Posted: 8/2/2009 9:50:02 AM EDT
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While going back to spin the wheels of industry.
I got called back in a couple of days early, which was OK as I had done what I wanted to. The front porch was skirted and painted. The Miata now had a roll bar and I had installed a harness. In addition to this, I had removed the air conditioning and power steering and looped the steering rack. It’s now a true sports car. I had to fly from Philly to Providence to meet the boat. The boat was scheduled to be in Quincy, MA. Logan was closer, but tickets were a lot more money, even though the van ride from the airport was a little more expensive. I had already purchased most of my grub, and I knew I was screwed because there is no place to store perishables at City Dock. Or was I screwed? This was a last minute change, and you have to be flexible. I had frozen everything that I could freeze, including 2-half-gallons of milk, which I would use as ice in my cooler chest. When I got to City Dock, I would either ditch the milk or put it in the office employee’s fridge and snag it later. I knew the boat was headed back to Philly. I’d get a deckhand to snag that with me, along with my sea bag and dry goods that I’d leave in my pickup. The fruit and veggies would ride in my carry-on. The cooler chest would be my permitted check-in bag. The plan worked. Three days later, I got my dry goods, sea bag, and even the milk from one of the deckhands that thoughtfully snagged it for me. When I checked the cooler in at Philly airport, they asked me what was in it. “Fish,” I said. I know the rules. “Frozen fish, no ice, and no dry ice. If it doesn’t get it to Providence with me, I’m going to have to leave it with you guys for at least 2 weeks until I get ashore. I’m boarding a tug for two weeks when I get to Providence and there’s no way you can deliver it to me.” I watched him plaster the cooler with stickers and I knew it would arrive in Providence with me. At the airport waiting area, I sat next to a fairly young shipmate. He’s a third or fourth generation seaman, and trained Old School. The tattoo on his arm is a copy of his grandfather’s WW2 Merchant Marine cap badge, which I recognized immediately. Old School trained, with an Old School tattoo. I had met him at a seminar a couple of years ago and, in spite of his age; I liked him immediately, and knew instinctively he was a hawspiper, like me. A hawspiper is a non-academy officer; the term the Navy uses is ‘mustang’. We were making shop talk with a little sea story here and there when he noticed the guy across from us listening in on us. “Hey, Ice Pick Larry retired to Saint Brendan’s Isle,” he said. “Yeah? I sailed with him, he was OK.” I replied. Saint Brendan’s Isle was the tip-off. It’s nothing more than a mailing service that caters to cruising sailors and merchant seamen. It provides them with a re-mailing service and a legal residency in Florida, enabling them to skip out on state income taxes, get a driver’s license and renew their Coast Guard documentation. Google it sometime. It’s pretty cool. Nobody retires there. There’s no place to live there but inside a post office box. “I wonder how many rats he buried at sea?” he asked. “I helped him with a couple some years back,” I replied. “He taught me to stick an ice pick in their ear so there wasn’t any blood and to use synthetic line to tie the shackle to him before you tossed him over the side. Manila rots, parts and the body floats sometimes if you use it. If you have to use Manila, use ¾ inch or greater.” He nodded, seriously. “Good to know,” he replied. Then we changed the subject and watched the nosy little geek get nervous. He changed seats in the waiting area and looked outwardly nervous. When we boarded the plane and when he found he was seated next to me, he offered to change seats so I could sit with my shipmate. The panicky look he had on his face was priceless and my shipmate never so much as came close to a smirk. He quietly and respectfully thanked the little geek, who looked ready to wet his pants. It was like watching Barney Fife meet Charles Manson. It’s good to see that there are still a few Old School sailors that know how to keep a straight face left in the younger generation. We landed in Providence and went our separate ways. Before we parted, he smirked at me. I returned with a wink and I knew another pretty good sea story was going to make the rounds. Two hours and a van ride to Quincy, I was on board. Thought you might get a boot out of this. Pic,out |