Only the guy who isn't rowing has time to rock the boat.
-Jean-Paul Sartre --French existentialist philosopher and writer, 1905-1980

Back to Rain

Well, I am not sure if I like the rain or the wind better. But at least the boat isn't rocking to the point of nausea.
The water is pretty mucky today because of all the silt stirred up from the winds and rain.
We have acquired some friends here at the marina. Two ducks, one male mallard and one female. They swim up to our transom every day and tease our kitty. They swim by our kitty who lays on the dock and watches them, and the female spits water at him. Kitty must not mind because he lays out there and watches them everyday. He really goes crazy when our duck friends fly up and sit on our back deck. They actually fly right up while we are standing there. So they must be somewhat domesticated. Probably from all the people that come down here and feed them.
Anyway, I want to share more of the story we had started. If you need to catch up, just refer back to the recent posts.
Chester led me out to the patio where a corpulent character sat alone at a table humming a chanty while reading a sea chart. He was dressed in chaps, spurs and dungarees. But on his head he wore a peaked cap usually seen at the  wheel of a dreadnaught. His name was Horace Perkins, and he was the owner of the Bar B Q Ranch, which had the biggest herd of cattle in the state.
"Ahoy, Pardner," he said, giving me his hand. "Drop your stern into a chair. What'll you have? Care for a Deepsea Daiquari? A Davy Jones Fizz? Or can I rustle you a sandwich? Clam and cheese? Bacon and seaweed?"
"How did you happen to get interested in boating?" I asked.
"Always been a sea urchin," Horace explained. "Ever since my Maw caught me sailing matchsticks down Main street after a heavy rain. Reckon I just hankered to watch stuff float. Couple of years later opportunity knocked. Big cloudburst came along and almost wiped out the town. That's when I had my big chance. I managed to save our old homestead single-handed. By using the back porch as a rudder I was able to swing the stern to starboard and reduce the forward speed to five knots. After that it was a cinch to port my helm into Cuckaberry Street. Since then I've been plumb loco about navigation."
"You're not interested in horses?"
"Horsepower, corrected Horace. Tall in the cockpit, that's what they call me, son."
The sounds of music from inside the clubhouse lured me away from Horace Perkins. There was a man playing piano, a virtuoso Chester introduced as Melvin Chuckabiddy, the club composer. Melvin was dressed in a dirty apron with a shirt to match. He pummeled the keys boldly, singing the lyric strains of "Asleep in the Deep."
"Melvin, said Chester, "is the local butcher. But once he leaves his steak and chops, the call of the open sea makes him a poet, a musician, a composer."
"Melvin writes nautical songs?"
"Not exactly," corrected Melvin. "Reckon I just rewrite the landlubbers tunes, is all. Sort of convert them for deep water. Care to hear what I did with "Home on the Range?"
"Isn't that a cowboy song?"
"Not anymore, Pardner. Reverse your motor and back your helm into a chair. I'll demonstrate."

-------------END------------------- more tomorrow, see ya then!

Have a great day and stay dry!