American and French Dining

American:  Let's go grab some dinner.

Frenchman:  Grab, we don't Grab, like a thief in zee night. Let us plan an enchanted evening of pleasure.

At the restaurant.

Waitress: Would you like a table, or will you be taking the food to go?

American: Well, it does look a bit crowded, maybe ...

Frenchman: Food to go, we came to enjoy the evening at your wonderful restaurant. Why would we wish to be banished, that is unimaginable.

Waitress: We can seat you now.

Frenchman: Mon No, I think we can sit down by ourselves, merci.

American: You can lower me into my seat any time, honey.

Waitress: May I bring you something to drink?

Frenchman: We came to dine. Is this a bar? How can we order wine without first studying the menu and select the wine to make zee appropriate paring.

American: Thanks, hun, you can get me a bud, and can you turn the TV up so I can hear the game.

Frenchman: Game? I thought we came to dine, enjoy the food, and have some good conversation.

American: That doesn't seem like as much fun as checking out the girls and watching the game. Oh well, your my guest, let's try it your way.

Waitress: So what can I get ya?

Frenchman: Get? Is zee food on zee shelf in zee back room, Like at a supermarket?  Might it be possible for zee chief to prepare a meal, not get a premade TV dinner.   

Waitress:  No problem, smarty pants, we'll make it up just for you.

Frenchman:  Zank you.  I'd like the small greek salad to start, a glass of Savion Blanc, then your pitet fillet, with mushrooms and pomme frits.

Waitress:  OK, No Worries.

Frenchman:  Worries?  Thats what I do at zee office.  Should I have been worried? Is there a health problem here?

Waitress: Oh, just a saying. All the waitresses like to say, No Worries. Kinda makes folks relax a bit.  No heath problems here, I Think ......

Watress:  Ok, you ordered salad, white wine, small stake, and  pomme frits, I know, that's like french for french fries? 

Ok, Mister, You Got It!

Frenchman: But no, I don't have it. If I had it, I wouldn't order it.

American: Hamburger, lots of onions, and some fries.

Waitress: You got it!

Frenchman: But I can see he doesn't have it. Like me, that's why he ordered it.

Waitress: Well, I kind of get your point, I think. You got it, but you don't have it, so now I got what cha mean.

Frenchman: I zink you get it, not got it.

Waitress: Are you ordering me around? Telling be to go get it. Why, I never.

Frenchman: No, No, I wasn't ordering you.

Waitress: Thank goodness, cause honey, I ain't on the menu.

American: Frenchy, now I think you've cooked your goose.

Frenchman: Mon No, I not zee chief, I am zee customer, no. And I did not order goose, but a little foi gras might be nice.

Later:

Waitress comes with the food: 

Here you go.

Frenchman: Go, but the food just came, I would like to stay and enjoy the food.

Waitress: Whatever you like, so long as your a big tipper, Ha Ha.

Later:

Frenchman: This sauce is magnificent. A touch of rosemary, I think. Some garlic, and perhaps some truffle oil. Try it my friend, it's heavenly.

American: I'm not sticking my fork into food you dribbled on. Disgusting, No?

Waitress (walks on over): Gents, you still working on your food.

Frenchman: Work, this is not work. If I want to work, I go to zee office, I came to this fine restaurant to enjoy the food, the wine, and the evening. At home we might say, Bon Appetite, our host might ask, are you enjoying the mean. A meal is never work.

Waitress: What about you, cowboy?  Still working on your food.

American: Sure am, every last bit.

Later:

Waitress: I see you boys finished all your food, and frenchy here even ate his veggies. You boys did a great job!!

Frenchman: Job, no no, it was no job, it was my pleasure, and thank you for a wonderful evening.

American: Hell, we both did a great job. Now can I slap you on the butt?

Waitress:  Thank you Frenchy, and cowboy, keep your hands to yourself.

Waitress leaves.

American.  Maybe we can meet again tomorrow and do lunch.

French:  Do Lunch?  Do what to lunch? Sounds like a quickey to me.  Do and Grab.  Grab and Do.    Grab a meal, work on food, do a good job.  You Americans talk about food like your fueling a car.  A bit of a chore, but  necessary to keep it running.

Instead of doing, working, grabbing on the run, perhaps we can just meet and enjoy a nice leisurely lunch.  We don't have to do anything. Just eat, talk, and enjoy the day. No?

American:  You got it bro.  To save time, how's about we do drive-through. We can eat and talk as we drive along, No?

The Great Virus

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If you haven't noticed a great virus has spread across our great country greatly infecting our great language.  Even on a great day the greatest of the great are greatly affected. How great it would be if through a great deal of effort someone with a great vocabulary and great command of the great words of our great language could greatly stop the great over use of the great word.

To this great end we have thought a great deal and have taken a great amount of time to put together a great list of great alternative words.

I hope the great effort is greatly appreciated, and as a great reader, you find it, well, just great!!!

Yours,

Scott the Great,

aka Scott the Wonderful, Superb, Sublime, Super, Terrific, Fantastic, Stupendous, Phenomenal, Superdupper, Top, Awesome,Tip Top, Top Drawer, Majestic Brilliant, Stellar, Heavenly, Edenic, Paradisaical, Electric, Dazzling Mesmerizing, Stimulating, Sparkling, Lovely, Delightful, Delicious, Delectable, Grand, Incredible, Fascinating, Riveting, Enchanting, Magical, Brilliant, Exceptional, Exquisite, Breathtaking, Glorious, Beautiful, Awesome, Over The Top, The Cats Pajamas, The Bees Knees, Spectacular, Splendorous, Intense, Imposing, Excellent, and all of the above 47 or so alternatives to Great.

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Honey, I Sank the Boat

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          Man the Lifeboats, We're Sinking!” are no longer the most dreaded words a sailor can hear.  No, these words do not scare modern sailors equipped with all the new fangled technology like EPIRBs beaming positions to satellites that constantly track a sailor’s whereabouts, inflatable liferafts, flairs that can be seen for 30 miles, or just cell phone calls that can summon help within hours, if not minutes.  Today, the sinking of a seamen’s vessel can be no worse than an afternoon float in a backyard pool.  And just think, with the loss of his craft, our happy sailor can now buy the boat of his dreams from the insurance proceeds derived from his lost vessel.  Following the sinking of his yacht, picture our lonely sailor adrift in his liferaft munching on a Big Mac.  Rescue vessels quickly appear.  First comes the harbor patrol with its trained and competent crew, then the fire boat blasting a funnel of water pointing the way to the great disaster.  Fellow yachtsmen appear and surround our lonely man in his Michelin tire-like raft, and finally the channel 9 helicopter hovers above looking for a news-at-11 story.  All these rescuers are eager to save our distressed sailor who has been adrift all of fifteen minutes.  Compare this picture with the sailors of yore, like the brave souls aboard the whaling ship Essex, which some 200 years past, sank after an angry whale sought revenge on 20 poor mates who left wives and families six months earlier in search of whale blubber to fuel fine oil lanterns.  After 100 days at sea we find these brave men clutching to life together with their unwashed partners in a leaky longboat they now called home.  Their only real pleasure was the anticipation of eating their mates, as each would-be pot roast, one after another, dies of exhaustion.  Yet, the only complaint of this tired lot was the absence of a small jar of Grey Poupon to liven up their friendly meal.

            No, today the dreaded words that send chills up the spine of every Seaman, Captain, and Admiral are not “The Boats Go’n Down Mi Captain,” but rather the passing observation of his wife or girl friend:  “Oops, honey I sank your boat,” a remark spoken in an offhanded manner by the sailor’s better half, not unlike her occasional comment such as “Honey, I think I burned your toast”; or “I think I heard the chirp of the smoke detector, could  you please change the battery?”  Our modern boater’s real fear is that his beloved wife will end his floating holiday with a simple nail file stuck in a hose attached to a through hole.  For those not of the maritime world, a through hole is, as it sounds, a hole placed through the bottom of a boat.  It is attached to a hose that allows seawater to pass from under the boat to various machines that might benefit from a bit of cooling, such as the boat's engine.  Other through holes allow unwanted liquids to be sent back to the sea.   I used to think these hull attachments were designed by men to solve practical problems like eliminating human waste without having to hang one’s bum over the side, but now I know better.  They were first suggested by Christopher Columbus’s wife, not to keep the ship sanitary, but as a way to dash the future ambitions of Chris or at least keep him home for a spell so he could fix the backyard fence.  After inventing the through hole and seeing it installed, one evening, Mrs. Columbus was seen piercing the connecting hose with her knitting nettle.  The next day, while Chris was being honored by Queen Isabelle, Mrs. Columbus asked Chris to look out at the harbor to witness his Nina sinking.  Before Chris could react to the startling news, she thought it important to bring to his attention the fact that her corset seemed a little tight, but after all it did make her bosom appear larger.  “Oh my goodness,” she said to Chris, “don’t you think a woman’s life is like a corset, always about compromise?”  Chris, being the good captain that he was, just stared into space and said nothing. 

            In all fairness, wives and girlfriends have not always been adversaries of the boating life.  In fact, there are rare women who, like Mother Teresa, are willing to forsake comfort and home, and devote their lives to those less fortunate, including misguided men who take to the sea.  It is a happy sailor, indeed, who is lucky enough to find such a woman, a mermaid of the sea with salt in her veins and a liking to topless dress.  For the rest of us, it usually takes a few days for our wives and lady friends to realize that in any home there can be but one mistress.

Most women, ignorant of their would-be rival, are at first willing to entertain their husband’s musings, which extol the virtues of sharing quality time together while afloat on calm seas in a love nest he calls a boat.  And so it is that, in the beginning, leisurely days are spent sipping wine in the cockpit, going below for a snack, and having the occasional afternoon affair.  But, as the splendid sunsets pass from days to months these romantic encounters take on a sea change.  Our lady now notices that her swashbuckling partner has started to spend more time shining the railings, buffing the brightwork, and listening to the hum of the engine than to her description of the latest shoe styles.  About the same time, Captain Husband decides to do the unthinkable.  He has the nerve to take the boat off the slip and leave the soft sway of the calm harbor to plow his way into the rolling Pacific, which as every sailor knows is no more Pacific than Greenland is Green.  The Pacific with its images of gentle seas was named, of course, by her majesty Queen Isabella to lure explorers clear around the world in search of gold to enrich her fashion chest.   So, while Captain Husband is having the time of his life fixing, mending, tacking, trimming, and pulling on ropes he now calls lines, his modern Nina is rocking violently in all directions now managing the moguls of the sea that are doing their best to buck everyone aboard like angry bulls at a rodeo.  Meanwhile, his dear wife who was at first bored, then ignored, is now having her afternoon tea returned through her nostrils.  Not quite the romantic “Condo on the Water” she envisioned.

            At this stage in our boater’s life, we notice that his wife has begun to take an interest in what was once her husband’s exclusive purview, namely, home repair.  While Captain Husband is busy attending to his new vocation, imagining himself to be Gardner McCray in Adventures in Paradise, we find her gathering an arsenal of newly purchased tools that oddly contain a large assortment of every imaginable type of chisel and drill.  That is when we know the transformation is complete.  In the Better Half’s view, it is her or The Boat, or to use her exact words, her or The Stupid Boat.

Once a sailor uncovers the secret cash of bits, augers, chisels, corded and cordless drills, he realizes that his dreams of sailing to distant lands can be dashed by a flick of a drill’s on/off switch.  Like the screaming man on Edvard Munch’s bridge, angst now strikes his heart.  After the discovery of his would-be saboteur, he realizes he now has to be on constant guard, not of the sea or the trim of his sails, not of the strength of his equipment or the adequacy of his liferafts, not of an abrupt change in the weather or inaccuracy of his charts, but of an evening when Mrs. Sailor unexpectedly mentions that she will be going out with her girlfriends to the movies.  Now, he shutters and thinks to himself, ‘Is this the day that my Nina will be forever lost?’

    I must say that until stumbling on her arsenal, Captain Husband had been, somewhat naive.    For years, the entire insurance industry has known that unhappy wives are the biggest risk of loss, bigger than boats colliding in a fog, bigger than outdated charts, and bigger than category 5 hurricanes.  A sailor’s wife with knowledge of a boat’s hull and armed with a drill is the true perfect storm.  If Captain Husband had just read his vessel insurance policy he would have noticed that certain casualties are simply not covered.  The risk is too high even for billion dollar insurance companies.  In large bold print the policy states: "Sinking of Vessel by Wife is specifically, clearly, unequivocally, undeniably, and without any exception EXCLUDED by this Policy (AND WE REALLY MEAN IT!!!)".  In addition, the policy excludes any “indirect Sabotage of Boat by Wife.”  Marine Insurance will not pay a cent if the sinking was caused by a failure to maintain the vessel.  The industry, it seems, is aware of the old trick where Mrs. Captain asks her husband to forego replacing the leaky through holes so that she might buy a new set of high heels.  It’s the old “don’t maintain the boat and see if she sinks” trick.

    In addition to simply reading his insurance policy, our sailor could have asked any Yacht Broker (at least after he or she sold him the boat).  Yacht Brokers know that wives are behind most boating accidents, at least those involving the loss of the vessel.  Yacht Brokers could have warned our sailor to be vigilant and stand guard.  The could have told him that soon he may be living with a double agent, the Love of His Life, who would let him happily ply the waters while she secretly prepares plans to end his folly and patch what she sees as a hole in the family pocket book.  Any Yacht Broker will tell you that upon hearing of her husband’s demise, a widow’s first words are not about how much she loved him, but rather how to sell the boat as soon as possible before her son, or even worse, her new lover, takes a liking to it.  The Broker will tell you that she will settle for any amount, and in fact, she will often pay someone to bury the boat along with him.

And so you have it, the real fear and dread of our modern sailor is, like all sailors after the sinking of the Essex, the knowledge that She, who was once thought to be so sweet and gentle, will one day circle his beloved vessel, take careful aim and remove her rival with a decisive blow to the hull.  Afterwards, she might be heard to say in passing, “Oops, honey, I think I sank your boat, and if you don’t mind, could you please pass the mustard?”

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Stashoe, a Friend Who . .

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I always wanted to be a great conversationalist. You know, like guys who strike up conversations with complete strangers in a supermarket and then get invited to their homes for dinner. Gee, I wondered, was this some type of innate talent, or something that can be learned. So I set out to observe these talkative folks by eavesdropping on their conversations while waiting to check out my daily six pack at the 7-11. I continued my studies in the teller line at the bank, the lobby of my doctor’s office, and while standing in movie ques.

Weeks into my field work, I was making little progress. Quite to the contrary, my only rewards were black and blue marks from movie goers shoving me forward as they tried to push the line along. My feeble attempts at wit went nowhere. I never understood why I didn’t get invited home with such clever quips as, “I’m a great guy. Could you hold my movie ticket in your cleavage, while I scratch my butt?”

Then one day I met a man with an uncanny ability to strike up a conversation with anyone, no matter the person’s station or interest. His name was Stashoe, a name given to him by his polish mother-in-law (which in the polish is spelled “Staciu” and is loosely translated into “man with big tong”). I met Stashoe while trying to pick up on his daughter as I was buying a six pack at the 7-11. He turned to me and said, “I’ve seen you here before, always buying the same Bud Light.” “I don’t drink,” he said, “but that must be a great beer.” Being the great gabber that I hoped to be, the best that I could mutter was, “Gee, I like it.” Stashoe continued with, “you know I have a friend who liked Miller Light, and for years he would try to get me to drink that stuff. One day, I had a half glass with my friend, and you know, it was not too bad.” Well that was the beginning of my real studies on how to be a great conversationalist. You see, eventually I married the conversationalist’s daughter, so I had lots of time to observe his talent.

After regularly eavesdropping on my father-in-law, I learned that Stashoe was not only a great conservationist, but he had many friends from all walks of life. When he started a conversation he never talked about himself. He only talked about others, or about the person he was addressing. He would always bring other people into his stories. I came to the conclusion that no matter what the topic of conversation, Stashoe could inform and amuse perfect strangers with tales derived from his many friends. If a conversation began with a stranger saying, "the football game was real close, and I almost won the pool," Stashoe would draw from the lives of his vast acquaintances and observe, "I have a friend who follows every game, knows all the stats, and seems to win his bets on a regular basis. He told me that the key to betting is checking the weather report the day before the game. If the weather was similar to the team’s hometown, they would do great. I don’t know if it’s true, but my friend swears by it.” Stashoe would never say this or that was his own idea. He would only say that he had a friend who he heard it from, and he was just passing along the information, for what it’s worth. Conversation seemed to come naturally for Stashoe. From hearing his stories over the years I concluded that he must have had thousands of friends and a photographic memory to boot, in order to keep track of everyone he knew.

Over time, by closely listening to all of Stashoe’s stories and tales, I thought I figured out the key to the true gift of gab. Even the least talented wall flower could always chime in with "I have a friend who...” For me, I figured it was just a matter of time. If I lived long enough, I might acquire enough friends to interpose them, instead of myself, into conversations. I then set out to try my new technique. After a few weeks I found myself now fitting in with groups that would never accept me. Take funeral directors, for example. I could now say to the undertaker that I had a friend, George, who recently died, but he had such a nice funeral. The casket was a lovely cherry color. To skiers, I could admit I really didn’t like getting on chairlifts, so long as I mentioned my good friend, Ray, who must have spent 100 days a year on the slopes. Just for fun, I would let the skier know that, for me, the sport never made sense. Why risk breaking a leg just for the sake of having cold wind blow on your face when you can just drive in the middle of winter with your windows down. I’d be forgiven and accepted so long as I told the skier about my friend Ray who swears skiing is the most exciting sport in the world.

Then it dawned on me. I didn't need to live to a 100 to have as many friends as Stashoe, nor did I need an encyclopedic memory. I could just create imaginary friends who did all the things I couldn’t do, or never wanted to do. Why not? Strangers never asked for the phone numbers of my friends, so I decided to give a try. I have to admit that it took me a while to stock up on new interesting friends, imaginary though they may have been. But with time and dedication, I put together a menagerie of fictional characters. I could now say to the man in the movie line who mentioned his long day inspecting elevators that, “I had a friend, Elliott, who used to inspect elevators back in New York. He loved his job, but one day he died in an elevator crash. Oddly enough, it was an elevator at a movie theater.”

To the little girl with a lollipop standing in line with her mother, I casually mentioned, “I have a friend who made lollipops; at least he used to until they found rat poison in the candy mix. They had to close down the candy company. It turned out that the poison was put there by a disgruntled employee who, as it turned out, was another friend of mine.”

By and by, I tried to perfect my new technique in an effort to compete with Stashoe, who, of course, had real friends. It seemed that for Stashoe stories would flow naturally like rivers flow into oceans. For him a conversation with a stranger was no more difficult than putting butter on toast. But for me, it did not come easy. I knew I was no Stashoe, but I was determined.

Since no one ever questioned the minor characters of my imagination, in the heat of competition, I decided to infuse a higher level of achievement to my imaginary friends. To the young man fresh from college who was working on a local political campaign, I let it be known that I have a friend who dabbles in politics. He soon became the head of some European country; I think it was France. We talk once a month and I give him advice from time to time. I think they crowned him King, or something like that. To the Asian kid trying to play basketball, but who was unhappy with his height, I mentioned that years ago I had a teenage friend from China who was hoping to make the NBA. His coach said he was the best player China ever produced. But I told him that no Chinese player would ever make it to the NBA. Upon hearing this, he fired his coach and almost gave up the game. His name was Yao Ming.

Armed with my new technique I thought I had become a great conversationalist, or perhaps I should say, me and my imaginary friends held that distinction. Then one day, I overheard Stashoe say to a lady in the 7-11, “I have this son-in-law who’s a nice guy, but I think he is a little mashugana (crazy). He keeps inventing friends he doesn’t have, but that’s all right, because we love him anyway.”

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Welcome to Colone Air

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“Welcome to Colone Air where we strive to maximize efficiency by merging air travel with your personal lifestyle.” The attendant who was wearing the airline's signature green uniform, which fit loosely on her like hospital scrubs, continued, "Our flight today is part of our original “maximum efficiency” air travel campaign. This is the flight that placed our airline into the vanguard of time-saving personalized travel.”

She then began to clean her hands with as she addressed us. "We at Colone Air discovered that what travelers wanted most from air travel was good old fashioned efficiency. From our detailed surveys we were frankly surprised to find out that what customers hated most was not bad airline food, not poor service, and not the small uncomfortable seats. What really stuck in their claw was the feeling that the flight time was completely unproductive. At Colone Air we listen to our customers. We listened to You. As a result, we designed our flights to satisfy your sense of efficacy, and let me add that as a side bonus we also addressed your unhappiness with airline food, and with the tight quarters created by traditional airline seats.”

She waved her arm like a magician signaling her next big move. "I hope you enjoy the rows of horizontal bunks. As you can see, instead of seats, you will be able to lie down in complete comfort. If you have been assigned one of the top bunks, and need assistance, just press your call button. We are here to help. Also, for those who feel the urge to use the restrooms one last time, please feel free to do so. By the way, you might note at Colone Air, we have twice as many lavatories as other airlines. We truly care about you.”

The flight attendant then rolled her long hair into a bun as she put a cap over it. She turned the volume up on the microphone as she said, "Now let’s review again our goals and procedures. Today, you will arrive at your destination completely refreshed, without any thought or memory of a long flight, without any stress from cramped quarters, and of course, without the disappointment with mediocre food. At the same time, we will save you a full day of unproductive time- time you can now spend with your family. Today, as we fly across our great country, you will each receive your very own, state of the art, colonoscopy. What once took two days, now takes but one. Your day of travel and your colonoscopy day are now combined.”

She returned the volume back to normal and referred to her clip-board. "In a minute you will be given oral medication which will make you a bit drowsy, and will inhibit your memory of the procedure. As this is the case, there will be no need for our captain to point out the occasional air currents or the scenery along the way. This makes the flight more efficient for our Captain and Crew, a true win-win situation. “Well, we hope you enjoy your flight, and be sure to consider us for your next day long medical procedure.”

As she turned on soft background music, her voice became upbeat and excited as she said, "We have some new and exciting products coming on line shortly. We will soon launch advertising campaigns for these additions, including: Fly with a Facelift; Get your Heart Transplant while Flying over America’s Heartland, and of course, Fly your Last Flight with Doctor Kevorkian.”

"Oh, one last note, I’m sad to say that we've had to eliminate our 'help fly the plane’ option. The FAA recently ruled that the colonoscopy medication not only affects your driving, but also seems to affect your ability to fly airplanes. Sorry about that. Now, strap yourselves in for a most productive flight!!!”
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Emerald City

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Like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, I sometimes think of our small yacht club as the Emerald City of Oz, that wonderful respite from the misfortunes of the world, that safe harbor which shelters us on occasion from what Hamlet once called the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, the whips and scorns of time, the oppressor's wrong, the pangs of love, and that sea of troubles. As we enter our Emerald City, we set aside, at least for a moment, the bombardment of these falling arrows.

As my year as Commodore comes to a close, look back at some of the odds and ends that have made our club such a colorful place of shelter. This year we became the sponsor of the Border Run Race, an event that now rivals all the major races on the West Coast; this year we formed a Charitable and Community Outreach Program that raised significant funds to allow children to enter sailing programs; this year we formed an alliance with the Newport Sea Base to provide sailing and boating safety classes to children of our members at one of the best facilities in the United States; this year our Great American Raft-Up received international recognition as the type of activity that other clubs should emulate; this year we elevated our club to the status of the Most Friendly Club in the World, and despite the economic downturn, we saw significant growth in our membership, and this year we held races, cruises, and social events of the same type and caliber as clubs which are 10 times our size.

Looking back, I am happy to report that “Yes we can” became “Yes we did,” or at least “Yes we made a heck-of-a start.” And if you think that this Commodore had anything to do with it, let me assure you that you are quite mistaken. I now draw back the curtain so you can see plainly that all these wonderful things have not resulted from any work or any magic of your departing Commodore. No, like the Wizard of that Great City of Oz, I stand before you a fraud, a pretender, a man who moves levers that pull no weight, a man who conjures up the image of creation, but who does not create.

No, the fabric of our club has not come from the thread of my suit. It has come from the yarns and fibers supplied by our members and friends. These red, blue, black, yellow, and emerald strands that make up our quilt of shelter are your ideas, your energy, and your enthusiasm. They make us unique, or as the gatekeeper of Oz would say, make us a horse of a different color. It is you, my friends who have made this year so meaningful, and like the good people of Oz, you have done so in a joyful and caring way.

As this Commodore departs our Emerald City, I leave with the knowledge that the joy and the magic will continue fueled by the ideas and enthusiasm of everyone, young and old. This is your legacy, not mine, and I salute each and every one of you.
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Got Moose?

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If you ever look for moose in the back bays of Newport, you will surely be disappointed. On trips outside of Southern California, for many years my wife, Debra, and I have sought that shy mammal in our travels from Maine to Alaska, yet we have never been able to spot more than a poster of the Noble Bullwinkle.

And so it was that Debra was once again thinking of ways to take a break from the local scene when the thought came to her to head east until we found our elusive friend in the streams and marshes fed by melting glaciers of the mountains surrounding Yellowstone.

I also considered that in our quest for that lumbering giant, I might begin to wean myself from the pull of sea and shore. I was then reminded of the story of the retiring mariner who was spotted walking inland with one oar over his shoulder. When asked why he was walking with just one oar, the old sailor replied, “after 40 years I'm done with the sea, my friend, and now I'm headed to the first place where people ask ‘ what's that there gismo on yer shoulder’ ."

And so it was, after 10 days of traveling inland, as we passed beyond great mountain prairies, we found hidden in the high streams of Yellowstone which fed into the lower valleys of the Grand Tetons a bull moose and his nearby mate. This was a surprising and magical moment, a moment which seemed at first, quite unlike our beaches and great oceans.

Yet, as we headed inland on our quest, as we found ourselves far from city and crowd, we stumbled upon a sea of waving yellow grass they call a great prairie. Far from any coast, it was this yellow sea that connected me somehow to the sway of waves when sailing offshore.

So now should I sail beyond local shores, when I gaze at the motions of the infinite sea, or when I am surprised by the unannounced assent of a great whale, I may hear the call of our evasive moose, and I may see vast waves of inland prairie grass.
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OUR IMAGINARIUM

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Seamen seem to have one thing in common beyond their love of the sea. They simply think too much. With nothing to do on that midnight watch, they drift to thoughts of alien abductions, bull fighting in Mexico, and making love to an attractive octopus on a deserted beach. With such an overactive imagination, it is no wonder that they keep inventing new gizmos and gadgets to amuse themselves and to ease their voyage.

Recently, a new member of our yacht club came to me as the clubs Commodore to share his ideas about spiceing up our club events. Before he was able to share his ideas, my imagination ran wild with pictures of bonfires on the aft deck of my boat,Windswept, as Emeril Lagasse BBQed Sea Lions and bikini clad girls dove from my mast into the cool waters of Newport Harbor. When I snapped out of my ADD, our young friend mentioned some of his ideas, like kidnapping commodores from other clubs and having a poker night to raise money to bail us out. Ok, thought I, he out-did me this time.

In the last few years more and more of our members have been thinking out of the box, and I for one, am glad to find new friends with twisted imaginations. Dispute the though economic times, for some reason our small club continues to grow. Might this have something to do with forging our own direction and listening to some of the wild and crazy ideas of our members?

Suffice it to say, our small club has not gone unnoticed. Take our parties, for example. A few of us are of the view that if our parties don't get busted, they’re not worth going to. I am proud to say that in the last few years we have been busted at the Great American Raft-Up, at our annual Salsa Party, and at our Party Room in Ensenada, just to mention a few of our accomplishments. Last year, we were even admonished by members of other yacht clubs to leave things as they were and avoid putting on a major new race.

O.K. every cockamamie (crazy) idea may not be worth pursuing, like the helmsman’s romantic encounter with his beautiful octopus, but some hair brained ideas may be quite wonderful, you just never know. So, like the seaman on that midnight watch, as we gaze into the night sky, let our imaginations take us to new horizons.
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The Call of Water

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Covered by a woolen blanket, my friend sits beside the open flame of a one burner Coleman stove, inside his makeshift lean-to which protects him from the north wind. In the warmth of his hut, he glances at the frost-like mist floating above the circle he cut in the ice. He is transfixed by the low light of the stove as it sparkles on the water. He wonders if a fish might find it strange that a hole appears above, and if the fish is also looking at the specks of light dancing on the surface. Even in this bitter Minnesota cold, atop an isolated frozen lake, my friend is drawn to the slightest movement of black water beside his boots.

Here in California I head out to Windswept after a cold wind driven rain has swept over the Harbor where she lay secured to her mooring. Today the sun is out, but it’s still a bit cool, so I put on a light jacket. This is our off-season, with little activity in the Harbor. At daybreak, the still of the water is now only broken by ripples flowing from the bow of the occasional working boat. Those arriving from other states soon learn that there are only two seasons here, Summer and Almost Fall, with January and February being the peak of our second season. This is a time when many boaters abandon the water by seeking comfort in fireplace, book, and tea. Others, however, continue to be drawn to the never ending magic of moving water. For those who brave the chill of this second season, you will find the same delights and mysteries that connect us to our Minnesota friend, all without the need for boots or blankets.
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A Floating Village

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Picture yourself sitting at an outdoor café sipping morning coffee. You look up and see a friend pass by, then another, and another. You think nothing of this since most of your friends and family live within walking distance of this cafe nestled on a narrow side street of your small village. Sitting in the café, you feel the comfort of familiar faces.

For thousands of years we made these villages our homes, drawn naturally to places where friends gather without calendars and appointment books. Before that, we found ourselves huddled in huts or in caves, bounding together like threads which make up a quilt.

In the last hundred years this way of life seemed to change. Perhaps it was our own inventions, like automobiles and telephones, which broke our bonds of brotherhood and banished us from our villages, huts and caves, which took us to suburban dwellings where appointments are made well in advance to meet a friend or neighbor.

Compare our modern neighborhoods with life aboard our boats. While on my boat I see a friend pass by in his dinghy, then another. Their wakes gently sway my boat from side to side. In the afternoon, I row to another boat, knock on the hull, then invite myself board for a beer. No phone call to first set a time and place to meet. No separation by highways or telephones. Just me, some friends, a little beer, and a bit of conversation. I find myself back in time. I am in that little cafe, on the secluded street of my small village. I now wonder if there is not some primordial urge which directs us back to our lost communal life, an urge which pulls us to that floating village we call the cruising life.

For those who share this calling to simpler times, consider for a short while letting go your modern devices, and moving from your grand boulevards to the more modest quarters of our floating village. As we cruise the destinations we seek are always interesting, it may well be the company we form which, in the end, satisfies our souls.

WHY WE RACE

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While driving in a parking lot, have you ever noticed that even the fittest of men look for the closest parking space? The boxer stopping for milk, the marathon runner out for a loaf of bread, the triathlete seeking his Starbucks, all without fail have their eyes fixed on that empty stall closest to their destination. Why is it that once out of their cars they avoid the leisurely stroll, the pleasure of meandering in a new direction that may uncover a different path? Like iron shavings pulled by a magnet, they pursue the shortest and quickest course. The pleasures of taking a long stroll while stalking their prey is never a consideration. Such thoughts are blocked by a concentrated focus which like a laser, targets its intended prey. This singular focus is driven by the need to find the shortest path to its goal.

Some would say that it is the sense of competition that drives men to race. Yet, the pleasure of prevailing over one’s fellow man can hardly explain why, all alone with nary a person in sight, athletes are drawn to the quickest route home, and to the most direct path to fortune and fame. No, it is not the pleasure of putting another man down that pushes us on. Rather, it is the urge to create that perfect efficiency in both motion and time that drives us forward. It is the urge to seek the quickest voyage to our desired port that is the hidden force behind every race.

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Nude Beach

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Officer Crumpkie was is in a rather pleasant mood when he greeted our Dana Point Raft-Up this year. “You folks from South Shore? We do want you to have a great stay. Just a few rules to go over.” He proceeded to read 21 rules on the Harbor Patrol’s priority list: “No dinghies without life jackets; No boating at night without lights; No boating while drunk; No diving off spreaders; No music or laughing after 10 p.m.; No sword fights . . .” After Crumpkie recited his rules (which eliminated most of the activities we had planned), I thought it odd that he didn’t mention anything about nude sun bathing. So when Crumpkie bid us adieu, I tied a line across the port and starboard shrouds, hung bed sheets over the line, and put out a sign that read “Nude Beach.”

After waiting more than 2 hours for young ladies to enjoy the new clothing optional area, I had no takers. Adding an ice chest, lounge chairs, a boombox, and free beer didn’t seem to help either. With nothing to do, I went behind the sheets to enjoy the amenities. I was alone and it seemed fine to go, as they say, aunatural, just lying on a towel that read “Support Your Local Police.”

After a few beers, I fell asleep as the sun was setting and the tide was changing. I woke up after sunset and noticed the boats had drifted close to the rocks. That’s when I saw Sally, a five hundred pound Samoan lady who had been fishing on the rocks watching my boat approach. I could see she was looking right at me, all of me. She yelled out, “U My Man, U My Man,” and then she jumped in the water and started swimming toward me. I quickly wrapped the towel around my waist and headed for the wine tasting party on the next boat.

By the time I arrived the wine lovers were up to bottle number 7. Each bottle had been put in a brown bag with a number. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, and 6 were all empty. Meanwhile, Crumpkie could see the boats rocking from Sally in hot pursuit. Crumpkie turned his spotlight on the party. That’s when my towel snagged a cleat and left me without cover. Crumpkie’s spotlight focused on me. I quickly took bag number 8 and covered my manhood. His voice blasted over the hailer: “That’s against rule number …” he looked at his list, found no rule, and started to call his boss when his spotlight fixed on Sally.

Crumpkie could see she was the fugitive, Samoan Sally Sidepin, the notorious woman who had been convicted of having five husbands at the same time, three of which were former Harbor Patrol Officers. He forgot about me and directed his attention to pursuing Sally who was now swimming to shore.

I thought my nightmare was over until Sailor Joe complained that he hadn’t tasted the new bottle as he reached for bag number 8 . . . . .
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How a Race is Born

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It was cold, it was warm, it was cold. It was a day of skiing in the local mountains. Sometime after the glimmer of a million glistening snowflakes, like sparkling ripples of water off late afternoon sun, after tired bones numb and the heart settles, after lunchtime beer quiets the mind, daydreams become real. The chairlift stops 100 feet off the ground, and I turn to my friend, Ray, with a new idea, born of a daydream. “How about a tri-race back?” Puzzled, he asks, “You mean we race three times to the lodge?” “No,” I said, “we'll race to Newport Harbor, then sail around the marker.”

Ray’s reaction was predictable, “Are you friggen nuts? We can’t ski down the mountain, there’s no snow on the roads, and how do we get out to our boats on these skis?” “That’s not exactly the idea,” I said, “We’ll drive down and time each leg.” Ray gave me the I- got-you smile. Then he said, “ Let’s see, we first have a car race back, humm … Scott, you friggen idiot, we came in the same car!”

I let him have his moment. I could see by his frequent use of “friggen,” that he was getting annoyed, but I persisted, “It will be the world’s first Mountain-to-Sea Regatta. First leg, we ski down to the parking lot. Second leg, we row out to our boats. Third leg, we sail around the marker off the pier, then back to our moorings. I call it the first Tri-atha-gatta.”

He had the “friggen-look” again. Making ready for the ‘f,’ I could see his chest expand upward and his head tilt back as his sparkling white upper teeth bit his bottom lip. Then he bellowed a big, “Friggen-A!”, and then he said, “I got a better idea, let me drive you to the mental ward at Hoag Hospital. I don’t know Scott, sometime you come up with the dumbest ideas.”

Still enthusiastic, I said, “OK, how about we kayak out instead?” “It’s the same friggen idea, you friggen idiot. Just forget about it,” he huffed. “But,” I protested, “how about we sail by moonlight, and call the last leg the moon-a-gatta.” That was it, Ray’s face got red and he said, “If I hear about the ‘Triathagatta’ again, I’ll toss you off the friggen lift.”

The lift began to move again, and as we neared the top, I asked, “Ray, what’s the sound of ‘swish, swish swish’? “Don’t know,” he said, “maybe the sound of your brain thinking up stupid stuff.” “No,” I said, “it’s the sound of skiing down the slope.” I repeated my question, “What’s the sound of ‘swish, swish, swish?” He replied, “The sound of you drinking too much tequila?” “Nope,” I said, “it’s the sound of oars as we row out to our boats.” Once more I asked, “Ray, what’s the sound of ‘swish, swish, swish’? He said, “Just friggen tell me, we’re about to get off the lift.” I replied, “It’s the sound of water on the bow of our boats as we race to the marker.” “I figured as much. You got any more friggen questions?” he asked. “Maybe one,” I said, “but let’s get off the lift first.” Safely off the lift, I asked Ray my last question, “What’s the sound of swish swish, swish, times three.” He thought he had figured it out and answered: “That’d be nine friggen swishes.” No, I said with a smile, “it’s the Triathagatta.”
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Sad Sailor

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I am a sad sailor,
I don’t sail in the night,
when monsters swim beside me
it’s always such a fright.

I am a sad sailor,
when storms blow hard with spray,
when sails stretch to their limits,
I stay in my bunk and pray.

I am a sad sailor,
I know braver men can steer,
while I make the margaritas
to put to bed my fears.

I am a sad sailor,
I watch forecasts for the bay,
so when the clouds are coming,
I wait for sunny days.

I am a sad sailor,
my boat waits in its slip
whenever seas are mounting,
I pretend I broke my hip.

I am a sad sailor,
when seasickness comes my way,
I call the local Coast Guard
to shout a loud May-Day!

__________

I am a sad sailor,
I don’t sail in the night.
When sun sinks over water,
its time to make land’s sight.

I am a sad sailor,
Ensenada I was bound;
I guess I made a wrong turn
- in Seattle I was found.

I am a sad sailor,
a sexton I have not.
Charts are so confusing;
GPS is how I plot.

I am a sad sailor,
the journey it is not;
get me to the Harbor
with engine running hot.

I am a sad sailor,
I drink my share of booze.
I sold my boat last weekend
to go on a Princess Cruise.

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Coconuts

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Sammy the Sea Lion, episode 5
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“Where you been Sammy? I haven’t seen you around lately.” Ed asked as Sammy, his sea lion friend, slid onto his trawler’s swim step. “Oh, just back from the inauguration. Not President Obama’s inauguration, but my cousin, Herbie’s, inauguration. He was just made President of Cocoyoco Island. I was soooo proud. He was the first sea lion to become President and it was some party.” Ed was skeptical, “Never thought there’d be a sea lion President in my lifetime. Tell me more.”

“Well,” said Sammy, “It started with the economic problems on Cocoyoco. It seems that the island has 20 coconut pickers, and the economy depends on the coconut trade. So when word got out that the owners would have to lay off one of the pickers, newsmen reported every day that the unemployment rate would jump from 5% (full employment) to 10% (depression level unemployment). Then all the pickers got scared. No one knew who would be out of work. They stopped buying java juice, stopped buying grass skirts, and some even stopped going to Big Sally’s Hula Hut, except on birthdays and other special events. Everyone was unhappy. Crime went up. Herbie’s son got caught kissing a sea turtle on Hulahaha beach. It was bad. Then President Bushmeme resigned, and no one wanted to take his job. That’s when the elders consulted the sea shell pile on peepeepile beach. They could see that the pile pointed directly at Herbie, who was just sunning himself on the South Shore. They quickly chased him down, and within a few days, he was elected President.”

Ed was amazed at the efficiency of the island elections. He asked, “So how’d Herbie deal with the economic problems?” “Oh,” Sammy replied, “he resolved them in short order. Herbie figured, and the local economists confirmed, that it wasn’t the prospect of an additional 5% unemployment that was causing problems, it was the idea that one of them was going to lose his job, and no one knew who. The former President proposed a fire-walk. The first to burn his feet would be eaten by the rest. But a local newsman pointed out that when times got better, they’d be short one picker. That’s when Bushmeme resigned. In any event, Herbie couldn’t figure out why the bi-pieds were so confused. He knew that when there were fewer fish, the sea lions just didn’t eat out as much. So he called a news conference and announced a new “Share the Job’s” law. Henceforth, he proclaimed, when times are slow, no picker will lose his job. Instead, each will have an extra day off for every 20 days worked. Herbie knew the guy who would have lost his job now would have a full time job filling in for others.”

“But,” Ed said, “wouldn’t all the pickers have 5% less to spend?” “ Not exactly,” explained Sammy, “the decrease in pay was only 50 hoopy dollars. What the pickers got in exchange was an extra day off, and they all thought that was good trade. Even before the problems, they would have paid 50 hoopys for an extra day off. After “The Proclamation” no one was afraid of losing his job. They all got drunk, had big parties, and Big Sally’s business was never better. In fact, some enterprising pickers started trading popo beads on EBay on their new day off, and the EBay profits more than made up for the 50 hoopys. Others started traveling, some went shopping, and a few caught fish. Before long, there was an economic boom.

“So how are they handling the new prosperity?” asked Ed. “Not too well,” said Sammy, “The day after I left, the volcano erupted and burned up all the coconut trees. Now everyone’s trying to immigrate to California.”
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Homeless with Yacht

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Sammy the Sea Lion - episode 3
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“Ed, you seem a little down in the dumps, today,” said Sammy, Ed’s sea lion friend. “You still thinking about the stock market, all the people losing their jobs, possibly losing your savings? Maybe you’ll end up living full time on your boat here in Newport Harbor.”

“Well, now that you mention it, I’ve been thinking about it a lot,” said Ed, lowering his eyes as if embarrassed to admit it. He looked up and said, “I hate to say it, but it’s scary, I’ve never seen it this bad. When I was on the 15th Street dock this morning, I saw my stockbroker, Rodger, holding a sign which read ‘ HOMELESS WITH YACHT – WILL SAIL FOR FOOD!’ Now that’s scary, don’t you think?”

“Well, I guess I can’t blame you, Ed. If I had a lot of my assets in the market, I’d be a bit nervous, too. But being a simple sea lion, my assets are just the local fish, some mussels, and a bit of seaweed now and then. I never bothered with stocks, bonds, reverse annuities, or pork belly futures, for that matter. I guess I’m the smart one,” Sammy said matter-of-factly.

Sammy looked Ed in the eye and waved his flippers wide and continued, “True, I haven’t seen my house triple in value, then drop to only two times what I paid. Remember when the lenders were loaning to everyone? Well, they approached me one day. I told them I was just a sea lion with no visible means of support, but I could make payments with an extra fish now and then. Not to be deterred, they went ahead and wrote up the papers, but I couldn’t give them a thumb print. - See, no thumb.” Sammy pointed his nose toward his flipper. “When the loan broker offered me his thumb, I figured enough was enough, and told him he could keep the house.

”Ed laughed, “Sammy, you don’t know how lucky you are not to have to pay bills every month.” Sammy winked at Ed and said, “Ed, you’re break’n my heart. Gee, if I didn’t pay bills, I’d lose the home I don’t have, the car I don’t need, and restaurants I never go to. Like the songs says, ‘I gots plenty of noth’n and nothings plenty for me.’ But, I gots my fish, gots the sun, and gots my friends here in the Harbor.”

Ed smiled and thought to himself, “Must be nice to be a sea lion.”

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"I"

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I write with the “I” word,
too often as I might.
I cry with the “I” word,
when even out of sight.
I sing with the “I” word,
my songs with all my might.

When will I start singing
of others far or near.
When will I start writing
of others who have fear.
When will I stop shouting,
shouting, “I am here.”
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God, I Love a Depression

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Sammy the Seal Lion – Episode 4
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Sammy was sitting on the back of Ed’s Trawler reading the Sunday Paper when he looked up and said, “God, I love a good Depression.” Ed knew Sammy was looking to start a conversation so he played along and said, “You’ve got to be kidding.” That was all Sammy needed, for he was ready with his reply. “I’m serious, Ed. In fact, they shouldn’t call this economic slowdown a ‘depression,’ they should call it a return to sanity. Remember when people had time for themselves, time to talk to each other, time to read books, time to take their kids to the zoo? Remember when the barber put a sign in the window that said ‘Gone Fishing.’ Look at all these sailboats here in the Harbor. It’s been years since we’ve seen most of the owners. They’ve been too busy working 60 hour weeks to buy bigger houses and bigger boats, and they don’t have the time to enjoy them.”

“Sam, I’ve heard it before, all you need is fish, blah blah blah. Don’t you think it’s depressing for those out of work?” Ed continued, “And for the rest of us, you’re talking about the way things were over 40 years ago. You’re taking about small town America, the Andy Griffith Show and Leave it to Beaver.”

Sammy thought about what Ed said. “You’re right about the folks out of work. I guess I was being a little insensitive. But you know, if you bipeds with jobs would work a little less, maybe some of the people out of work could fill in now and then, so they’d have some work too.” Sammy took off his reading glasses and said, “I’ve heard people talk about those slower times as the ‘good old days.’ They said in those days you had time to think, time to sail, and more time to spend with family and friends. But then you invented cell phones so you could work in your cars, invented email so you could take your work home, and now you made iPhones and Blackberries so can work from your boats.” Sammy got excited and pointed his reading glasses at Ed. He said “You know, just yesterday I was on the beach when I decided to use the public bathrooms. I found myself standing at a urinal, and the guy next to me was doing his business and closing a deal on his cell phone at the same time. He didn’t even notice I was a sea lion! Ed, it seems to me that if you can’t have peace of mind in a public urinal, it’s just no place to be found.”

“Perhaps we got a little carried away,” admitted Ed. Sammy was so happy Ed got his point that he did a back flip. Then he said, “But what grips me is that when things finally start to slow down, they give it a bad name. They call it a ‘Depression,’ like they want you to be depressed, even those of you who are working. It’s like they don’t want you to enjoy the extra time. Can’t we just call it the ‘Vacation Economy’ instead? Maybe with the slower pace, we’d all be a little more human. Human? Did I say, Human? I guess I should have said, Mammalian.”
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How Not to Win a Race

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As you may know, I hate winning a sailboat race. Winning requires too much effort with not enough time to mix a good margarita. So luck struck again as I, your Cabinboy, along with fellow club members Tim Neely, Ken Schoffstoll, and Skipper Joe Greenblatt, took on all of California and entered the Silver Cup Race in Ventura on a chartered J-24.

Joe insisted we leave at 5:00 a.m. I thought he wanted to get the J-24 in the water early to make sure all systems were working well, but half way into the 2 hour drive the real reason for the early start became obvious. Joe wanted to stop for breakfast at his favorite Deli. After waiting half an hour for the Deli to open, we enjoyed bagels, eggs, and pickled herring.

We just made it to the start line. Joe’s eyes sparkled, for he was set on winning a race. Little did he know that I, as usual, was just out for a lazy cruise. He put me on the jib sheets. “Pull, let go, pull faster, faster, you’ve got to do it faster,” Joe commanded. I pretended to obey, but when he wasn’t looking, I’d revert to slow-mo, my favorite sailing position. Meanwhile Tim, who was in the small cabin happened to mention we were taking on “a bit of water.” Joe and Ken couldn’t hear him, they were in fast-mode, thinking they’d be winning a race. I looked in. Sure enough there was water up to Tim’s ankles. I told Tim not to worry, knowing it would slow the boat just enough to get us back to slow-mo.

The Santana winds were now blowing 35, and Joe’s fast-mode became light-speed mode, but to everyone’s surprise, our boat was slowing. Tim said, “we’ve got a bit more water.” I looked again and saw the water was now half way up to his knees. I was delighted. Meanwhile Joe and Ken were getting frustrated with falling behind. I was about to let them know that the boat was sinking when the traveler broke, the mainsheet got lose, and the boom went out of control. Ken snapped to the task and jury-rigged a line to control the boom. The water was up to Tim’s knees when Joe and Ken looked inside. I saw the dilemma in Joe’s eyes. Stay in the race, then scuttle the boat, with a chance of drowning, or call it a day and hope to make it back to the Harbor alive. I could see Joe was struggling with his choices. That’s when Ken reminded him that we had four of Southshore’s directors on board. Without us, there might not be votes for future races. “Back to the slip,” Joe ordered, for now he had a new challenge. Will we make to the slip before sinking? So Tim bailed, I helped, and Joe yelled at the Coast Guard and Harbor Patrol Boats not to give us a line, for this was Joe’s new race – he called it the “Make it to the Dock Before We Drown Race.” And with the help of Tim’s constant bailing and Ken and Joe’s expert sailing, we made it just in time to allow the Harbor Patrol to pump a thousand gallons out of the bilge. That’s when we found a hole in the stern that was supposed to be hooked up to a bilge pump, but for some reason, had been left unconnected. So as you can see, lucked blessed us again and we avoided another first place trophy.

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What Were They Thinking

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This blog got started a few years ago when my friend Annette at our Yacht Club asked me if I could write a monthly column about the club’s parties and social events. She had been writing the monthly column, but no longer had the time. She had never read anything I had written, but knew I always showed up for the parties and could drink with the best of them. I had never written a column before. I Figured she was putting this beer loving guy on, and so I went along with the joke. “Do you want me to write it in Yiddish or English?” I replied. Annette responded, “No, no, I’m serious,” she said, “the I thought you could do it, and the board of directors at the Yacht Club agreed. Besides, no one else was available.”

So I thought, “What the hack were they thinking?!!.” Asking this social nerd to write about "Social Events," is like asking King Kong to report on flower arranging. My idea of a good time is watching reruns of I Love Lucy while eating a bag of popcorn. What do I know, or any guy know, about being social, let alone writing about social events and parties. Do I really care about what gown JLO wore to the academy awards?

Think about it, Yacht Clubs are almost always run by guys. Guys like boats, most girls don't. Is That sexist or just an observation? I don't know. In any event, over the years the parties at the yacht club were organized by guys, like me, who’s idea of a good time was passing around a six pack, talking about the best bottom paint (that’s on a boat, not her backside), and seeing who can expel the most air. Let’s face facts, us guys, especially boat guys, don’t know didilly about how to organize a party or how to involve their other half, namely the lovely ladies of the club. In fact, if guys were smart about this, they would have given up their boats long ago, and would have taken up ballet instead. Yes, I said "ballet." Look, the logic is simple, here’s a young man’s choice:

(a) enroll in a ballet class with 50 beautiful, slim, and long legged women where you’re the only guy, and the girls all trust you because they think you are, lets say, “different,” or

(b) spend your weekends on a boat with four other guys, two miles offshore where even the sea lions don’t find you attractive.

You know the answer. The guys will always pick (b), and go for the sea lions. The girls know better. They go to the football games, and even clean and cook for us on our boats. Why? Because they are just better at this social stuff.

Now the point is not that we should turn every Yacht Club into ballet studios, although I could see myself doing pirouettes on the deck of my boat, Windswept. The point is that parties and social events are better reported on by anyone but me. That is why the articles which follow are without any authenticity and are completey without any redeeming social value.
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How We Avoided Wining the Race - Thank God

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Ensenada Race Log 2006 - As reported by Cabinboy with the help of David Karlin.

The Idea

"Our goal," said captain Scott to his newly formed crew, "is to avoid wining, or even placing in this race. At the same time, we have to avoid coming in last." Silence set upon the newly formed crew. Kent, a long time sailor and frequent member of racing crews thought this was an odd proposal as did Nevel who had traveled from Sussex, England to compete in the world's largest international sailboat race. Sure, avoiding last place was common sense, but Kent wondered, "Just what's wrong with first? Ain't that the point of the race? Other crew reactions followed in suit. Holly, who had just arrived from a 16 hour flight from Australia was too tired to think about it and just assumed her hearing was still lost up somewhere in the clouds. Bill, new to the racing scene, but a long time cruiser, didn't't allow himself to and struggle for some deeper meaning in Scott's words, instead, he simply accepted that he was confused and might have signed on for the wrong race. Yet Ramundo, who had known the skipper for years, just sat back and chuckled, assuming Scott was having some fun with the newly formed crew.

But even Ramundo was left, like Bill, in a confused state when Captain Scott, reacting to the odd looks of his would-be followers, explained, "If we come in last, naturally we will be disappointed, but mark me well, if we be so unfortunate so to come in first, well, that would mean we’d be working the whole time, wouldn’t it?” With no reaction from the racing crew, Scott continued, “That's 30 hours of trimming, changing sails, hand steering, and worrying about things like wind angles. So, I figure by changing our just goals a little, we can just kick back and enjoy the ride."

Scott could see the crew was not buying any of this. His would-be followers were moving about making the boat ready for a real race, so Scott gave it one last pitch, shouting so all could hear, "If we work hard, how will we have time to make the perfect margarita or enjoy laying on deck being warmed by the sun without the worry of a crazed sailor scrambling about making sail changes."

Scott still saw a lot of blank stares, but he would not give up his idea that striving to be the fastest boat seemed contrary to the natural rhythm and soul of sailing . Kent, Nevel, and Holly looked at each other and figured they’d just have to try to win the race without any help from the skipper. Rather than reacting with three cheers of hurrahs for the skipper, they figured instead that the captain was now useless and Kent called the others together to huddled for a pre-race strategy session. He pointed out that while at one time the right thing to do may have been to mutiny and throw the skipper overboard, for now they should just ignore him and hope he doesn't get in their way while they all worked toward victory.

And so the race began. The start was uneventful, now focused on the first place trophy and fueled by competitive drive, Kent, Nevel and Holly took to their positions as they turned the wheel, kept the time, and worked the sheets. Yet despite their overbearing enthusiasm, Captain Scott ignored this great drive to win and instead plopped down on his lawn chair, opened his first beer, and took to the important position of watching almost 500 soaring white sails winging above the water like flocks of migrant birds gliding past the start. Scott figured with a 124 miles of ocean between Newport and Ensenada, the first sixty seconds were better spent enjoying this view.

The First Bit of Good Fortune

The dedicated crew managed to be the sixth boat over the line of the 24 in its class. The race started slow. Speeds of 3 knots were showing on the knotmeter. Then after 15 minutes, with 50 or more boats still in close quarters, Scott saw the speed drop to 2 knots, but did not notice any decrease in wind speed. He went to the stern and looked over. Trailing from the back was what looked like a 30 foot green sea monster. On closer examination, it was a spine-like floating web of seaweed dragging from the boat. Like a dock line holding the boat to a slip, it was clear that this monster would guarantee an unacceptable last place finish.

So, down went the swim step, and Scott descended the latter while tieing himself to the boat by a safety harness. He then began fishing for the sea monster with a boat hook and bungee cord which he had tied to the end of the pole. All the while 26,000 pounds of Windswept continued pushing forward at 2 knots ready to leave him in the arms of the green monster if things went wrong. The crew gathered in the center cockpit to work on race strategy, figuring if the monster won, they be rid of Captain Scott without the bother of a mutiny.

The first attempt at retrieving the tangled trailing vine only resulted in breaking away the last ten feet. Like a lizard with a broken tail, this sea monster continued to wiggle and squirm. Now without a tail, it would be harder to land. Each time Scott attempted to snag it, the pole would pull away and then out to sea, all the while pulling Scott with it. The long arms of the leafy monster had wrapped around the rudder like the tentacles of an octopus. Scott almost exhausted, leaned over as far as he could, now halfway in the water, in one last attempt to be rid of the leviathan . He turned the pole slowly like a fork turning spaghetti. Finally the tentacles began to wrap around the hooks of the bungee and then bundled around the pole until a glob of the alien appeared on the head of the stick. With one pull it released its arms from the rudder and Scott raised the sea monster to the deck as a trophy from the sea.

The crew still discussing race tactics, hardly noticed the victory and reluctantly accepted the captain back on board. During this fight, the boat lost a good 20 minutes, and that, thought Scott, was a very good start at avoiding first place.

The rest of the day saw light winds which died to a whisper by the early morning. Since the boat was doing less than 2.5 knots with the wind, after a vote of the few remaining crew who had not yet passed out from the day made long by adjusting the sails and helm, and by sampling Scott's special margarita mix, the now groggy group decide to surrender the boat to engine power. It seems that at the Captain insistence, Windswept had entered the race as part of the “Cruising Class,” which is also known in some quarters as the Drinking Class. Under the rules governing this Class, the engine can be used at night to help the crew arrive in Ensenada before the bars close. This rule was a long time evolving, but in the end it has come to be accepted as a necessary and civilized modification of the basic racing rules of sailing. To take advantage of this great opportunity, there is, as one would expect, a substantial time penalty. The penalty is required so as not to defy a primary law of nature and to keep balance in the universe, namely, that there is no free lunch, or in this case, no free drinks. So the crew, led by the logic of Ramundo, figured correctly, that if Windswept was being pushed by the wind at less than 2.5 knots, it would be better moving forward at 7 or 8 knots under the power of the engine, even with the penalty. So sometime after midnight with almost no wind pushing Windswept to the bars of Ensenada, it was decided that she would now proceed by diesel power, thus trading the engine's consumption of the black liquid for the downing of an equal amount of the gold and silver liquid by the crew upon an early arrival. With the decision made, the spinnaker came down, the RPMs went up, and the boat now moved at almost 8 knots.

Luck Strikes Again

The next fortunate event occurred at about three in the morning. Scott was below working on his beauty sleep, or some would say, passed out, when the he was disturbed by the sweet sound of silence as Kent turned the Engine off. Scott thought, how nice, the wind must have picked up and now he could enjoy his slumber without any more noise or vibration. But assumptions being the bane of a thinking man, Scott was to find that his idea had no basis in fact. The truth was that the wind was not to be felt, and there was a lot of yelling on deck. Bill went below and reported to Scott, "the engine had a problem. The over-heat warning light went on, we must have sucked up an octopus or something into the cooling system."

So again Windswept was dead in the water. The spinnaker still laid flat on deck, and the engine problem needed to be solved. Scott, Bill and Kent worked on the problem, while the others slept. After a careful diagnosis of the cooling, straining, and oil systems, it seemed that the source of the problem could not be found, but bye and bye, the sucked up octopus (or whatever it might have been) somehow escaped, the engine was saved, and Windswept was again on its way. And so, after 20 minutes with no forward progress, Windswept was now proceeding at less than optimum engine speed to avoid any further problems. In Scott’s eyes, this was, of course, all good news, since this slower progress would surely guarantee less than a 2d place finish.

By noon the next day, the wind finally picked up and the Crew was delighted as that meant they were still in the race. The new fresh wind would take the motley crew all the way to the finish at or beyond maximum hull speed, faster than under the engine's power. The dolphins which had been swimming with the boat all night, just smiled as they played. A small yellow parakeet flew aboard and sat on Scott shoulder. Nevel now adopting to the new pace, worked on mixing the perfect margarita, Ramundo napped, and Kent, Bill and Holly considered the occasional trim of the 33 year old spinnaker that bellowed ahead of Windswept like the proud chest of a new father.


The Final Blessing

The outstretched spinnaker worked its wonder pulling the group ever closer to their destination until, of course, it decided to wrap itself around both the forestay and staysail halyard, just 12 miles from the finish. And so it was that the team was gifted with what Scott considered the final blessing. After 15 minutes of sitting dead in the water while tiring to untangle the great wing that brought Windswept so far and so fast, Scott and Kent decided to leave it alone and came in under mainsail only.

Now with the success of avoiding a top finish surely at hand, Scott brought all the lawnchairs on deck, made double pitchers of margaritas, prepared freshly made guacamole, and played sounds of salsa music over the boat’s cockpit speakers. And so it was that two hours later Windswept crossed the finish line with its spinnaker still wrapped, but now partly flying at the top like a flag being held by first line in a parade followed by Windswept’s tired by well liquefied crew and a happy Captain, who was now dancing with Helen to salsa sounds of the great Ceila Cruz.

Race Results

The next day at the Bahia Hotel in Ensenada, the standings were posted next to a crowd of 1000 waiting sailors. Having traveled the last 12 miles without spinnaker and having been delayed or stopped three times during the voyage, the only question was whether Windswept would end up in last place. The question was answered when the Mayor of Ensenada and other officials announced the results. To everyone's surprise, the crew of Windswept was called to the stage to accept a 4th Place in finish in their class. The crowd looked around, but the crew was nowhere to be found. It seems they had made their way to the makeshift South Shore Yacht Club bar, and had been sipping on margaritas all afternoon, having now adopted, by consolation, their skipper's philosophy.

When the crew later heard the news, they cheered each other with a sense of accomplishment in light of what they considered their many obstacles, not least of which was the strange attitude of their skipper. Having viewed each mishap as a bit of good luck, thought they were truly blessed, having avoided, at once, a top finish and last place. The thought fourth was just perfect.

Unfortunately for Scott, he and the crew were actually given a trophy for the fourth place finish. Now Scott will no doubt be busy looking for a place to hide the trophy, as he surely does not want to be tempted to take the race seriously next year.

_____________

* Most of the names have been changed to protect the crew from having to explain all of this to serious sailors.
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Scott for President

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This being an election year, I have decided to put in my bid for President of these United States. Humbly and with humility I venture to higher aspirations after my meteoric rise to the post of Rear Commodore. I now ask for your support and for your write-in vote.

The qualifications that led to my recent appointment as Rear Commodore, are the same reasons which support my Presidential candidacy. At the age of 8, I dreamed of following Tom Sawyer on his raft down a lazy river. I spent many afternoons at Disneyland on Tom Sawyer’s Island watching the canoes and river rafts. At 10, Tom was replaced by Gardner McKay. You may remember Gardner; he was the star of the TV show, Adventures in Paradise. I dreamed of sailing in the South Seas with him, aboard his schooner Tiki, with a girl in every port. At 12, I bought my first copy of Chapman’s Piloting and Seamanship, and I found a small paperback at a used bookstore called How to Sail. At 16, still never having been on a boat, I asked my high school principal, Mr. Straight, if he would let me graduate early to join the merchant marines. I told him seeing the world would be a better education than my last year in school. Principal Straight asked me only one question, “Are you out of your mind?” With that insight, he denied my request, spent another year in school and somehow managed to graduate. So instead of sailing the seven seas, I went to college where I managed a few sailing lessons in Newport’s sheltered harbor.

As you may know, about four years ago I acquired Windswept, my first boat. My only qualifications for sailing her were my childhood dreams of river rafts, schooners and merchant ships, and a few times out on a Lido 14. Now, after four years, whenever I set to sea, I ask experienced sailors to come along to make the voyage more rewarding. With these days at sea, I can tell you that I have now managed to perfect great margaritas, while watching others do the work of sailing the boat.

This month I was appointed Rear Commodore of our Yacht Club. I was eager to accept, thinking this the best way to get others to buy me drinks. Upon my appointment, my one request was that by the end of the year, replace me with someone with real boating knowledge, so that I might pursue higher office. Empowered by my recent appointmet, I have decided to use the prestige of my new position to springboard my Presidential bid. From these humble beginnings, and with your help, I know anything is possible. I say, Yes, I Can. And so, let us all be reminded of the wisdom of the musical, H.M.S. Pinafore, where the Admiral of the English Navy, sings the refrain: “Stick close to your desks and never go to sea, and you may be the Leader of the Queen’s Navy!”

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My Feminine Side

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I never thought about a sex change operation. Not once. Never owned a doll house; never baked a cake; never cleaned the kitchen, and I was not interested in decorating. I don’t know how the transformation began, but sometime after buying a boat I noticed things began to change. My boat, Windswept, was my miniature house equipped with a scaled down kitchen, little pots and pans, an itsy bitsy frig, a baby bathroom, and a petite sofa they called a “settee.” I found myself cooking, cleaning, scrubbing, vacuuming, taking out the trash, and enjoying it. Meanwhile my wife would watch HGTV shows like “design on a dime,” and “beautiful house.” When I came home, I found myself sitting beside her, thinking how hot lavender would look great in Windswept’s salon. Then I read in a sailing magazine how real men at sea learn to sit and never stand while relieving themselfs. Now on Windswept the seat is always down, and I’m thinking about installing pink fluffy seat covers.

I never thought about going with the guys to a “sleep-over.” As a kid, only girls would do sleep-overs. Yet at my first raft-up I realized I could stay out late, drink and talk into the late night, then fall asleep in any nook or cranny, with other guys sprawled out below and on deck. Gee it was one big slumber party, and I was having fun!! What was happening to me?

When I heard Jay Boatman, the crusty old racer, talk lovingly about how he just adored sewing, I began to think I was not alone. He showed me the cute little cover he made for his to cover the boom on his boat, frills and all, and then the showed me the socks he made for his grandchildren. Wow, I wondered, were we all infected? It was like the movie, “Invasion of the Body Snatchers.” Sometime while sleeping aboard, our brains were exchanged for those of the weaker sex. Now, I love to cook, sew, clean, decorate and go to slumber parties. Oh ... I could just cry.

I finally realized that the body snatching of sailors started long ago when I saw all the earrings, bracelets, and flowing blouses on the hardened old pirates and sailors. We could see this at the annual Buccaneer Days festival on Catalina Island. “Arrrrrrr we looking good?” could be heard from every quarter as they pranced around in their lovely attire. And so it was that I hardly thought twice when Barnacle Bill showed up at Opening Day at our Yacht Club wearing a skirt, showing off his handsome long legs. He called it a kilt, but I knew better. . .

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Why Cabin Boy?

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“So what’s with the “Cabin Boy” thing?,” I was recently asked this by Belle who showed up with my friend Sporty Sailor for a day say on my boat, Windswept. I replied, “By 'Cabin Boy' I want you to appreciate my complete and utter lack of sailing experience and my total lack of any useful boating knowledge.” Seeing a puzzled look on her face, I continued, “When you are on my boat, please never ever utter the words, 'Ay Ay Skipper,' and feel free to question my every decision. In an emergency as I yell ‘Abandon ship - inflate the life raft,’ don’t hesitate to tell me that we are still tied to the dock.”

“But,” she protested, “aren’t we supposed to have confidence in you?” Maybe I hadn’t made myself clear. “Listen”, I said as I opened another beer, “On Windswept we practice the Ronald Reagan theory of Sailing, that’s all there is to it. I invite the smartest and most experienced sailors who are willing to put up with me, offering them as much beer as they can drink, and then I defer to their every decision.” Now I think she was beginning to understand and I saw her confidence increase, but not wanting her to become too relaxed, I continued, “You know the less you trust me, the more exciting it will be for the both of us, and so I guess you’ll just have to help run this boat.”

As her brow began to tense, she said, “I thought I was just along for the ride. Maybe I could help below with making the sandwiches.” Putting on my South Shore Yacht Club sailing cap, I replied, with all the authority of a Skipper, “How boring is that? And besides, the sandwiches are the only thing I do well.”

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The Old Sailors Home

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This year, Senior Staff Commodore Jolly Joe Walley announced special concessions to senior sailors in the “Crew of 2” ’round Catalina Island sailboat race. Walley explained that this was done to increase interest in the 50 year old race and at the same time, comply with the ADA and Elderly Anti-Discrimination Acts. The new rule allowed a third crew member if two of the crew were over 60 years old. When news of the rule change was announced, residents of the South Coast Old Sailor’s Home went wild. Salty Sam got so excited that he unpinned his pampers, spun them around his head and with the precision of a slingshot, flung it and its contents across the room, barely missing the head of nurse Helg Von Hangem. That’s when Boatswain Billy detached his ventilator, put on his speaking box, and yelled “whoopeeeeeeee, whoopeeeeeee.” Others, led by Don Oldman started to sing “My Way,” and began to dance a jig. The jig was accompanied by the constant sound of passing gas, like someone was tooting a small French horn. That’s when nurse Helga, fondly known as the “Warden,” declared with her Norwegian accent, “Dar vi no talk of sailing fer ye Boys. Das ist fer da young-old, not elderlings. Forestore du dat – Understand you that?”

All seemed calm until the night before the race. Sam put on four extra pairs of pampers and carefully detached Billy’s ventilator. Dancing Don unlocked two oxygen tanks and our three boys jumped into electric wheelchairs and made their way to Sam’s sailboat, “Cobwebs,” which hadn’t been used in over ten years. All the better Sam thought, since the sails were barely used, making up for the rather old design.

When the race committee spotted Sam and his crew, they quickly announced a rule change. Jolly Joe Walley yelled out the new rule, “If all crew are over 80, they need to sign a ‘Right to Sail’ addendum to their Medical Directive.” Walley told the trio, “It’s a standard form, sign it or you don’t race.” The addendum read:

“I understand that given my age and medical condition I will likely die during the race. I do not want to delay the race, nor do I want the aid of Vessel Assist, so just throw me overboard and consider it my burial at sea. As a concession, I understand my estate will pay half the normal burial fee.”

The three shrugged their shoulders, signed, and off they went. Sam thought the starting horn was the sound of Dancing Don passing gas again and the three missed the start. By the time they crossed the line they were fifteen minutes behind the other boats. But late in the evening the wind died down and Sam and the boys slowly began to gain on the others. It seems that all three weighed less than any two younger crew on the other boats. They knew they had a weight advantage and they also knew they could skip potty breaks thanks to Sam’s extra supply of pampers.

In the final minute before the finish, in a light breeze, Sam and the boys had almost caught the top rated boat, “Happy Sails to You.” With no more that 15 seconds to go and half a boat length behind, Sam yelled his final order. “Do it NOW Billy, Do it NOW!! That’s when Billy unplugged his ventilator, and pointed it to the mainsail, and then Don opened the valve on the oxygen tank all the way. With this new fresh breeze, Cobwebs inched passed Happy Sails and won the race.
Back at the Old Sailor’s Home, nurse Helga discovered the happy crew were missing and mounted a search party. Upon their return they were given a hero’s welcome. However, as punishment, Helga decided to cancel their subscription to “Sail Magazine” and told them they never again were allowed to sing, “My Way.”