Gringo Mountain, Puerto Rico... An Unlikely Retirement Destination.

Nestled somewhere along the the foothills of the El Yunque National Rain Forest in Puerto Rico is Gringo Mountain... at least that was the case some twenty or so years ago when I last resided on that island.

And I'll also have you know that "Gringo Mountain" wasn't by any means a real mountain per se but rather the name given to a mystical community of sorts that happened to be situated on the outskirts of both the town of Ceiba and the now closed Roosevelt Roads Naval Base.

For you see, "Gringo Mountain" also happened to be the place where a noticeable number of retired US Navy personnel independently elected to retire to after putting in a full career with the Navy.

This was all invariably after having made a port-of-call as a swabbie early on in their careers and later silently promising themselves that this would be the place that they'd eventually reside once their stint in the Navy was complete.

And residing in humble dwellings, all invariably topped with corrugated tin roofs and all precariously perched on precipitous landscape were a number of old, grizzled, bearded retired Navy servicemen.

Hence the name of the so-called community, "Gringo Mountain"...

And if perhaps you ever find yourself doing the tourist thing while exploring this region of the island, don't let it be surprise to you if you too fall victim to the allure of its surrounding hills and topography.

And lastly don't let it be a surprise to you if you happen to come across any of these retired Navy personnel hanging out all day at your local marina. For you see, it is these same disgruntled old farts that could regularly be seen sipping cheap, draft beer at the marinas day after day while bellied up to a bar.

As for myself, I'm inclined to believe that topography, no matter how alluring one might believe it to be, is still in its final analysis but a variation of geography and that geography ain't got much to do with contentment unlike being among friends and family.

How else does one explain why some folks still elect to reside in the hinterlands of North Dakota if not for the fact that home is where the heart is.



View of El Yunque National Rainforest in the background.



Marina Puerto Del Rey, Bahia Demajagua, Puerto Rico



Where the Heart Is... a delightfully good read.

Saying Hello to a Screeching Parrot in Salinas, Puerto Rico...

While casually strolling along a random boat dock some twenty years ago in Salinas, Puerto Rico, my daughter and I were unexpectedly greeted by a screeching parrot. And since it would have been most impolite to ignore that colorful bird's early morning greeting, we did the only sensible thing and that was but to pause a moment and say hello as well.

Well no sooner had we reciprocated that bird's greeting when a voice could be heard bellowing out from inside that boat's cabin while exclaiming, "I ought to charge a fee every time somebody stops by to talk to my bird" or words to that effect.

And with that unpleasant utterance, a hint was taken and we resumed our stroll.

Well fast forward some three years later or so and this very same screeching parrot can once again be heard but only this time from the comfort of my house in Las Croabas, Puerto Rico.

It turns out that this very same vessel along with the very same bird was now up on the hard in the boatyard located behind my house. Presumably the boat was getting its bottom repainted only that I didn't happen to see any work getting done not that it really mattered to me one way or the other.

In any event, the wife and I had some boater friends on over to the house one Saturday afternoon for some grilled burgers and a few cold ones when it occurred to me to extend an invitation to that fellow sailor with the parrot.

And later after knocking on the hull of that fellow's boat and after pointing out where my house was located, he eagerly accepted my invitation.

It later transpired that this same fellow had sailed in from Salinas where he had been tied off to a dock for an extended period of time. Unfortunately for him however, he had contracted Dengue Fever after arriving at the boatyard and had been ghastly ill the prior week having had very little to eat in the interim.

Well that fellow didn't have a lot to say while visiting yet was obviously content just taking in the scene while scarfing down a burger or two. And I also happen to recall that fellow emphatically declining any thought of imbibing a cold beer all of which tells me that he had indeed been quite ill.

Think about it... when is the last time you happened to come across a liveaboard sailor declining a cold beer?

Yet even more importantly it seemed to me, was that the poor fellow appeared to be most delighted to be back among the living. And I should know the feeling for I too was once stricken with Dengue Fever while residing in Puerto Rico.

That Dengue Fever experience was most gawd-awful and had me thinking at one point that I just might not last through the night to see another day. That was the night when a certain accepting calmness had overcome me while I shivered uncontrollably all through the night.

Incidentally I never did tell that fellow that I had previously "met" his acquaintance years earlier while strolling along a boat dock in the coastal town of Salinas.



View of the boatyard from my house with Isla de Vieques visible on the distant horizon.





Image of house prior to purchase.























Postcard image of Bahia de los Pescadores. A boat lift can be seen somewhere in there.

Sailing the Spanish Virgin Islands, No Motor, No Problem....

Fajardo, Puerto Rico (cir. 1993)

Sailing my AMF 21' back to the marina after yet another blissful day of sailing and with a view of Condominios Dos Marinas in sight...

Once in the cove, I'd turn the boat back into the prevailing offshore winds, bring down the jib, secure it with bungee cords and then bring the mainsail halfway down the mast.

I'd then rest the end of the boom on a cockpit seat cushion and while standing, I'd grab the sheet with one hand and pull on it just tight enough to catch the wind.

And with the boat having just enough forward momentum and steerage, I'd turn the tiller hard on over and gently glide the boat into the slip.

Once inside the slip I'd make a mad dash fore to drop the mainsail the rest of the way down and grab on to my dock lines to avoid crashing into the pier and any neighboring boats.

No motor, no problem...

And I've said it before and I'll say it again... the so-called Cruising Lifestyle may indeed be a tad overrated.

Day-sailing on the other hand can most certainly be a much more enjoyable experience for after you've had your fill of sailing for the day, you can later go home. Yep, dat be my perspective...

Well heck, what's not to like about sailing on a clear, bright beautiful day? And now that I think about it, sailing the east coast of Puerto Rico was indeed a memorable experience that I will always cherish.



Marina Puerto Chico, Fajardo Puerto Rico




Hotel El Conquistador, Fajardo Puerto Rico




View of Isla Palominos off in the distance.




Marina Puerto Chico, Fajardo Puerto Rico





Isla Vieques on the distant horizon...




Marina Puerto Del Rey, Bahia Demajagua, Puerto Rico




One of a number of small keys commonly referred to as "Las Islas Cucarachas", by local fishermen presumably for their resemblance to said critters when seen from a distance.



Me sipping on a glass of apple-pine juice and not a Rum & Coke as some wags would suggest... and that's my story and I'm sticking to it. **hick-up**







Bahia de los Pescadores, Las Croabas Puerto Rico

S/V AMF 21, Sailing the Spanish Virgin Islands while Grooving to the Tunes of UB40 and Bob Marley...

Yeah Mon!! ... Steady winds, calm seas, blue skys, cold beer and reggae music! ... life couldn't hardly get any better than that.

Isla Palominos was invariably my sailing destination back in the day when I sailed my AMF 21... and I don't recall ever tiring of listening to UB40 and Bob Marley while throwing down a few Heinekens back then.

Eastern Coast of Puerto Rico and offshore islands, (aka: Spanish Virgin Islands)


View of Isla Palominos off on the distant horizon...

S/V AMF 21, A Magical Moment from Days Gone By, Marina Puerto Chico, Fajardo Puerto Rico

There was a time when the prospect of going sailing was a cause of uncontained joy... yet somehow I've yet to rediscover that feeling aboard my current boat.

I can well remember the feeling of quiet elation while marveling at the beauty and serenity of daybreak.

Marina Puerto Chico
Fajardo, Puerto Rico, 1995.

An Indefinite Moratorium on Drinking Alcoholic Beverages...

I'm now on day seven of a self-imposed indefinite moratorium on drinking... as in drinking alcoholic beverages. The moratorium was brought on in part because I'd been ill for the better part of last week. Against my better judgement, I had more than just a few cold beverages the previous week and then caught the crud.

More precisely it was on Wednesday evening... as in the night before Thanksgiving when the women are traditionally in the kitchen slaving away preparing the next days feast and the guys are out cavorting about in the local taverns.

Incidentally... how great is that?

Yeah... I got sick with the crud... as in I don't quite know what else to call it. It was a complete body ache including achy eyeballs. It was one fever after another each followed by a drenching sweat. I didn't experience any nausea, or intestinal issues nor did I have any sinus or lung congestion... not even a random cough so that I'd have something that might elicit a bit of empathy.

My ailment felt like a mild version of Dengue fever with emphasis on the word "mild". I know what full-blown Dengue fever is all about having contracted that demonic ailment some thirty-three years ago while living in Puerto Rico.

Trust me, it was as close to death as I'd ever been. You want to avoid that fever at all costs. Jungle fever on the other hand is a good kind of fever and you certainly don't want to pass any of that up if it were to come along your way.

Oh goodness. I may have aged myself with that last reference... oh well.

In any event, I've loaded up on fruit juices having elected to forego on the consumption of alcoholic beverages for the foreseeable future. I hesitate to use the word quit because I've often previously uttered that word on more than just one occasion after a night on the town and quit didn't quite seem to mean quit... as in never again... as in "no mas" as Roberto "Mano de Piedra" Duran once declared while in the ring with Sugar Ray Leonard.

So it's an indefinite moratorium on the consumption of alcohol for me. In the past week I've gulped down tomato juice, grape juice and apple juice with more of those on the way. Heck I've even rediscovered cold chocolate milk by the pint. I'll even throw in an occasional Coke for the heck of it.

So far so good. I haven't gone postal on anyone or anything like that and my wallet doesn't have that light feeling that it would often get after settling up a bar tab. Besides, if my Dad could one day just up and quit smoking without so much as a random comment about it to anybody, then perhaps I just might be able to forego drinking.

Sobriety... what an interesting concept.

A little bit of Puertorrican humor from back in the day...

I've become somewhat of a night owl here on the boat and often find myself surfing the web while reflecting back to the time when I most recently lived in Puerto Rico some fifteen or so years ago.

For whatever reason I'm thinking back to the time when myself and two fellow co-workers went to visit another co-worker at his house who happened to now be on the mend after under going a surgical procedure.

Well we're all glad to see that he is now on the mend but before leaving my fellow co-worker starts sharing a recent "experience" of his in a nearby town.

He proceeds to explain how he had gotten turned around while driving and found himself being pulled over by a female police officer after driving the wrong way on a one-way street.

As the officer was writing out the traffic citation, my co-worker goes on to explain that at that very moment another driver could be seen careening though the streets at an exceedenly high speed.

With that the officer is said to have placed her traffic citation notebook as well as her nightstick on the hood of his car. He then explains that the officer then gave chase to that speeding vehicle all the while blowing her whistle but not before instructing my co-worker to not go anywhere and that she'd be back in but a moment.

My co-worker further goes on to explain that he eventually did drive off after endlessly waiting for the officer to return and finish issuing the citation as well as collect her belongings which of course included her nightstick.

By now the whole story is somehow starting to seem a bit fishy to me. I certainly hadn't heard this story before but since it had been told in Spanish, I hesitated to inquire what had become of the nightstick fearing that I perhaps hadn't fully comprehended the full extent of the events.

Well at that moment, our co-worker who was on the mend now suddenly chimes up and in a most agitated manner inquires, "Y la macana? Donde esta!" (And the nightstick? Where is it!) whereupon my co-worker who had been relating the story proceeded to immediately reach down and grab himself on the inner thigh and deadpan, "La macana?, A mira... aqui la traigo!"

With that we all break out laughing our as*es off while the co-worker who had just blurted out the question suddenly realizes that he's been sucked up into a joke and is now jovially cursing all of us out. "Me cag* en la madre... Que hijuele de la gran-put* son to' ustedes" and on and on and on...

With that my co-workers and I hurriedly head off for our respective cars leaving our co-worker shaking his head and muttering crap out in his driveway.

I'm now driving off and still laughing my as* off and relieved that it wasn't me who had asked about what had become of "la macana"... especially since I myself had been on the verge of popping that very same question.

I'm suspecting that all that laughter might have caused that poor fellow to inadvertently break a stitch a two. The guys at the pharmaceutical plant never did let our fellow co-worker live that one down.

So there you have it folks... a little bit of Puertorrican humor.

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.

Tuning in to Radio Marti for a little Texas Rangers Baseball...

 

It wasn't all that long ago when I'd be more inclined to admit to being a NASCAR fan before I'd publicly admit to being a fan of Texas Rangers baseball.

Say what???... Oh gawd... I'm lying... there ain't no way in hell I'd ever claim to like watching NASCAR. My apologies, I got carried away attempting to make a point about the Texas Rangers. In fact, I'll even go so far as to state that the only thing worse than having to watch NASCAR is having to listen to it.

Listening to NASCAR is cruel and unusual punishment and only the most heineous of criminals should be subjected to such hardship. But I digress... this blog entry ain't about rednecks carrying on about tire pressure and the confederacy. It's about baseball...

Baseball as in "beisbol"!!... as in the time former Rangers catcher Ivan "Pudge" Rodriguez was once chastised by team management for not resting his knees in the off-season and of instead playing Winter League Baseball in Puerto Rico.

In response, Pudge was later quoted to have stated, "Some peeeple like to go feeeshingg... some peeeple like to go huuntinngg... I like to play BEISBOL!!!" . It was readily assumed that he was refering to fellow teammates prefering to go fishing and hunting in the offseason.

In any event, living aboard a sailboat implies having to do without a few creature comforts that almost everyone else takes for granted these days. Okay... perhaps more than just a few creature comforts.

Well you see... S/V Blondie-dog is as basic as it gets. For starters, I ain't got no TV onboard, nor do I have a VCR, or a microwave, fridge or even a flush toilet. I ain't even got someone to get up and fetch me a warm beer if I happen to be in need of one for that matter.

Onboard my boat insofar as electronics are concerned, is a cell phone for that random phone call and salacious text message, a handheld GPS for navigation, a VHF radio to plead for assistance when in distress at sea as well as a laptop with an ocassional internet connection, and lastly a CD player with a radio. Yes a radio.

Yeah dude... a radio. I'm sure you've heard of a radio before. It's an electronic device from way back in the day that precedes Ipods, CD players, cassette players, and even your dad's eight-track.

It's a device to let you tune into communications from some random distant radio tower. Nevermind that the communication these days is more often than not from some pompous, bombastic-lardass with an oxycontin addiction pontificating about so-called conservatism and moral values.

So yeah... I happen to be back on my boat and it's late in the evening and though the boat may be tied up to a mooring out in the harbor, I'm wanting to discretely tune in for some baseball. Not football mind you or preferably even NBA basketball but rather Texas Rangers baseball... as in the 2010 Baseball World Series!!... but please don't tell anybody... baseball just ain't cool.

However I've got one option for tuning in and that is to plug in my CD/Radio into an inverter and then plug that little device into a DC current power source. (feel free to google "inverter" and impress your geeky classmates next time you remember to attend science class)

Well I've got the radio plugged in and I'm ever so slowly twisting that radio nob up and down the dial searching for the ballgame. Surely somebody out in radio-land is broadcasting the 2010 Baseball World Series whether it be on the FM or AM dial.

I do eventually find a radio broadcast of the game. It is however in Spanish but heck... that's better than tuning in to some a college football game involving two teams no one has ever heard of before.

Besides, as a youngster, I use to tune the radio in to listen to los Cangrejeros de Santurce y los Senadores de San Juan battle it out at Bithorn Stadium all the time. The radio broadcasts were always in Spanish of course and I certainly had no issue with that back then so hell, I'll tune in and listen to the Texas Rangers play ball in Spanish.

I've got the radio dial set to Radio Marti and the fact that the broadcast is in Spanish is but an afterthought as I'm soon immersed in the ballgame but remember not to tell anybody that I said that because baseball just ain't cool.

Radio Marti for those of you who weren't around when the cold war with Russia was in full swing, is a radio station operating for the exclusive purpose of broadcasting news and commentary to the general population of Cuba. The station does not air any annoying radio commercials which can be thought of a good thing. Radio Marti is in all likelihood funded and operated by the CIA for all I know.

Incidentally, you should have heard those two radio announcers whine like malcontent little kids as the Texas Rangers were spanking the hated New York Yankees. Talk about a pair of crybabies.... muah, muah, muah.

Go Rangers!

Reminiscing After Getting a Haircut...

 

It had been some six or seven weeks since I last got a haircut back when I was on Marco Island. My hair now had somewhat of a ragged look about it and I was once again in need of another so-called buzz cut.... number two clippers all around the sides and back, tapered and blended with a little length on the top... military style not that I was ever in the military which is neither good or bad.

Anyway, I think it's a good look for me since I'm on the verge of having to acquiesce to the "double-nickle". Yes indeed... the double-nickle as in the number fifty-five... as in the total number of points that Michael once laid on Spike Lee's beloved Knicks.

I suppose it's a good look especially since I've started to gray on the sides but even more importantly because the cut requires little maintenance and because "I'm on a boat" to reiterate a familiar phrase used here in the Keys.

One recent Sunday morning while seeking out a local Cuban diner for a breakfast sandwich and a "taza de cafe colao", I happened to notice a nearby barbershop. I therefore made a mental note of its location because my hair could certainly use a trim... and the sooner the better. ("Incidentalmente, a mi me gusta el cafe tal como me gusta a las mujeres... caliente, dulce, y prieta"... ooopps.. I didn't really mean to say that.)

Upon entering that barbershop the next day, I am taken a-back by what is certainly some sort of monstrosity mounted up on the wall. I collect myself before realizing that it's not some Mako shark that someone valiantly hooked and reeled in after a four hour struggle at sea, but rather a moose of all things...

Mounted up on that wall was Bullwinkle... as in Bullwinkle the moose featured on many a Saturday morning cartoon show from back in the day when I was a little kid.

Yes, a dumba*s moose... the docile, vegetarian creature described by Bill Bryson as dumber than a cow in his book, 'A Walk in the Woods: Rediscovering America on the Appalachian Trail.". Dude... yes you dude... you with all the ridiculous looking tattoos... you need to read this book or else have someone read it to you.

Anyway, all this random chatter about a haircut and of some unfortunate moose mounted up on the wall brings to mind the time when I had first moved to Ennis, Texas some eleven, twelve years ago and was in dire need of a haircut back then as well.

It had been somewhat of a cold winter week by Texas standards when I first ventured into a town barber shop that could best perhaps be described as "old-school". It happened to be a Saturday morning and it seemed as if every gun-toting local senior citizen was in town waiting for their turn to get their hair trimmed... not that they had much hair to begin with.

Upon entering that barbershop I take a seat and then look up to survey my surroundings and sure enough, mounted on every wall of that shop is some sort of critter or another.

Prominently displayed upon every surface of 'dem 'der walls was a bob-cat, a rattle-snake skin, a beaver, a trout, a few Bambi's, a falcon, and quite possibly somebody's pet cat that had gone missing awhile back.

There was even a bass fish mounted up on the wall that could somehow turn its head and talk to you if you happened to walk on by. Nevertheless I'm not convinced that that particular bass came from a real lake. I'm more inclined to believe that it was a fake bass-look-a-like and was made in China to humour all the short-bus Dubya Bush admirers.

Well I happen to be in dire need of a haircut and resign myself to the fact that I'm in for a long Saturday morning wait while I reach out for one of the many dated and worn-out magazines randomly scattered about on a coffee table.

I peruse some old gun magazine and its many gun show advertisements including one from the NRA. I'm then suddenly reminded of what is surely their new slogan... "Guns don't kill kids, Kids kill kids"...

I soon set that magazine down but not before having a sudden urge of wanting to wash my hands. I don't want to lose my chair so I remain seated and instead find myself reaching out for another magazine.

Only this time I happen to pick up an old issue of Car & Driver... I seem to recall getting instant "tired-head" after reading but a paragraph or two of carburetors, brakes and suspension systems and whatever so I set the "Car & Driver" mag down as well and reach out for yet another magazine.

I'm not the least bit interested in picking up a dated issue of "Hunting" and I quickly flick that one aside and instead pick up an old issue of "Fishing" or some-such...

At least this magazine has some alluring pictures of streams in Idaho and Montana where fly-fishing is an understandable passion. I'm reminded of the captivating movie with Robert Redford, "A River Runs Through It".

(Note to all you under-achieving, confused adolescents perpetually gulping down obesity sodas and wandering throughout cyberspace... watch this movie and get a perspective of some sorts of a time and place that only your grandparents can readily recall... Hold on a sec while I pop open another brewsky... sploosshh)

The fishing magazine holds my interest for a short while when to my surprise I happen to uncover an old yellow issue of "National Geographic" from underneath a pile of "Popular Mechanics" magazines.

No sooner had I thumbed through the first few pages of that old issue of National Geographic when I'm suddenly captivated by what was no more than a half page article about a town with the lowest zip code number in the US Postal Service database.

It is an article describing in some detail the remote and mountainous region of Adjuntas in Puerto Rico. The article goes on to describe the annual patron saints festivities and how the region was long ago regarded as the "Land of the Gods" by the local Taino natives prior to Columbus making landfall and proclaiming the island and all its possessions as belonging to the King of Spain.

I question whether the local Taino chieftains had any comprehension whatsoever of what might Admirante Cristobal might have proclaimed at the time and find myself distracted yet again of the topic at hand and can't help but think back to a purported incident early on in the NASA space exploration program.

After conducting simulated lunar landing tests one day on a remote and rocky tract of Arizona terrain, NASA technicians approach two Navajo natives who had been observing the proceedings from a discrete distance.

When the elderly of the two natives was asked in jest to record a message for NASA astronauts to deliver to the residents living on the moon, the old Navajo recorded the following in his native Navajo tongue... "Beware of the white man, for he comes to take your land"....

In any event I find myself mesmerized after reading and re-reading that half page article in National Geographic. It's somewhat cold inside that barbershop and I'm wearing an all weather-proof jacket to keep the cold out.

Yet somehow I'm suddenly transported back to a time and place in that mountainous town of Adjuntas that I previously had an opportunity to visit. In my mind I can vividly recall the sheer beauty of the surrounding mountains and of the dense tropical foliage. I can distinctly recall the sweet scent of the earth after an early morning rain shower and the rich aroma of a nearby coffee plantation.

You see, I had jumped at the opportunity to participate in the first national chess tournament ever to be held in that remote town. It is a town now somewhat accessible by the recently constructed "autopista" and a town that I had never previously visited before in spite of the fact that I had lived on the island for a number of years.

It also happened to be a special moment for me because earlier that evening, I had played and won a hard fought game that had lasted a grueling four hours versus the top rated competitor in the event.

My opponent was a highly esteemed three-time island champion who has since gone on to achieve the title of International Chess Master.

It goes without saying that I was immensely elated at having won earlier in the day and it made that beer taste all the better while I and other fellow competitors from that event all joyfully watched the pasofino horses and their attractive female riders parade on by.

In addition to cheering on the parade participants, we spent most of that evening ogling all the hot young ladies wearing their tight fitting jeans and short skirts while dancing to the rhythms of salsa and merengue in the town plaza.

Occasionally a fellow competitor would high-five me yet again and loudly intone my last name... "SSHHAAFFEERR!" Damned that made me feel good.

I've got my eyes closed reliving those special moments when I hear the barber calling out to me. "Your next." I seat myself in the barber's chair while still relishing those not so long ago moments of that special evening in the festive town plaza. The elderly barber proceeds to tie an apron around my neck and perfunctorily asks "well, is it cold enough outside for you"?

I had hardly had a chance to respond when he launches into an endless ramble of how he had once been a sheriff out in some remote, barren region of Wyoming and how I had never experienced what cold weather truly is since I had never been there before.

He goes on to ramble on about how isolated the place is and how bone numbing cold the place can be and how cows and horses and buffalo would literally freeze solid while standing on all fours out on the prairie and how damned cold it was and on and on and on and on and endlessly on...

All the while I've got my eyes closed doing my best to tune him out and I'm clinging on to the last images in my mind of that magical evening in the town plaza all the while wishing that the gentleman would simply just stop rambling on about cold weather. I kept thinking to myself... "please be quiet... please be quiet... please be quiet... would you please shut up already"!

I finally relent on trying to relive that memorable moment and I come to terms with the fact that I'm in Ennis, Texas getting a haircut from some ex-sheriff endlessly rambling on about the cold weather in Wyoming and how I didn't know squat about bitter cold weather.

That ex-sheriff chewed a good portion of my ear off with his mindless monologue that day... now I know how Evander Holyfield must have felt after Mike Tyson took a bite out of his ear.

(Memo to the producers of History Channel's, MysteryQuest television program... Bullwinkle has been located and can be found mounted on a wall inside the "Village Barbershop" on mile marker 50 in Marathon, Florida.)

http://ngm.nationalgeographic.com/ngm/data/2001/10/01/html/ft_20011001.7.html

Damned... too much drama... time to set sail.

Goodness... this place is starting to wear on me. There's just too much damned drama going on around here. It's been a good twenty-some years since I last cruised aboard my Morgan 35' throughout the Florida Keys and the Bahamas. Somehow I had forgotten all about all the personal bullsh*t that goes along with it.

I'm ready to haul ass on out of here and start experiencing the cruising lifestyle for what it should be. I had some dude engage me in a one-sided conversation the other evening and proceed to tell me all about his disputes with the City Marina. After awhile, all I could think about was that "I don't really give a rat's ass". Later in his extended one-sided dialogue he chides me for being tide up at the marina and not out on a "hook" in the river. Somehow the caricature of a river-rat floating on an inner tube down the Brazos River in Texas came to mind.

Another too-much-drama incident involved a large gray heavy-duty plastic garbage bin chained up to the wall just in front of the slip where S/V Blondie-Dog happens to be tied up to. On two consecutive late Saturday evenings, a sailing vessel pulls in after hours to avoid dockage fees and ties off onto the docks. Soon thereafter four somewhat young guys can be seen trekking past along the sea-wall and on over to the local taverns.

Well the first Saturday evening after the local bars had shut down at two in the morning, all four dudes come staggering back down the piers hollering obscenities and kicking dockside gear all over the place including the large grey trash can in front of my boat. Moments later a loud splash can be heard and all the trash that had been neatly tidied up in plastic bags can now be found floating alongside my boat.

I of course am awakened out of a sound sleep and poke my head out of the hatch above the V-berth... (not unlike an office cubicle-mole)... to see what the hell is going on but I think better of a confrontation and settle back down below. Well the same scene repeats itself the following Saturday evening and now I'm hacked... its been another week and the trash still hadn't been picked-up for whatever reason and once again can be seen floating alongside my boat in the river.

I'm incensed about the smelly trash not having been picked up and of the damned horse-flies hovering around the trash-can and bothered about not having purchased a VHF radio that I had planned on purchasing earlier in the day so that I could report their collective asses as they motored on down the river.

I did nevertheless shout out to them as they were pulling away from the docks, "Hey asshol*s... you will be reported first thing in the morning!". Admittedly, this certainly was a chickensh*t response made once again avoid a confrontation. I did indeed report the incident to the Marina the next morning. The dudes haven't been back since and my big regret is that I did not have the presence of mind to record the name of the vessel when she tied up that second Saturday evening.

There is more drama to report but I can't take anymore of this bullsh*t either.

Not that any anyone "le importa tres carajos"... but lunch/dinner earlier today was some genuine comfort food... and I'm not talking about another greasy burger with soggy fries or even a chicken-fried steak with instant mashed potatoes and over-boiled brocolli with fake cheese either. I'm talking about some delectable "Lechon asado" along with a huge mound of "arroz con gandules" with a side order of "tostones" and a salad to boot!

I happened to be wandering down Cleveland Avenue in Fort Myers looking for a place to get a bite to eat when I happened to spot a place. I swerve over two lanes and shortly thereafter find myself seated in a small, austere, yet air-conditioned eatery. I have arrived at "El Pilon" restaurant. Soon thereafter I place my lunch order and somewhat impatiently wait for my food to arrive as I see one delectable plate of food after another get placed on adjacent tables.

My lunch order finally arrives and I'm not dissapointed in the least. Damned that was good eating! My only reqret was that I didn't take a moment to take a picture of my plate of food when it arrived... nevermind that I have yet to figure out how to download pictures from my cell phone to my computer.

Up on the walls were scenes of Puerto Rico from back in the day and a Puertorican flag as well. What the proprietaries and other patrons probably wondered was "what the hell is that "gringo" doing in here"... not realizing that I, having lived on the island for an extended period of time and having played in a multitude of chess tournaments throughout the island probably knew more and had seen more of the island than they'd ever seen or would ever see.

http://www.elpilonrestaurant.net/