------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

PART I (The trip south)

Shortly after our fearless captain Paul (a.k.a. Pablo, Goyke-Mon, etc) purchased Cariad, he and I took our annual trip to Capitola, the first on Cariad. Little did I know how entertaining a trip this would be! Or little did I know I would be telling these forthcoming secrets as I was sworn not to. But, the two of us were out for a seafaring adventure, and it's time that adventure is shared.

It started out as any previous Capitola run, motoring out The (Golden) Gate as it gets dark, a little rough, Pablo at the helm and myself having a few belts of whiskey (as sailors do) to settle the foam developing in my stomach from 9 Coors Lights. The secondary purpose of the whiskey is to knock me out so I get some good rest before my watch. All worked as planned, soon I was in my berth, out cold, dreading the wake-up call for my watch. At some point I was suddenly awoken by Pablo's screams of bloody murder coming from the cockpit. I sprung outta my bed, bolted upstairs in my skivies to see what the hell was going on. As I was rushing to get upstairs, I was making a split-second analysis of my surroundings: the boat is upright, I don't smell smoke, the motor is still running, the floor is still dry, Pablo is still screaming (a good sign that he's not overboard). As I get up to the cockpit, which is pretty dark, all I can see is the faint outline of Pablo in his yellow foulies flopping around on the cockpit bench. Then I saw the problem. Pablo was not alone, nor was he the only one screaming. I only had to wonder why Paul chose the middle of the frickin' ocean, in the middle of the frickin' night, to audition for WWF Wrestling with a huge gray pelican. They couldn't get away from each other, they're both screaming at each other with arms and wings flailing. Then my better judgement eludes me as I get in the mix to help out. Lesson 1: don’t wrestle a pelican half naked. Finally, the two part ways. It turns out Paul was half dozing on the bench, the pelican flew by, got caught in the rigging, then fell into Paul's lap abruptly waking him and scaring the piss outta him. The poor bird's talons got caught in the hood strings of Paul's fouly jacket and couldn't get away. So Paul wakes up with this 30-lb pelican screaming in his face! I don't know who was more scared. But wait, it gets better.........

After I finally stop laughing hysterically and realize that I'm freezing cold and the damn bird scratched the hell outta me, I go back downstairs only to realize that it's almost time for my watch. I put on some clothes, yelled upstairs to Paul to tell him I'm coming on watch, so he set the autopilot and came downstairs. There's only one set of foulies and it's very wet in the cockpit, so when we change shifts we pass on the foul weather gear to the next guy. Of course we do this in the dryness and warmth of the cabin. Well, as Paul began to remove the foulies, that's when he informed me, "Ron, you may wanna find something else to wear up in cockpit". Understandably, I guess, it really did scare the piss outta him!

PART II(The Arrival)

Paul is sleeping soundly in the forward berth as I approach Capitola Harbor. I know this because I can hear him snoring over the motor noise. It’s about 4:00am so it’s still completely dark out. The harbor master’s office isn’t open so we don’t have a mooring buoy assignment yet. I could just grab an unoccupied ball then wait until the office opens to get a mooring assignment and move. But, based on previous experience with hooking onto a Capitola mooring ball by myself (bloody sliced hands from the myriad fish hooks embedded in the mooring rope), I opted to drop anchor just outside the mooring area. That I could do easily by myself. Lordy knows, I didn’t want to wake Paul up. He had a traumatic night.

Since we were near to a shore as well as many moored boats, I thought it a good idea to rig an anchor alarm. That way if the anchor starts dragging or the line breaks, we’d know it before we smash into a boat or a beach. For lack of my ability to engage any hi-tech electronic devices for such an alarm, I just used the old-school method. You simply drop something that sinks right next to the anchor. In this case, I used a 10-lb lead fishing weight with a very light rope attached (anchor alarm rope). As you back up to let out the anchor line and set the anchor, you also feed out the small rope attached to the lead weight (being careful not to tangle the two). Once the anchor line is taught, you feed out a little extra rope to the lead weight. That way no matter how taught the anchor line gets, there will still be some slack in your anchor alarm rope. Now, you take the anchor alarm rope, run it through a porthole (maintaining slack) and tie it to a pan sitting on the table top. I filled the pan with other pots and silverware. The idea is if the anchor starts to slip or the line breaks, the boat drifts further away from the anchor’s original spot. Thus, it will start pulling on the anchor alarm rope because the lead weight isn’t gonna move just because the anchor is. The drifting will soon cause the anchor alarm rope to get taut and will pull the pots and pans off the table, crashing to floor, waking our asses up. So that was my idea, I set it up then slipped into my bunk for some long-needed shut-eye.

It was just getting light out when the alarm sounded. Damn, I was pissed off. Frickin’ anchor can’t even hold in calm seas. How the hell is Paul supposed to count on this anchor on his long voyage? Those were my thoughts as the banging and clanging seemed to go on for eternity. But, there was another familiar noise in the air which was becoming more prominent as the banging and clanging began to subside. Oh, I recognize it now. It’s Paul screaming again. What, did that pelican follow us and swoop through his cabin porthole for a re-match? I knew one thing, I sure as hell wasn’t gonna fight that bird again with no clothes on. Paul comes running out from the forward cabin to see what the hell’s going on. This time he’s in his skivvies. I guess I forgot to tell him about my makeshift alarm. This would explain why he didn’t expect half of his kitchen utensils to be under his feet at this particular moment. He instantly leapt onto the side berth. The bottom of his feet looked like my hands did the first time I grabbed a Capitola mooring rope.

After I determined the anchor was not slipping and that it was a drifting log which caught the alarm rope, I had to go downstairs to answer Paul’s question of "What the h_ck". It was apparent that this was not the right time to convince him he should be proud of me for thinking of setting an anchor alarm. As I helped to stop the bleeding and dress the wounds, we came to a mutual agreement regarding communication and more specifically, not to use sharp objects for anything other than their intended purpose

When we went to the bars in town, it was sure fun watching him try to explain his wounds to those who inquired. He wouldn’t dare tell anyone about my alarm system. Not with his foul weather pants hanging on the lifelines drying out, in full view of every bar in Capitola!

And that’s just the beginning!

So how are we gonna kill an hour? I know, let’s make Bloody Marys! So I go downstairs to mix up the concoction. I’m thinking, we have an hour to kill, might as well make ‘em BIG Bloody Marys. So I find some 44 ounce Big Gulp cups and proceed with my duties. I take the drinks upstairs to find Paul sitting on one of the side benches in cockpit, back against the stern rail with legs straight out, crossed and feet up (imagine that). I hand him his drink, he takes a sip then holds it with both hands as he rests it onto his belt-line. That looked pretty darned comfortable, so I assume the same position on the other bench on the other side of the helm. The sun had just started to break through the fog, it felt warm and toasty. Hence, I nodded off.

I woke up when Paul was poking my shoulder while telling me to wake up. I jerked to awakeness (is that word?) and looked around with one of those half-second ‘where am I’ looks. Oh yeah, I’m in Capitola on Paul’s boat. Now that that is established, what the hell does Paul want? But remembering how rudely I woke him up this morning, I was grateful he didn’t retaliate.

So I asked nicely, "What can I do for you, Captain?" In a very quiet polite voice (I still couldn’t understand why he was being so civil towards me) he asked if I would retrieve a paper towel for him. Why wouldn’t I? Based on the now blood-soaked bandages on both his feet, I damn near crippled the captain. The least I could do is get the sniveling lame-O a paper towel. He then told me I should get two. In fact, better get the whole roll.

As I clamber up from my comfy perch to grant His Highness his wishes, I look over at him and once again burst out in laughter. Now I know why he’s being so civil. It seems he nodded off also, and the Bloody Mary resting on his belt-line slowly tipped forward until all 44 ounces spilled into the crevice between his two crossed legs. Yep, ol’ Mary was face down in his crotch gently sloshing back and forth with the waves. The celery stick and ice cubes sloshing together in unison. I even remember seeing the pepper grounds. I was crying I was laughing so hard. It seems Captain Peg-Leg was now in a bit of a predicament, and he knew it. For reasons unknown, this gave me great pleasure.

After a brief discussion we just chalked it up to Paul owes me one and I assisted The Gimp in cleaning up his mess. However, I will never admit to using a straw to drink a cocktail out of Paul’s lap. Instead I was blowing bubbles. Miraculously he was able to salvage about 2/3 of the drink while hardly getting any on the seat cushions. After changing and rinsing his jeans in the ocean water, Peg-Leg now has two pairs of pants hanging on the life-lines to dry out!

We haven’t even checked in yet, what else could happen?