when we moved ‘Div from her digs, behind my friend Steve’s house (just before our short sojourn at Anchor Marina), we encountered Steve’s mother’s boyfriend, Chuck.

Steve owns the property, but his mother and her boyfriend come into town each winter and hole up there, while Steve remains behind in Colorado making money.

Lots of money.

For a rich guy, I like Steve a great deal. He’s a genuinely nice guy, even more so since he lets us keep Olivia behind his house in a great slip for free. I’m looking forward to his visit in about a month to take him sailing, introduce him to the wind…

Steve’s mother and especially her boyfriend are polar opposites. Chuck is a stereotypic, bigoted, scrawny drunk who appears to be after one thing: Whatever he can weasel out of Sandy and her son Steve. He has a reputation locally as an abrasive self centered jerk, and my first meeting with him seemed to bear out that fact.

So, when Steve called saying that he had no idea that Chuck and Sandy were in town, and that Chuck wanted to put his boat into the slip, he was apologetic. I felt embarrassed, and assured him that I could find a slip with no problem. Hell, his hospitality had been overwhelming. I told him I could move ‘Div by the afternoon.

The property has a number of palm trees on it, and after each early season cold front, I loaded up my work truck with fronds that had blown off, swept around the place and picked up. It seemed the very least I could do.

Well, Chuck and Sandy had arrived in the middle of a cold front, and when I went to move Olivia that afternoon, Chuck had jammed a huge wad of thorny fronds into  ‘Divs inflatable dink, which I had on the dock, intending to fix a couple of small slow leaks. I still can’t figure out the reason. Just meanness I guess. Why else?

What kind of jerk would do something like this?

Chuck  just stood there, hi-ball in hand, sort of glaring at us as I got Olivia ready to go.

Fine.

The last chore was to load up the dingy. I had intended as a last gesture to pick up one last time, load up the fronds, but now I was pretty torqued off, so I just took the fronds out of ‘Divs dink and hurled them back out on the dock……

I started ‘Div and motored off fuming.

Later, when I had cooled off a little,  I debated a couple of get-even methods, including cast netting a bunch of mullet and throwing them into the bed of this guy’s truck, but decided against it (at least for the time being)….

However, as I mentioned, Chuck is an A-1 bigot. Won’t even shake a Hispanic hand.

So when we saw Chuck and Sandy in Costa del Mar early one morning, I motioned for our waitress, Jenette (who just happens to be Hispanic….go figure….around here were 99% of the population are….)

I leaned over and whispered to her; “You see that guy sitting over there by the window? He hates Mexicans….won’t even shake their hand.”

Jenette eyed Chuck with suspicion and disgust.

“Watch this” she winked…..

Jenette walked over to the table where Chuck and Sandy sat, as if to take their order.

“Well HELLO! I haven’t seen you here since last year” she purred, putting her arm around Chuck and planting a big wet kiss on his cheek before he had a chance to protest.

I could see him squirm, visibly uncomfortable, as if he couldn’t wait to go to the bathroom and wash his face and hands, wash off any trace of that filthy Mexican woman…..

Jenette continued on. “It’s soooo good to see ya’ll here” she said, rubbing his back…”Can I take your order hon?” touching his hand…….

By this time I was having difficulty stifling laughter, and so having paid the bill, we fled the scene of the crime…..

I can imagine he probably burned his clothes afterward too.

Jenette told us recently that Chuck and Sandy haven’t been back, which is fine with me. I like to eat in peace.

Rumor has it that Mark is getting out on parole and will be back at the helm of Anchor Marina by the 20^th. So I decided to be out of there well before that. 

Discretion is the better part of valor.

Late last week, I took the decorations from the Lighted Boat Parade off of Olivia. As I worked, Dock Boy, tall boy beer can in hand, felt it necessary to catch me up on everything, especially his struggles with the Port Isabel petit bourgeois, his ongoing feud with Don. He remarked that Dons wife had put a sign up on the communal dumpster at Anchor Marina which read:

            “ATTENTION DOCK BOY! NO DUMPSTER DIVING FOR

             FOOD OR EMPTY CANS. GET A JOB! GO TO WORK LIKE

            THE REST OF US! MOVE UP, MOVE OUT!”

“Yea, that’s what they call me, they call me Dock Boy” Dock Boy mused. “Well screw ‘em. That’s how people get pissed off and just break into a house, kick ass and then leave. They’ll find me on the dock, naked, I’ll be laying down with my hands behind my back, just to cooperate”…..his voice trailed off…..

I certainly don't want to find Olivia in the crossfire, things there are just too confrontational for my taste, and besides, Anchor Marina is crumbling into the harbor, much like Poe’s Fall of the House of Usher.

Dock Boy continued: “I was standing on the dock over there (nodding to the other side of the Marina, around the point), when Bob came up to me and when he did, the whole dock just broke off……I jumped just in time” he said motioning towards his new white tennis shoes, now sliced to ribbons.

“Jumped before I got torn up on those mussels on the piling. They’re BAD.”

I just nodded in agreement.

“Those mussels are real bad…..I got all cut up on them”. He showed me his hands which had also been shredded by the razor sharp oysters encrusting the pilings along the Marina.

I made mention of the fact that they were oysters, Crassostrea virginicus not mussels, Mytilus edulis, or even Perna perna, and that they are in fact, good eating if collected in areas like South Bay, or out in the open bay where pollution is minimal. He seemed fascinated by this fact, launching into a long diatribe concerning his culinary expertise.

“Yep, there’s only two things in life that really matter.”

“What’s that?” I inquired.

“Comfortable shoes and a varied diet.”

Why hadn’t I thought of that?

Friday I moved Olivia from her current location at Anchor Marina to a much quieter slip next to Wind Fit. I wrote about Wind Fit last summer. During that time though, Night Magic was moored alongside.  When the channel silted in so much that Rocky couldn’t force his four and a half foot draft past the treacherous bar, he moved to Southpoint. When Doug offered me the slip,  I decided to take him up on it.

The property is beautifully landscaped, lush and tropical. It is also located quite near the outlet to the fingers, so the current is pretty strong on the ebb and flow, and there isn’t a great deal of protection from the severe north winds that howl during this time of the year with the passage of cold fronts, or during the summer when tropical weather shifts the prevailing wind to the northeast. Then it comes in off of the bay like a freight train, roaring past the McAfee house bearing right down on this corner.

I’m not sure if I’ll ever get this docking stuff down like Captain Ron does.

I hand not checked the tide chart when I came charging west Friday after work, past Dock Boy and his floating turd world condominium, past derelict vessels on both sides of the channel, past Jupiter, finally cutting the throttle east of the Towboats R’ Us chingaso next door to Wind Fit.

Nosing ‘Div to the south, the current caught her stern as we just kept gliding towards the outlet.

No problem, I came around again from upcurrent.

Again, the same results. When will I learn? If ever. My faithful crew informed me that maybe it would be best to make the approach against the current (and, of course, I knew this….), and on the third try I rammed it into the comfortably wide slip and we tied off.

Saturday afternoon as predicted, we were treated to another gale force cold front, this one slamming us from the northwest. The twins danced Folklorico at the Island Christmas Parade, and afterward I figured it would be prudent to check on Olivia, see how she was riding in the blow. Driving up Yturria street, so that I could glance at her across the channel, I was  shocked to see her bucking violently in the forty plus mile an hour winds, riding about a three foot storm swell right there in the supposed protection of the fingers. I headed over to her new mooring, and added two more dock lines to the bow and another on the stern, before convincing myself that all would be well.

Sunday the blow had diminished, and I met Doug over at the boats to get a check ride on the property, locks and particulars. ‘Div had weathered the storm well. I am however going to add snubbers to the lines in anticipation of the next violent storm, due later this week.

The dredge is finally here. The diminutive barge began work on Friday before the cold front arrived, but apparently the operators neglected to bring it into the shelter of the fingers when the gale hit, and yesterday it appeared rather low on the starboard stern, as if ahhhhem, sinking.

It hasn’t moved today either. It's sitting right on top of the treacherous bar, and if it sinks there....nobody is gonna get in or out.....

“A diesel loves it’s oil like a sailor loves his rum”

-Captain Ron

I never change the oil in my cars engine. I hate to get my hands dirty anymore with such nasty terrestrial work, instead letting the friendly mechanic at the local Wal-Mart handle that job. 20W40 please......and check the windshield washer fluid too.... 

Olivia’s 30 horse Westerbeke diesel is a different matter though. Such an important matter must not be left to mere mortals.

I changed the oil in Olivia’s iron heart last week. You know the drill…..every hundred hours or annually, whichever comes first. I keep a pretty good logbook on the thing, so I knew that I wasn’t too close to the hundred hour mark, but it’s been about a year soooooo…..

It’s not a job I enjoy.

I hadn’t really intended to change the oil Sunday, I figured I’d just hang out with the commander and watch him do some work on Renaissance, maybe add a little running commentary, but once I got down to ‘Div and called, he must’ve been outside, never answered the phone,  and so in a moment of weakness, I drug out the tools, the pump and an old gallon oil container and got after business.

For some reason, the plastic hoses on the intake and outlet of the hand oil pump had gotten squashed in the lazerette where the wretched thing had reposed for the past year, all but gratefully forgotten. I tried to push them back into shape without success. The hell with it. I started pumping away anyhow, and eventually a little of the nasty black sump oil snaked it’s way up into the clear hose before the thing gave up and collapsed entirely, without even depositing a drop into the container.

Hurriedly reaching into the tool bag while I balanced the pump on my lap, I found a pair of aviation snips and cut the hoses off, discarded the offending pieces into a plastic bag mashing the whole mess in the trashcan before pushing the hoses back on the pump. But not before a thin stream of oil drooled down the side of the container and onto the cabin sole. No problem,  I skillfully grabbed a roll of paper towels to clean up the drops and went back to the task at hand.

I’m pumping away merrily, the container filling nicely, when I look over at the cushion on the aft dinette seat, and notice that it now has an ugly black blotch on the side. How could this have happened?

Now I’m beginning to get perturbed.

I had taken a full ten minutes beforehand to lay things out, get them organized before proceeding ahead. I know that it’s best to do this, especially working on a mechanical being in the same space where you gotta live. I go forward and retrieve the bottle of “simple green”, slathering on a liberal amount and scrubbing it with a brush and chamois…Well no matter anyhow, I can just turn the thing outboard and nobody will ever know.

Turning my attention back to the task at hand, I am horrified to see that the pump discharge hose, now modified and considerably shorter has come out of the container, and there is now a pool of filthy black motor oil on the cabin sole, slowly running towards the bilge like the hideous blob towards a sewer. My Tourettes syndrome kicks in and I begin to mutter the first pensive curses at the oil, the pump and my own carelessness as I grab the roll of paper towels, and rip off a huge handful, sopping up the puddle just in time. I clean up my hands and arms, now black up to the elbows, followed by a few more exploratory curses for good measure.

Satisfied that I have gotten all of the old oil out of the sump, I turn my attention to the filter, which is on the starboard side of the engine. It is designed so that removal will make the biggest mess possible, attached to the bayonet horizontally so that all of the oil will spill out upon removal, and about half the new oil on reinstallation of the replacement filter. Besides this, the access is through a fourteen inch by ten inch locker cover, with just enough room to get one arm in. And owing to the fact that I’m left handed, the logistics of performing this operation are especially torturous.

Muffled, heartfelt curses from the starboard quarterberth where I lay writhing and twisting, trying to situate myself for the next chore.

Stuffing an oil-sorb pad along the engine block, I snake my left hand, holding the filter wrench down through the locker, and immediately tear two, inch and a half gashes deep into my forearm. I am now soaked with sweat in the eighty five degree afternoon, deep in the bowels of Olivia. I am sweating and bleeding, blood mixing with oil, oily from fingertip to shoulder. Each new movement is accompanied by vigorous, creative curses.

Removing the filter, I turn it up on it’s back, put it into another plastic trash bag, and throw the whole thing in the trash bucket, now overflowing with black, oily paper towels. I manage to strafe bulkheads, cushions and cabin sole with a mixture of oil, sweat and blood.

It's a good thing I am a professional.

Finally reinstalling the new filter, I fill the block till the dipstick reads the correct amount, start the engine, and let it warm up, before shutting down and checking it again for proper level. The next twenty minutes are dedicated to cleaning up the war zone left behind. I check the zinc and a few other engine things before buttoning up and going topside to dispose of the trash.

Back at ‘Div the commander shows up and we go to Shitterballs for the weekly ninety-nine cent margaritas. Only today I think I’ll have Bloody Mary’s.

I gotta try and replace a little of my own blood loss.

 'Div waltzes for the judges

Dock Boy decided not to participate in the Port Isabel Lighted Boat Parade.

It was not because he found any fault with his idea to rig his little 8’ trolling motor powered Avon dink with electric lights and then string together a couple of long extension cords, motor out to the judging area and turn a figure eight. He had this all worked out in his mind, right down to the free meals.

No, rather it was due to the ongoing feud between Dock Boy and Don, the property owner on the west side of the docks. Last week things erupted, resulting in the USCG and the ‘possum cops showing up, issuing Dock Boy citations and ultimatums for not having current boat registration or clear ownership.

This sent Dock Boy into a rage.

Up and down the docks he fumed, face beet red, stomping and pacing, hurling repeated curses and epitaphs, threatening to go postal on whoever he perceived culpable for this dastardly persecution against him and his beloved vessel, Sea Lyin’ , his tirade interrupted only by the occasional quoooosh of another tall boy can being opened.

In the end, after his wrath subsided, he decided not to vacate but instead vowed to untangle the convoluted trail of liens and debts and mysterious previous owners that the boat has in order to continue to stay. So for the time being it appears that some sort of unholy impasse has been reached, and Dock Boy et al will remain like the perennial barnacles and oysters that encrust the ancient deteriorating pilings of Anchor Marina.

The smell of charcoal barbeque wafted over ‘Divs deck Friday evening as I continued to string lights from the mizzen mast and foretriangle. Dock Boy was no longer concerned with the free meal tickets that the Boat Parade offered. The evening was placid, but petulant in anticipation of building winds the following day, a harbinger of another cold front due early in the coming week.

Saturday the winds arrived well before I got up at 0430 to help with the barbeque fundraiser for the Folklorico dancers. When I had left the County Christmas Party at midnight the night before, some three sheets to the wind, I noticed that it was starting to pipe up, and now as I sweated and strained to help move the gargantuan barbeque pit, the force four breeze rapidly dried the toxic rum sweat emanating from every pore.

Mid morning, the winds continued to build as I checked out the final details for Olivia’s participation. The generator seemed to handle the load just fine, a little bogged down, but what did I expect? 25 strings of lights, candy canes, snowflakes and other electrical loads. This could eat up the tiny 1200 watts ‘Divs genset produces pretty rapidly. Eventually satisfied that all was well, I rigged up the wind scoop and went below, taking a groovy 10 minute nap.

By 1600 at the skippers meeting the NWS forecast issued a wind advisory with gusts over 40mph. Great. Just what we needed. The commander called and said that his crew had some concerns regarding the conditions, but I downplayed things because Santa and his helper had already canceled thinking that the conditions were just too windy. And I needed crew. I told him the wind was already backing off as I glanced nervously at the flags which looked like they were about ready to rip off of the poles.

Back at the boat, I started the engine and genset, switching to onboard power as the sun began to be blown down out of the sky by the howling wind and the viejitos started showing up. Soon both crews arrived as well and before long our dance card was up.

"Olivia, parade one.....you're up!"

"Roger parade one, I just gotta get my dock lines untied" I radioed back.

Untying the mooring lines and exiting the slip, a violent wind gust caught our bow shoving us west, and we had to turn a circle in order to find the stage to the east. We turned the figure eight to cheers from both sides of the harbor, joined the other boats and were chugging outbound past houses full of revelers, all cheering, drinking, camera flashes popping.

A short wait by Pirates Landing as the boats unable to come into the fingers were judged, and we were off through the black and windy night to the swing bridge and Southpoint where throngs of other well-wishers cheered and partied.

Back out through the swing bridge and under the causeway, bound for the treacherous Thompkins channel, along the island.

We managed about 2/3 of the channel to Louies without incident, but ran aground pretty seriously in a poorly marked section. Thanks to Olivia’s 30 horse iron heart we were able to eventually wiggle off and join the parade, all waiting for us, to the cheers and hoots of the spectators on shore.

Past Louies, it seemed as though there were literally thousands of people all cheering and hollering. Just as we completed the loop and started heading back up Thompkins Channel, the genset, now out of fuel, sputtered and died and that was the end of the lighted portion of the boat parade for Olivia.

The Coast Guard, thinking that we might be having some sort of other problem pulled in back of us, blue cop lights on, but when we explained it was no big deal, they turned them off, and we all headed back toward the causeway underpass.

The winds continued to howl, but now at our back, the sea seemed almost playful as we finally made it to the treacherous bar at the fingers entrance just as the Q-beam died. Tying up and securing we shut off sea cocks, electricity and adjusted our mooring lines before breathing a sigh of relief.

It was finally over.

Sunday was the awards dinner, and we picked up our first place booty. Pretty anticlimactic though…..since we were the only sailboat (other than Southern Wave, and they were in the commercial category).

Someday, Port Isabel is going to dredge the treacherous bar and people will stop boycotting the Christmas Lighted Boat Parade and start participating again.

Tuesday I used the gift certificate to Boaters World to buy braided line for new jib sheets. Now it’s just a matter of taking off the decorations (which only takes about 1/10 as long to do as putting them on) and turning ‘Div back into a sailboat.

(The Port Isabel Chamber of Commerce summary of the event can be found here)