S/V Blondie-Dog Settles Into Her New Diggs...

Yippers! Dat indeedy be S/V Blondie-Dog now tied up in her new diggs. And I's also gots to tells ya dat she now be a most happy camper cause she now no longer be out at anchor all day by her lonesums' and dat she also now be most content to be among da likes of her own kind.

In facts, I is quites sure dat if all dem 'udder boats tied up at dat same marina were to somehows be poochie-dogs, 'den fer sure 'deyed all be a 'gettin' down right acquainted wit' one another and a studiously sniffin' one anothers' rear-ends by now.

'Cause dat what poochie-dogs do whens 'dey wants to git' to knows one another not dat ya needed my sorry ass to enlighten ya 'bouts sumptin' dat ya already done knows.

Anywho's dis here boat dock be at a fine, upscale marina located out among da mangroves wheres gators have been known to lurk beneath da docks in hopes of making a meal out of some unsuspectin', incautious, snockerd' sailor.

And I also be glads to tells ya 'dat it be a good thing 'dat I no longers be but a vagrant-on-a-boat and a drinkin' me-self silly every  night and sumhows' be a riskin' dat I becomes but a big pile of gator poop come morning time.

Yep, dis here marina be located in da fine respectable community of Goodland... and it be a fine drinkin' community wit' but a small fishing problem and wheres' but a measly can-opener is all ya needs to breaks into yor neighbors' trailer park home.

Yippers... Blondie-Dog be a happy camper now!














Blondie-Dog... woof! sniff, sniff, sniff.

Retrieving an Errant Anchor After Hurricane Issac Skirts on by Marco Island...

Tropical Storm Issac may indeed be but an afterthought by now insofar Southwest Florida and the Florida Keys are concerned, but I somehow gotta believe that a good many of us in its path somehow managed to inadvertently dodge an errant bullet of sorts.

Not a real bullet mind you but just a figuratively speaking bullet unlike the ones inflicted upon the dumbass mofo who against his better judgment, managed to somehow piss-off former Vice President Dick Cheney while bird hunting in Texas one weekend awhile back.

Yet I also gotta say that it was quite fortuitive for Marco Island and the rest of Southwest Florida that Tropical Storm Issac elected to scoot further on out into the gulf and not come ashore after crossing over the Florida Keys.

For with me no longer being but a vagrant-on-a-boat and with me now gainfully employed and all, the last thing that I wanted to do was to have to take time off from work and have to deal with securing my boat out at anchor.

But that 'feller sailors is just what I did. I set about purchasing yet another anchor at the last moment 'cause we all know that one simply can't have too many anchors when dealing with hurricanes.

And although S/V Blondie-Dog did happen to have two anchors holding her down in place, I had to believe that a third anchor was imperative because in the not so memorable words of Jimmy Buffet, "You Just Can't Reason With Hurricane Season".

And after fortuitively finding an affordable anchor for sale off of Craig's List, I arranged to buy the darned thing that very same Friday afternoon. I'd worry about getting my ground tackle squared away the following morning. Unfortunately for me however that was when the stress of dealing with an approaching hurricane evidently started to take its toll on me.

For ya see, my heart just hasn't been into sailing for awhile now and I would have much preferred to be doing anything but screwing around with my boat come first thing on a Saturday morning.

So after getting my ground tackle all squared away, I loaded it all up into the dinghy along with my newly purchased anchor and proceeded to "set" the thing after heading on out to the boat.

Unfortunately for me however, that was when I discovered to my sudden dismay that I had failed to cleat off the bitter end of my anchor rode while dinghing out away from Blondie-Dog. My anchor along with twenty feet of chain and one hundred and fifty feet of rode was now silently resting at the bottom in about seven feet of muddy, murky water much to my consternation.

That anchor and stretched out chain and rode might as well have been lying in a good hundred feet of water 'cause the reality of it all is that murky is murky and one simply can't see much beyond one's eye-lids while in murky water.

And never mind whether or not I had invested some four hundred dollars or so procuring that anchor and ground tackle and that a hurricane now happened to be on its way. And never mind whether or not that I for one had previously guffawed and scoffed at other sailors who had in the past failed to cleat off their anchor prior dropping the thing into the water for I had now inadvertently joined an unenviable club.

Yet the most incredulous part of it all is that but a minute or two earlier I had indeed realized that I hadn't cleated off the darned thing to begin with and somehow in my haste I had rationalized, "Oh screw it, I've got plenty of rode up on deck, I ain't got to worry about it."  "I'll cleat it off when I get back."

And with that ignominious blunder I then motored on back to my boat to retrieve my mask and fins along with a dinghy anchor in but a feeble attempt to locate and retrieve my anchor.

Only this time I emphatically made it a point to diligently tie off my rusty dinghy anchor to the transom before dropping it overboard. 'Cause the last thing that I needed to see happen at that very moment was have Issac blow my dinghy clear across the river while I still be in the water furtively searching for my anchor.

Needless to say, locating that errant anchor was like attempting to find the proverbial needle in a hay stack. There wasn't a chance in hell that I'd ever find it. Visibility couldn't have been more than a foot at most in that shallow muddy water. And with Issac scheduled to swing on by sometime later in another day or two, there was little to do but resign myself to the inevitable and call it a day.

Well so much for diligent hurricane preparations... Unfortunately for me however I ain't got no one else to blame for my incautious mistake... and yep, that stupid mistake was all on me and nobody else.

I suppose that's what happens when one is aggravated in the first place for whatever reason. I simply didn't want to be dealing with the task at hand at that particular moment and in my haste made a stupid yet completely avoidable mistake. Oh well... it wouldn't be the first time that I made an impulsive f***-up.

It also goes without saying that I did unleash a few choice words in Issac's direction.... all in Spanish of course so that that mofo might fully understand just what it was that I had to say to his sorry ass... "PuNieTa!!, CaRaJo!!, CoNiO!! were a but a few choice words that readily come to mind at this particular moment not that anybody else could hear me when hurling those unpleasantries into the twenty knot winds.

So that's how spent the next two days or so... pissin' and moanin' about my f***-up all the while contemplating just how I was going to go about retrieving my errant anchor once the weather had finally decided to settled down.



Yep!, 'dat indeed be me decidedly pleased with myself a week later after retrieving my errant anchor with my modified boat-hook contraption.

Well heck, I may even look into patenting the dang thing. And I also gotta believe that it's a good thing that I'd occasionally peruse a random "Popular Mechanics" magazine or two back in the day. 'Cause for sure I wouldn't have come up with my brilliant idea had I not ever put down the Playboy magazine that I'd invariably be holding in one hand back in my youth.

I do nevertheless suppose that my contraption will need a catchy name of sorts to make it some what marketable. Well heck... perhaps West Marine might possibly be interested in displaying my contraption on their shelves. I suppose that I just might call it a "Snag an Errant Anchor Rode Modified Boat Hook". Yep, 'dats a catchy name that ought to work.

Assembly Parts:

one boat hook
fifty feet of clothes line
three garage hooks
two hose clamps
one spring loaded shackle
one set of tool wrenches, (for weighing down the boat hook)
and a good measure of patience

Well after twenty minutes or so of trolling for my anchor rode I hit pay dirt and snagged that mofo. It was a darned good feeling when my dinghy lurched to an abrupt stop upon snagging that anchor rode. In but an instant I was cautiously pulling that snagged anchor rode on up to the surface after putting my outboard in neutral.

And I'll also have you know that I ain't ever before seen or smelled such slick, nasty, smelly crud a-clinging to the rode and anchor not that you will hear me complaining.

And to tell ya the truth, it kinda, sorta reminded me of something akin to the slick, nasty, smelly crud that might perhaps be a-clinging to one's business after hooking up with some random, scanky chic at a bar only to later engage in an impulsive, after-hours poke & go if ya knows what I means. (wink, wink, chuckle, chuckle, chuckle...)

Yippers... there was simply no way in hell that I wasn't going to retrieve that errant anchor dammit... that is unless of course my small portable cooler were to first run out of cold beer that I happened to be sippin' while trolling for that anchor.





Yeah man... 'dat be my errant anchor and rode.




And 'dat be me totally pleased with myself before heading back ashore for a celebratory cold brewski at Jack's Lookout, a dockside bar alongside of the Rose Marco River Marina.





And in the fine memorable words of former President Dubya Bush, "Mission Accomplished"...





And 'dat there be my freebie dinghy anchor that I claimed as mine after its previous owner had discarded it and set it alongside of the trash dumpster at the Key West, Garrison Bight Dinghy Dock parking lot.





S/V Blondie-Dog. Marco Island.

Celebrating the Fourth on Marco Island Beach...

Well folks, not that you need my sorry ass to tell you otherwise, but this year's Fourth of July festivities now seem but a distant faded memory.

At least for me it does anyways.

And I suppose that is something to be expected when a highly anticipated summer holiday just so happens to land right smack in the middle of a work week. Not a weekend mind you, but rather a work week.

Work week as in I've since rejoined the masses of working stiffs and now have a day job to scurry off to come Monday mornings and that I also no longer be but a vagrant-on-a-boat... all of which is a good thing as far as I am concerned.

In any event celebrating the Fourth among friends on a pristine sandy beach while sipping on a few ice cold Budweisers ain't all bad. Okay... maybe more than just a few but who's counting?

Nevertheless it did occur to me while sipping on those cold brewskies as I'd occasionally gaze out across the open blue water, that I've had the good fortune to have been to a number of beaches over the years with Marco Island Beach being but the latest.

Yet somehow I'd also like to tell ya'll how gazing out upon that ocean blue water had me yearning to hoist Blondie's sails and set sail off over the horizon yet again but I won't for I'd be lying if I did 'cause it just wasn't so.

Nope, there was no yearning to set sail for the open seas for the simple truth of the matter is that I am now most delighted to be back on the hard and off the boat. Not only that but I also happened to be at that particular moment quite content discreetly gawking at the many scantily clad babes strutting along the shoreline.

Yep... all 'dem good looking ladies with their enticing boobs flopping all about had indeed disconcerted me to no end. And though I now may be an 'ol fart, I did nevertheless feel a compelling need to reach for a towel to cover up an inadvertent flag pole if you know what I mean. And of course it also didn't hurt to imbibe more than just a few cold brewskies to help cool me down somewhat as well.

Incidentally, I don't know about my fellow Americans but I for one always take a moment to thank the French whenever the Fourth of July festivities roll around.

For if it hadn't been for Major-General Lafayette and of his service to General Washington during the American Revolutionary War, we'd all still be singing "God Save the Queen" and that would have been a bad thing... at least as far as I am concerned.







S/V Blondie-Dog on a leash. Marco Island.

Off da Boat and Happy to be Eatin' Sum Real Food fer a Change...

Yep... It do indeed make me most happy to finally be off da boat and eatin' me sum real food fer a change.

And I ain't lying whats-so-evers when I tells ya'll dat I do hopes to never agin have ta eats anymore crap out of a tin can dat mights have been a rollin' about inside my tote box fer months on end.

Dang right folks... Ya'll heards me right... I ain'ts ever a wanting to eats me another tin of Vienna Sausages, or Spam Ham, or Dinty Moore Stew, or even any more Hormel Chile wit Beans. And I's also ain't evers a wantin' to eat any more macarroni and cheese dat I'd routinely buy me at da Dollar Store.

Nope... from here on out I be scarfin' down sum mighty fine Prime Rib and corn-on-da-cob right off a hot grill courtesy of my Marco Island Lady-Friend. And I also don'ts care one bit whethers or not my lady-friend objects to any of my table manners 'cause I eats like I feels like it whether I be but a vagrant on a boat or not.

And one last thing feller sailors... I ain't evers gonna drink me any more warm beer either... dat is of course if I don'ts run outs of any cold ones inside da 'fridge.








Yeah man! I now be a mighty fine cook and be cooking me sum mighty fine Creole cuisine in a real kitchen wit decent pots and pans.

And dude, if ya do know how to read, den jest do what de recipe tell ya to do. Otherwise do like I do and watch Chef John explain how it be done on one of his many instructive videos.

http://foodwishes.blogspot.com/2012/02/creole-crab-corn-chowder-let-good.html



And nope, ya won't ever see me cookin' up this concoction evers agin'...



Yep... and also made me a fine upside down pineapple cake too jest 'cause I felts like it. I did neverthess use up a tin of Dole pineapple chunks rather than cuttin' up a real pineapple. But nobody better be a squealin' on me and a tellin' Chef John daggomit.

http://foodwishes.blogspot.com/2012/03/pineapple-upside-down-cake-now-and-then.html

Setting Sail and Bidding Goodbye to Key West...

Setting sail and bidding adios to Key West wasn't hard to do in the least and with tax season having concluded and with me no longer earning a paycheck, and with a favorable weather window on hand, it was an easy decision to hoist sails and haul my ass on out of there.

Yep, I'd grown tired of the frivolity of the Key West lifestyle and of its high cost of living and of everything even remotely associated with tourist.

Not that there is is anything wrong with tourist per se, for tourist are but ordinary folks chasing a good time before having to head on back to their respective homes and to the daily grind of commuting to and from work.

Yet the real fact of the matter is that I'd grown weary of the so-called cruising lifestyle and of all its inconveniences. And it's not like I'd sailed the Seven Seas either or even so much as done any occasional sailing.

So it was easy for me to conclude that it was high time that I cease being but a vagrant on a boat and simply get on with the rest of my life.

Admittedly, I simply never got around to embracing the so-called cruising lifestyle this time around as apart from when I previously sailed along with my then wife aboard S/V BratCat back in '88 and '89.

The daily exhilaration of cruising just wasn't there for me this time around which leads me to believe that companionship of all things might perhaps be the key to joy no matter what one might be endeavoring to do whether it be taking the dog for a walk or grilling burgers together out in the back yard.




In any event, Day One (May 8th) got off to an inauspicious start. I was kinda, sorta late in pulling away from the mooring ball in Garrison Bight and of later motor sailing on out the Key West Channel against the oncoming tidal current.

Yep I know. I briefly went on over to the "dark side" and cranked up the motor as apart from attempting to sail on out through the channel.

I'd simply forgotten just how strong the currents can be in that channel and it seemed like forever to finally get on past the cruise ships on the south end of the channel and then on out to open waters were I could later hoist Blondie's sails in earnest.

I suppose that I should have done a little research before departing and made sure that I'd be departing with an outgoing current. But ya'll should know me by now... I couldn't be bothered.

Besides the NBA playoffs had started... that and the fact that there was plenty of cold beer to be imbibed at a nearby local pub might have had something to do with it.

So yeah, I'll be the first to admit that for better or worse my attention was elsewhere and not on the Key West Channels' incoming and outgoing currents.

And so with light south-easterly winds I proceeded to set sail for Bahia Honda. Unfortunately for me however it was slow sailing. There was simply no way that I'd make Bahia Honda some thirty-five miles away before night fall.

So with noon approaching, I happened to sight some sailboats at anchor off in the distance near Stock Island and elected to drop an anchor as well. I'd set sail in earnest the following morning at daybreak.

However to Blondie's misfortune, low tide had started to set in and Blondie's keel was soon resting on the bottom. Fortunately a passing boater was gracious enough to pull my boat out into deeper water.

(memo to self: check the tides before anchoring and don't assume that that larger sailing vessel you see at anchor out there draws more than you do.)



Ooops... a super new moon... combined with low tide ain't a good thing.





At anchor, Day 1.

Well needless to say, it felt good to get on out of the hot sun. In any event those light southeasterly winds simply weren't pushing me along fast enough and in hindsight it was a good decision to drop an anchor and sail another day.

At the very least I had finally committed to getting underway and had now departed Key West in earnest.

Day two, daybreak.

With a pot of coffee already brewed, I pulled up anchor and hoisted sails just as the sun started to peek over the horizon. Winds were still relatively light but were forecasted to shift on out of the south for an easy sail on to Bahia Honda.

Well it was indeed an easy sail. Too easy as a matter of fact. A little more wind would have been most welcomed but Blondie did eventually sail on into Bahia Honda sometime in the late afternoon.

And with a swift oncoming current flowing out from that anchorage, I had to once again go on over to the "dark side" and crank up the outboard motor for a little assistance.

Once inside that anchorage I was only too happy to drop the sails and anchor and later row my inflatable ashore to use the Park's outdoor rinse for a nice cool shower. Fortunately there weren't any fat German tourist lurking around in their speedos unlike the previous time I'd made a stop there.

Afterwards I treated myself to not just one but two lemon ice teas out of the vending machine before rowing my inflatable back on out to the boat for the evening. And I don't recall Arizona lemon ice tea ever tasting so good if the truth be told.

The following morning was more of the same. I rowed ashore, loitered about the Park premises, and did my best to stay out of the bright sunlight. Once again there didn't seem to be much wind blowing so I was somewhat content to stay put until it did pick up.

Well it wasn't until eleven in the morning or so that the coconut tree palms finally started swaying whereupon I hurriedly rowed back out to the boat, hoisted sails, pulled up anchor and got underway.

Before long Blondie was scooting on out of Bahia Honda and on towards Moser Channel and out under the Seven Mile Bridge.

What can I say other than, "If It Don't Blow, I Don't Go"...

It was a sail that took longer than anticipated but once safely on the intercoastal side and in relatively shallow waters, I again dropped the sails and set an anchor for the evening.

I'd worry about sailing on to Marathon in the morning when I wasn't quite so exhausted and overheated.



Poking along on towards the Seven Mile Bridge, Day 3.



At anchor, intercoastal side of the Seven Mile Bridge, Day 3.



Early morning, Day 4.



A quick early morning sail to Keys Fisheries in Marathon. Day 4. No need to hoist the main that morning. Within an hour or two I was once again at anchor.



Me eagerly awaiting for 1 pm to roll around and for the Keys Drinkeries Tiki Hut to open up for business so that I could then indulge in a few cold Heinekens that just happened to have my name written on them. Hey... we's all gots our own priorities ya know.

Later that evening I trekked a little ways to Daffy Doug's Discount Store and purchased a few provisions for the rest of my sail on up to Cape Sable and later on to Marco Island.

This time I was sure to scrutinize my receipt and ensure that I wasn't overcharged like the previous time I had been in there. Yeah, you can say that I'm still hacked-off over being overcharged the last time I was in there.

http://svblondiedog.blogspot.com/2011/03/bad-karma-aboard-sv-blondie-dog.html

Early morning, Day 5.

Day five was pretty much a non-event insofar sailing was concerned. I had intended to set sail for Cape Sable that morning but it was pretty much a no-go from the get-go.

Light winds made for slow progress and I eventually got tired of baking in the sun and dropped a hook a few miles north off of Fat Deer Key.

NOA Weather Radio was forecasting 10-15 mile an hour winds out of the east for the next coming days so there was no sense in attempting to slog it out. I'd wait for the winds to pick up for my twenty mile sail on up to Cape Sable.



Early morning, Day 6.

Winds did indeed pick up as forecasted and with the dinghy now deflated and securely stored aboard the boat, I reefed the main and set off for Cape Sable at a good clip. Blondie was finally gliding swiftly across the water.

It was indeed an easy sail on past Cape Sable and before long Blondie was leaving Middle Cape and Northwest Cape in her wake.

That's when a previously forecasted weather system or whatever weather folks call inclement weather, overtook Blondie and a few other nearby sailing vessels.

Fortunately Blondie's mainsail was already reefed when overtaken by that squall. Not long thereafter I was dropping an anchor off of the entrance to Little Shark River and calling it a day.

It didn't make any sense to me to follow two other sailing vessels I'd seen earlier on into the mouth of that river so I didn't.

Hey, what can I say other than I ain't no dummy... I know damned well that there are blood-thirsty mosquitoes in that alligator infested mangrove just waiting for some unsuspecting sailor to come upon them.

And you can also forget about me wanting to take a quick dip into the water to cool off in some forsaken place called Little Shark River for if there are little sharks lurking about, then surely their parents can't be too far off along.

I did nevertheless turn on my handheld radio and then proceed to eavesdrop in on a conversation among the two skippers at anchor. One skipper commented to the other that his anemometer, whatever that might be, had recorded a reading of 39 miles an hour at one point.

That must have been while his boat was motoring on in towards Little Shark River and when his boat suddenly appeared to be all greyed-out by the storm and was now going backwards of all things while Blondie continued to swiftly sail on forwards.




Approaching inclement weather. Somewhere off of Middle Cape.



Early morning, Day 7.

Day Seven was pretty much a non-event. I pulled up anchor first thing in the morning only to then observe the other two sailing vessels do likewise. Those two "powerboats" then proceeded to swiftly motor on past me and before long were soon out of sight.

Oh well... Blondie happens to be a sailboat and she ain't got an inboard engine to push her along and dat be dat.

And with Blondie casually sailing along, Ponce de Leon Bay was soon but an afterthought along with Highland Point, Lost Man's River, Indian Key Pass and the rest of the Ten Thousand Islands.





Me enjoying a little shade courtesy of my portable bimini while sailing in light winds. Dang... I can only hope that no one saw me... Somewhere in the middle of nowhere.




Late afternoon, Day 8.

Marco Island at last.

And not unlike your typical Betty Ford Clinic patient, I am what one would call, "Back Again"...



Me measuring the depth of the water with my sophisticated depth sounder. Marco Island.




Easy sailing with five toes on the tiller while en route to Sand Key some five or so miles offshore from Key West. S/V BratCat, 1989.





Last day aboard S/V Blondie-Dog as a liveaboard. From here on out I be but a day sailor!

Hurricane Refugee Status Does Have its Benefits...

While I'd like to sit here and blog away that I heroically endured Hurricane Irene's fury as she inflicted much havoc while sweeping on through the Florida Keys... I can't because it simply didn't happen.

Not that I would have known any different since after setting out all my anchors and securing my boat, I dinghied ashore, loaded up my fully-depreciated car and drove across the state to flee the oncoming unpleasant weather.

It wasn't like my boat was outta-sight and outta-mind though. I did what any sensible and responsible boat owner would do. I'd periodically go online to the City Marina's website and view the anchorage via web-cam while sipping on a cold beverage.

And since I didn't see any boats mangled up in the mangroves, I reasonably concluded that my boat was just fine and right where I had left it which indeed was the case upon my return.

So after suspending any immediate plans to sail on to Key West, I simply loitered for days on end at my lady-friend's "Hurricane Irene Refuge".

Yeah man... I aint's no dummy... after growing up in Puerto Rico, I know first hand the inconveniences that a hurricane can bring on. Besides that I'll be the first to remind one and all that I'm but a day-sailor at heart and not a cruiser.

The Theory of People Weirdness in the Keys...

My dear lady-friend from up on Marco Island has a theory about the Keys. It's a simple theory which makes a lot of sense and one that I may have previously heard from other sources as well. In any event I've been here long enough to attest to the fact that the theory does indeed have some validity to it.

The theory simply states that the further south one ventures down the Keys, the weirder people seem to get with the weirdest of all to be found in Key West... the last of the Keys with no more Keys to venture further on south to.

The Keys can thought of in a manner of speaking, as little magnets not unlike the ones stuck on your refrigerator door with lots of clutter pinned underneath. The Keys for whatever reason, seem to attract folks with "unconventional" lifestyles from all over the country.

I'm not just talking about the "fruits, nuts and yogurt" kind of folks either and it does seem as if most everybody down here has an independent streak of sorts about themselves. It's not uncommon to see folks practicing yoga outdoors in the early sunlight or even meditating out in a public setting.

Both young and old folk can be seen wearing wild hair along with tattoos adorning every part of their body. Other folks are into herbs and stuff, some of which are used for making tea while others are to be lit up and inhaled... not unlike the scene in small town middle America when I come think about it.

Even boaters tend to be weird and I'll even include myself in this group of folks. Collectively we all somehow seem to purport having circumnavigated and conquered the world when all we've done for the most part is dinghy to and from shore and blow off another day.

The local Cuban community in my judgement is an exception to the Keys weirdness theory. These folks tend to fly under the radar screen, are family oriented and depend on one another to get ahead in whatever endeavor it might be.

Retired military veterans on the other hand are unpleasantly weird more often than not. For whatever reason they all seem to sport an unkempt grey beard to go along with a perpetual scowl on their face.

They're quick to remind everyone that they've "served" and come across as having a sense of entitlement all the while expecting someone to pin yet another medal to their chest and to thank them yet once again for not having subjected themselves to a career of corporate downsizing.

Even tourist tend to get weirded out when they arrive here in the Keys... especially if they are here if only but for a few days. A case in point is when I happened to be in Key West a number of weeks ago sipping on a cold beverage one afternoon.

While watching tourists stroll along Duval Street, I observed a mature couple walking side by side. What made this couple standout was that the guy had strapped on a two-foot long anatomically correct male apparatus which could be seen dangling out of his pants zipper. To complete the look, he had a cigar in one hand and a beer in another as he hid behind his dark sunshades.

I seriously doubt we'll ever see a picture of him wearing that thing on his Facebook page. For all I know he probably held some big-shot corporate job back "up north" wherever that might be.

Retired snowbirds on the other hand are another exception to Keys weirdness... they are not weird in the least but predictably disgruntled and quick to complain about anything and everything. They are quite an unpleasant lot.

It also goes without saying that there are quite a few folks throughout the Keys missing a mouthful of teeth and we all know that Crystal-Meth is both highly addictive and destructive. Destructive in the sense that it can and will eat away the bone that holds one's teeth in place. These folks aren't weird... they're just simply delaminated in the complete sense of the word.

And lastly, there is a saying here in the Keys that in effect states, "If you want a girlfriend here in the Keys, then you better bring her here with you". It's a "live and let live" scene here in the Keys and if you happen to see two attractive young ladies in a bar chatting it up amongst themselves, then it's best that you don't get presumptuous and assume that they might have an interest in you.

So there you have it... The Theory of People Weirdness in the Keys.

Doing a little sightseeing throughout Naples...

 

On day three of my previous visit to Marco Island and after yet again dipping my toes into my friend's swimming pool on more than just a few ocassions, she suggested that we venture out of the house for a drive on up to Naples.

Well I certainly was feeling a bit restless after leisurely sipping on a pot of coffee and loitering about her house all morning long and some fresh air along with some bright sunshine would certainly do us both a bit of good.

Naples is but some fifteen miles north of Marco Island and I well remember sailing on past that community when I had previously sailed on down to Marco from Fort Myers Beach. Damned... that seems so long ago.

Besides, going for a nice relaxing car ride would suit me just fine after my memorable encounter of sorts with Skunk-Ape the previous day as described in my previous blog entry.

That unexpected encounter certainly was enough excitement for one weekend not that I expect anyone to believe me. So yeah... driving up to Naples to check out rich people's homes seemed to suit me just fine.

My friend had assured me that Naples was an exceedingly wealthy community and that I'd be marveling at all the opulent homes. Let me tell you right up front... my friend certainly wasn't exagerating... Naples reeks of wealth. There is no end to the opulence in that community.

If the Parker Brothers were still around and were to ever update their Monopoly board game, then I'm pretty sure that they'd rename the Boardwalk property as Naples... that's how opulent the place is.

There is so much wealth in Naples that one is much more likely to spot a Bentley than one is to spot a Chevrolet Lumina unless I were to happen to get lost and somehow find myself driving my beat-up car throughout town.

The streets and avenues throughout Naples are all fabulously landscaped and are even adorned with a few Leonardo da Vinci and Michaelangelo statues on loan from Italian museums.

In any event I seem to recall a "Paul Harvey, and now you know the rest of the story" radio commentary from long ago of the town with the highest income per capita in the United States. Naples now holds that distinction. Never mind that it is alleged that a good many of the mob honchos all reside in Naples during the winter months because we all know that there is no such thing as the mob.

Besides, the newly governor-elect of Florida also happens to be a Naples resident who legitimately earned his fortune by having his corporation overbill the US government for fabricated health care services... and we all know that this fellow is a fine upstanding elected official of the Republican party and that this is the party of righteousness and of enviable moral values.

Who was it that once wrote, "Behind every great fortune made is a crime"?

In any event, Naples seemed a tad too austere and opulent for my taste. I felt as if there was a security camera at every street corner peering up my rear end the entire time my friend and I cruised that place.

Naples is a community of old fuddy-duddies and I'd prefer not to bother going back there... unless of course I were to earn a small fortune by legitimately overbilling the federal government for services that were never performed and purchase an ocean-front mansion.

Skunk-Ape... my new bar-buddy.

I happened to come across an "Everglades Skunk-Ape Research Field Guide" last time I visited my friend up in Marco Island. We had both gotten a bit restless after loitering around the house all morning and she had suggested that we go for a drive on out to the Skunk-Ape Research Center on the Tamiami Trail.

The research center is operated by some guy who has spent his entire life in the Everglades and whose family history can be traced all the way back to 1891. He claims to have spent the last thirty years investigating Skunk-Ape sightings, collecting data, and researching that elusive creature.

The center even has its own website... www.skunkape.info , if you still happen to have an interest in knowing more about this creature.

The field guide is but a sixteen page pamphlet and describes the Skunk-Ape in quite some detail insofar as its appearance and living habits. It also includes invaluable information on how best to plan a sighting expedition. Also included is a comprehensive expedition check list of things to do and not do and of items to bring along for the expedition.

Included in that check list is a pound of dry Lima beans to be used as bait which can be purchased at the Research Center.

Well I gotta tell you... all that information in that field guide seemed a bit too made up for my liking and had me thinking that it was all a load of crap.

Yeah... I'd seen this rodeo before. It seemed like a ploy to convince tourists to shell out some hard earned cash for a swamp expedition that had zero chance of sighting the so-called Skunk-Ape.

The whole concept of the Skunk-Ape had me thinking about the "Chupa-Cabra" back when I was living in Puerto Rico. That's all one ever heard about for months on end on that island. Every other day, a goat would be reported to have been found dead in the island countryside after having had all its blood sucked out of it.

Common sense somehow had me thinking that those dead goats had to be the result of a "Santeria" ritual.

In any event, I'm outside the Skunk-Ape Research Center waiting on my dear friend to get back from what I thought was the ladies room and finish whatever women do in there for hours on end. But instead she had been heavily engrossed in conversation with Dave Shealy who is world reknowned as the most knowledgable Skunk-Ape expert in the world.

Mr. Shealy was so convincing in describing the elusive Skunk-Ape that he even persuaded her to purchase all kinds of contraptions at inflated prices so that she could conduct her own search expedition.

All this while, I'm patiently waiting outside and find myself looking out over a nearby pond for alligators while sipping on a cold beer that I had pulled out of my ice-cooler.

It then happens that I'm suddenly smelling a gawd-awful stench coming up from behind me but before I can turn around to see where that stench might be coming from, some ape-like creature has gently placed his hand on my shoulder.

I've turned completely around now and find myself looking straight up into that creature's face. He's now motioning to my cooler and I'm so frightened that I don't hesitate to reach into that cooler for not just one, but two cold beers which I then promptly hand over to him.

With that the creature cradles both beers in one hand and stealthily ambles back into the swampy water. It's a shame that I was too scared to have the presence of mind to take a picture of the creature with my cell-phone camera before it had waded out of sight into the thick brush and trees.

I later told my friend of my encounter with what surely was a Skunk-Ape after I had helped her load up her SUV with the expedition gear that she had purchased at inflated prices.

Somehow I don't think that she quite believed me and that I was perhaps mocking all that gear that she had just purchased. She just kind of looked at me funny and asked whether there were any beers left in the cooler.

Like I mentioned earlier...it's a shame that I didn't happen to take a picture of that thirsty creature. Surprisingly all it took was a couple of beers to lure that elusive Skunk-Ape out of its swampy habitat.

Bathroom mural at Jack's Lookout on Marco Island... do be sure the read the quote written on the wall.

Jack's Lookout is a quaint open-aired dockside bar on Marco Island. It overlooks the Rose Marco Island Marina and is frequented by the same usual suspects. Even the same snowbirds come here year after year to spend the winter months before heading back up north to wherever that might be.

I'll admit to having enjoyed more than just a few cold beverages at that dockside bar but I can assure you that it doesn't even come close to being described as a "secluded, hedonistic, dockside bar".

The mural in the mens room can be said to depict the typical bar patron at Jack's Lookout... pale, fat, old, disgruntled, and on a fixed income. In other words... your typical male FOX Fabrication News Network viewer.

I'll just have to keep on looking for that elusive dockside bar while the regular bar patrons at Jack's keep on looking to make sure that "it is still there".

Inexpensive accomodations at the Dallas Downtown YMCA...

Well I'm now back on the boat after a good four days of loitering at my friend's house on Marco Island... or "the rock" as she would often refer to it... and it goes without saying once again that her swimming pool was just as inviting this time around as it was on the previous occasions that I had visited.

Though my boat may feel confining at times, it is nevertheless my own personal space where I can sprawl out and not feel that I may perhaps be imposing in anyway. Besides, there is the little matter of adhering to the second tenant of booty-call protocol as explained in a previous blog entry.

In any event a narrative of the happenings of my four days of loitering on Marco Island will simply have to wait for a later date... if only because I wish to conclude my narrative of events in my prior blog entry that last found me seated alongside an empty revolving baggage carousel at DFW airport some three decades ago.

While apprehensively staring at that empty baggage carousel go around in circles, I kept wondering where I might stay that evening. It was now early evening around eight pm or so and I had already made a number of phone calls to inquire about lodgings for the evening without any success.

I had made use of a telephone receiver mounted alongside a huge visual display of a map outlining the Dallas-Fort Worth metroplex. All one had to do was note the number on the map corresponding to the hotel one wished to call and simply press a button for direct dial.

Incidentally, direct-dial telephones were a novelty for me at the time. I had never seen one before. The only phones I had ever previously come across were black, rotary-dial telephones with an occasional dial-tone from back in the day when I lived in Puerto Rico.

But I digress... One number after another had been called and each time I had gasped upon the front desk clerk informing me of their hotel room rates. In my pocket were some two-thousand dollars in American Express cashiers checks which most assuredly would have vaporized in a matter of days if I were to stay at one of those fancy hotels.

You see... I was literally off the boat after having grown up in Puerto Rico and totally clueless about affordable lodgings such as Motel 6 and the like and so there I sat staring at that revolving empty baggage carousel when a song performed by the Village People happened to suddenly pop into my head.

YMCA...ymca.... YMCA....

I spring up out of my chair... find a pay phone along with the ubiquitous yellow pages... make note of the various YMCA phone numbers and call to inquire about whether they have any rooms available for the night and of their room rates.

I'm in luck... the Downtown Dallas YMCA has one room left but I'd better hurry to claim it. I plead my case and explain my situation and assure the desk clerk that I'll be there before midnight to check in and to please hold the room for me. The desk clerk is a real sweetie and assures me that she will.

I collect my bags and head for the terminal curbside area to hale a cab when once again I'm in luck. A Trailways bus is soon scheduled to depart for the thirty mile trip to downtown Dallas.

I board that bus after loading my bags into the baggage compartment and upon the bus driver giving me instructions to sit in the back and to keep my eyes glued to his rearview mirror. I am to wait for his signal when we reach my stop.

That African-American bus driver has the demeanor and physique of a no-nonsense drill sergeant so I readily comply with all of his instructions. The bus later makes a number of stops in downtown Dallas after the long drive from the airport.

Well groomed and coiffured passengers can later be seen stepping off the bus at the various luxury hotels with hotel bellmen eagerly awaiting curbside to collect their bags. These hotels were undoubtedly the same ones that I had called earlier that evening to inquire about their room rates.

The last stop is at the Fairmont Hotel. It has a worn look about it in comparison to the other hotels. Sure enough, upon stopping and upon the remaining passengers disembarking, the bus driver peers up into his mirror and we make eye contact. A quick nod of his head tells me that I'm at my stop and it's now my turn to step off the bus.

I'm the last passenger to be attended to and I'm given concise and deliberate instructions on where to find the Downtown Dallas YMCA. I am to walk one block over and two blocks down. I am to look for an old brick building in front of the First Baptist Church in downtown Dallas.

It's late August and I was to later find out that the 104 degree Fahrenheit temperature earlier that day was to be the hottest that year in Dallas. I'm lugging two heavy bags while trekking those couple of blocks to the Y. Everything is bigger in Texas or so it seems and those street blocks each seemed to measure at least a quarter of a mile in length.

I eventually find the YMCA right where that driver said it would be. The place has a seedy look about it but I'm exhausted and only too happy to finally have a place to crash for the evening. My room is located on the fifth floor of that six story dilapidated building and so I ride on up in an equally dilapidated Otis elevator.

The elevator finally creeks its way on up to the fifth floor but not before giving me a few scares. I get off that elevator and look around one last time to check and see whether its cables are still holding it in suspension. The elevator does not crash on down to the ground floor so I continue on to find my room. I unlock the door, flip a light bulb on, toss my bags inside and lock the door securely behind me.

It's stifling hot inside that room and there is no air-conditioning, not that I ever had any while growing up in Puerto Rico. It does take some effort to finally open the window to circulate some equally hot air in from the outside. I'm in for a most uncomfortable evening to say the least.

It's past eleven pm or so and I take a cold shower, never mind that hot water was nowhere to be found in that building. I don't bother to unpack my bags and I'll worry about finding better accommodations in the morning. I am nevertheless relieved to have finally arrived in Dallas after having read that Newsweek cover story weeks earlier that I previously mentioned in a blog entry... besides, I certainly can't complain about the very modest room rate that I paid.

Hey... you get what you pay for.