By: DAVID RICE
Re: Vacation #1 of

What I did on my Summer Vacation.

In August, during Dragonfest, I took a week off work and went 
on vacation. I chartered a thirty-two-foot yacht called 
"Sloop de Jour" out of Dana Point, and shoved off, all alone, 
to Santa Catalina just before noon on Monday. Catalina is 48 
nautical miles away, due West (true, not magnetic).

Provisions included a huge pile of exotic (i.e. frozen) 
Mexican foods, several bags of quasi-exotic (i.e. 
half-frozen) Chinese dishes with mysterious ingredients in 
them, a jar of dill pickles, a brick of tofu (extra firm), a 
dozen limes, a pint of Bombay rum, a dozen corn tortillas, 
and half a can of salsa that had been in my refrigerator for 
so long that it had a patina of blackened, aged tomato guts 
around the rim. I travel first class.

Loading the boat was a mercilessly hot job. I loaded 50 
pounds of chain aboard in case the anchors needed it (why use 
rope when one can over-kill with steel?), filled the on-board 
water tanks, and stowed five gallons of drinking water. I 
filled the "solar shower" bag with 2.5 gallons of water, and 
while I was rolling up the hose this bag oozed like an 
octopus over the rail and plunged into the harbor. (This was 
to later prove to be prophetic.) I managed to grab the water 
bag before it sunk, and put it on the salon hatch.

I managed to back the boat out of the slip without hitting 
anything and sinking it. I had the unnerving feeling that I 
didn't dare look back least the charter company change it's 
mind about allowing ME of all people to use one of their 
boats, and had sent someone out to stop me. I had lied to 
them about my having crew for the trip.

The trip down the breakwater was dicey. The helm would not 
lock down (screws were stripped), so steering was a constant 
job. I tried to tie the wheel down with a mooring line, and 
then rush to the mast to hoist the main sail, but the boat 
was careening all over the inner harbor. The inner harbor was 
VERY crowded with boats coming and going. It took me almost 
twenty minutes to figure out which line did what--- something 
I should have done while still tied to the slip.

I got the main sail up eventually, while dodging kayaks, wave 
riders, jet skis, buoys, Sea Scouts, and Harbor Patrol 
launches. I got the jib up and pulling, wing-and-wing, but by 
then I was worn out and ready to cancel the vacation.

The trip to Catalina was quite an ordeal, since the 
prevailing wind blows on the exact course one must take to 
get to Catalina, so even though the wind was blowing well, I 
had to take the sails down and motor. It's not very easy to 
do when no one is steering the boat directly into the wind.

The magnetic variation is 14 degrees East, but I didn't 
remember if I was to add or subtract that 14 degrees from 270 
(West). My chart was down below, but I pulled up the chart in 
memory and calculated a heading of 256 degrees magnetic, 
which happened to be correct.

One thing about sailing away into the setting sun is that my 
destination isn't visible except on very clear days. I 
couldn't tell if the island was actually where I thought it 
was. With limited fuel, poor wind, and no crew, this is quite 
a leap of faith.

For six grueling hours I steered the boat, wondering if I was 
on course. Eventually the island showed up--- I was a few 
degrees too South, probably due to the current (it couldn't 
possibly be my navigation or steering).

In Avalon I quickly showered and caught a shore launch into 
town, where I found a Mexican restaurant and ate 6 
enchiladas, 3 plates of rice, 2 margaritas, and 1 glass of 
iced tea. The waitress asked, in mock disbelief, if I would 
"like any more food," while I moaned in pain from my 
gluttonous feeding frenzy (I'm a white American male, after 
all). I waddled back to the harbor taxi and was delivered to 
my boat.

The swells were rising and dropping by at least four feet, 
and getting aboard from the taxi was a harrowing experience 
(the couple whos boat we went to first had an infant--- the 
father went aboard first and then the baby was tossed like a 
football to its father by its mother. It reminded me of how 
Bonobo Chimps raise their young.). One must be cold sober to 
accomplish the feat I was to perform, or one gets crushed 
between two hulls and / or drowns. I was neither sober or 
breathing well (due to the pressure from my gut against my 
lungs) but I managed.

Sleeping that night was a bitch. The mooring was South / 
North, but the swells were marching from West to East. It is 
not an exaggeration to say that the boat rolled 40 degrees 
from plumb. Naturally the berths were laid out bow to stern. 
The upshot of this was that I was constantly thrown violently 
against the hull on the up swell, and slammed to the deck on 
the down swell. I tried to sleep on my stomach with my arms 
braced against the deck, but I'd eaten so much that this 
position was painful. Sheeeish. I ended up sleeping on the 
deck with my head in the wine rack under the chart table and 
my feet in the galley's oven, thus achieving a personal 
bodily alignment West and East, which converted the rocking 
into pitching. Easier, but still it was not an easy night.

In the morning I bagged the main sail to make it look pretty, 
since I had decided to motor instead of sail. While bagging 
the sail, I accidentally kicked the solar shower bag over the 
side. While it was going down for the third count, I ran 
below, got the boat hook, ran back on deck, reached over the 
side to snag the bag, and harpooned it instead. It sunk to 
the bottom like a lead brick, with a "why me?" look on its 
face.

It took three hours to get to Little Harbor. Along the way I 
passed the rock quarry where the side of the island has been 
sawed off and carted away. I was fortunate enough to pass 
just as an explosion was set off--- I thought my boat had 
blown up until I saw a tiny part of the cliff fall apart.

Little Harbor is mildly risky to get into, since the opening 
has reefs awash even at high tide. There were four sail boats 
anchored there when I arrived, which added to the complexity 
of anchoring myself.

Anchoring was hard work. Before I left Avalon I had checked 
both anchors, setting the stern anchor on the deck for ready 
use. When I motored into Little Harbor I had to dodge all 
four boats, a reef, and two scuba divers. One boat was 
single-handed by a woman who watched me as I came in: I gave 
her my best Buccaneer, swashbuckling 
I-have-a-rather-large-penis-and-I- know-how-to-use-it grin, 
sucked in my gut, and waved at her. She waved back and 
pointed at the scuba divers, which I promptly aimed for.

I slowly motored up as close to the reef as possible, put the 
boat in reverse a tiny bit to check forward motion, put it in 
neutral, then raced to the bow to drop the anchor. It struck 
bottom without a hitch. . . just like my solar shower did, 
come to think of it. I then raced back to the helm, put the 
boat in reverse again and left it that way, then raced back 
to the bow to let out the rode. After letting out a 
seven-to-one scope, I belayed the line, raced back to the 
helm, and put the boat in hard reverse, digging the anchor in 
tight. Then I raced back (pant, pant) to the bow and groped 
the anchor line to see if I could feel the anchor dragging. 
It wasn't, so I raced back (pant, pant, pant) to the helm and 
put the boat into neutral again. The I raced back to the bow 
(pant, gasp, gasp) and let out a great deal of rode until the 
boat was damn near on the beach. I dropped the stern anchor 
in the surf, eased the boat forward, put it in neutral, then 
raced (gasp, wheeze) to the bow to suck up the slack while 
the stern rode played itself out. After gaining a 
fifteen-to-one scope (twice what is required), I tied off the 
bow anchor line, raced back to the helm (wheeze, gasp, cough 
cough), tied the stern line down with a ten-to-one scope, 
then powered forward to set the stern anchor. Then I picked 
up the remaining slack at the bow, cut the engine, and bowed 
to the woman I had previously waved to, who was watching me 
all the time. She gave me an "okay" gesture. . . or was it a 
"fuck-off" gesture? I dunno, since my eye glasses were below.

Needless to say, anchoring is a whole lot easier with crew.

The beach was covered with Sea Scouts. Shit. There were pup 
tents everywhere. Fortunately I was anchored far enough out 
so that I didn't have to hear them. I had planned on swimming 
to the beach in the evening and having a camp fire, but the 
Scouts got there first.

The boat's dining table converted into a bunk, whereby it may 
be lowered to lay flush with the salon's seats and thus 
become a rather large bed. I didn't know this when I was 
being slammed around the night before. It was great to sleep 
aligned with the roll (Little Harbor is on the South side, 
and the swells were going from West to East, so the swells 
were not much of a problem).

So there I stayed for four or five days (I already forget 
which). I read a collection of essays by Asimov on various 
sciences, a larger collection of essays about the 
evolutionary sciences by Gould, the surviving Sappho sonnets, 
and a book on Bible history.

Every morning I would get out of bed, don flippers and mask, 
and jump over the side. I'd swim around the boat a few times, 
dive under it, then swim to the beach and back. Then I'd fix 
breakfast, eat and read, take a nap, swim some more, eat 
lunch, read, swim, read, swim, eat dinner, swim, read, eat 
some snacks, read, and then have a late-night naked swim. 
(Much like Dopefish, I imagine.) The diatoms were excited and 
happy to see me, as they clung to my damp, manly body while I 
forcefully, deftly penetrated the inviting folds of the sea 
and rhythmically ungulated between its wet, warm thighs, 
gently caressed by grasping, eager swells. I thought about 
the woman anchored next to me, and wondered why she didn't 
paddle over and surrender herself to me utterly. Didn't she 
know what she was missing?! Ah, well. She wasn't the first.

One day I went ashore to climb the cliffs overlooking the 
harbor, just as the Sea Scouts decided to do the same. Having 
several dozen kids climbing the cliffs reminded me of the 
movie "Lord of the Flies." I started to chant "Kill the pig, 
kill the pig, kill the pig. . . ." but no one else picked up 
the chant. Stupid kids.

Two teenage girls motored in on a Boston Whaler, and found a 
place to jump off the cliffs and into the water. I was 
enjoying watching them from the boat, as they would launch 
themselves into space and then squeal all the way down. This 
behavior was meant to attract teenage boys of the same 
species. Goddess, I felt old.

When the girls left, I swam to the cliff, climbed to the top, 
and flung myself off, yelling "Piggy!!!!!" Ten liters of 
water slammed into my ears and stayed there for two weeks, 
which was a real pain in the. . . er, ah, "ass" doesn't quite 
fit here, but it was damn annoying. I poured a mixture of 
alcohol and vinegar in my ears, but it didn't help.

After a few days the Lone Woman, who had by then grown to 
mythic stature in my imagination (I was doing her every night 
in my dreams) sailed away, without ever knowing how happy I 
could have made her. Ah, well. Hardly the first time, as I 
said.

One day I dove on my anchors to see how well they were 
holding. I got to the bottom after a fight (my fat was 
keeping me on the surface), and found them well entrenched. 
After checking out the bow anchor, which was the deepest, I 
broke the surface and was met by an airborne flying fish as 
it madly slapped the water with its "wings" and tail. It 
slammed into my face mask face-first. Needless to say, we 
were both astonished and surprised. If I hadn't been wearing 
the diving mask I would have been injured, it hit that hard. 
The fish gave a twitch or two then swam away.

A large power boat dog-paddled up, dropped ONE anchor, and 
then cranked up very, very crappy "Rock" music. Estimating 
the rode on his bow anchor, I thought his boat would slam 
into mine once the wind died down, since the wind was 
countering the swells. Once the wind died, which it does in 
the early evening, the swells would put his boat right on my 
beam. The master and commander of the boat was an obnoxious, 
boisterous, arrogant Archey Bunker type who wouldn't turn his 
noise down long enough to hear what I was yelling at him "Put 
down a     
second-anchor!". Naturally he wouldn't (because he's a 
mother-loving so- in-so), so I had to move my boat, by 
letting out the bow rode until I was almost in the surf 
again. If there had been a Harbor Patrol boat around, he 
would have either moved his boat or have it moved for him.

The noise from the power boat increased, and I considered 
weighing anchor to shove off to another harbor or anchorage. 
Hour after hour the peace and quiet of the harbor was 
replaced by utterly horrible, incoherent, disharmonious, 
distorted white noise.

But then my insane, neurotic lust for revenge kicked in, and 
I decided to stay and punish the bastards. I looked over to 
the power boat and smiled, but foul deeds were in my heart.

That night before going to sleep I set my watch to sound at 
two o'clock in the morning. When it went off, I got up, 
grabbed a certain piece of equipment, donned swimming fins, 
and slowly, quietly bobbed my dark and sinister way to the 
power boat. I reasoned that the master and commander of the 
boat would be sleeping in the stern cabin, since it was 
likely to be the best berth on the boat. Oh, good: both stern 
port holes were wide open. Perfect. . .  just so very, very, 
perrrrrfect. Goat was with me.

With a powerful kick from my fins, I reached up with one hand 
and grabbed onto a port hole. Then while hanging there, my 
other hand shook out the water in the device I was carrying, 
reached up, put the device up to the port hole, and depressed 
the trigger for about ten seconds. Tee hee.

The device was, of course, a compressed-air horn. One can 
hear these horns for miles--- they are used in heavy fog. 
When one goes off, generally every person in the vicinity 
will do damn near ANYTHING to make the noise stop. In the 
boat's inner turmoil that followed, I heard words that 
sounded like "What is it?! What is it?!" while I let go of 
the port hole and quietly swam away.

I swam to the reef, which had swells breaking over it. I 
figured if my head was spotted in the water, it would look 
like part of the reef. Lights came on in the power boat, one 
guy went on deck, and the boat was quite a bustle of activity 
for a good ten minutes before they settled down. I then made 
my way back to my boat while hugging the shore, climbed 
aboard, and set my watch's alarm for 3:30am. Hey, it worked 
great once, it will work just as great twice, right? You bet! 
I almost pitied the poor bastards. I remember thinking that 
SteveQ and Fredric would have enjoyed this.

A little after 3:30am I was back in the water. I picked the 
other stern port hole this time and let them have a mere five 
seconds of air-raid quality noise. Five seconds is a very 
long time, all things considered. Before I could get to the 
reef, several guys came on deck and were looking around. I 
though for sure they would catch me, so I tried to deep six 
the air-horn--- but it floated, so I kept it. All they had to 
do was turn on a flood light off their boat and they would 
see me. Instead they used a weak flashlight, and they looked 
a bit. Since I appeared to be invisible, if not invincible, I 
swam back to my boat while they were still out on deck. I 
briefly considered setting my watch for 5:00am to have 
another go, but I thought that was pushing it.

I woke up in the morning around 9:00 to the sound of the 
power boat's fog horn--- they appeared to be testing it for 
problems for some reason. Eventually they gave up and 
prepared to shove off. I put on a bath towel, went on deck, 
and bade them good-bye. I asked them in an annoyed, 
irritated, miffed voice why their fog horn was going off "all 
night long." They apologized profusely.

I had just one day left before I had to sail back home, so I 
spent it diving as deep as I could without my head imploding. 
(If it did, no one seems to have noticed.)

Next day came the cruel, tiring trip back home. I had a 
following sea, so the boat averaged about seven knots. I 
wanted to get back to the harbor before The Villa stopped 
serving dinner. The sun was mercilessly beating upon my body 
hour after hour, while I struggled mightily at keeping a 
straight course. After eight hours, my arms were ready to 
fall off.

When I spotted the mainland, I found that I had fallen 
exactly dead on to the home harbor--- flawless navigation and 
seamanship (Goddess and the spirit of Captian Ron was with 
me). I rounded the turn into the harbor, dropped the sails 
smartly, and coasted into the slip by 9:45PM Saturday. I was 
ready to eat a dog, so I did minimum boat cleanup, planing on 
finishing it Sunday morning.

I took a shower in the boat, put on my cleanest dirty pants, 
and headed to The Villa for dinner, drinks, song, and nookie. 
I stepped off the boat, walked to the bow, and slammed my 
head into the bow pulpit, knocking myself ass-over-teakettle 
to the dock. Fortunately no one seemed to have seen the 
slapstick.

I got to The Villa in time for dinner. Chris Cram was taking 
a break from playing the guitar and was standing outside, 
trying to talk some drawn and haggard woman out of her pants. 
I walked into the place and told the lady at the door that I 
wanted dinner and lots of it. She showed me to a table, and I 
sat down.

When I pulled my feet under the table, they bumped into 
something large, firm, and fury. I was almost too afraid to 
look under the table, but when I did I noticed a dog, a large 
dog, a very large dog under the table trying to get some 
sleep. He looked up at me with a "what the fuck do YOU 
want?!" kind of look, then tried to ignore me. When the guy 
came with the basket of chips and pot of salsa, I said "Well 
look, there's this dog under my table. . . ." fully expecting 
him to disbelieve me. "Oh he no bite!" the guy said, shaking 
his head and putting his hand partly over his mouth, "He no 
bite you!"

So big deal. I've had worse dinner companions. I got up and 
walked to the bar and the bar tender saw me coming so he 
whipped out a glass and filled it with white Zinfandel--- I 
love a bar where they give you what you want without you 
having to ask first. Way cool.

I grabbed my drink, four bar napkins, and went back to my 
evening's canine date, whom I fancied was waiting for me. I 
had nearly finished the wine when the lone waitress showed up 
and asked me what I wanted. I laid all four bar napkins in a 
row in front of me, and said "On this napkin I want another 
Zinfandel. On the one," I said pointing to the second, "I 
want your best Merlot. This napkin here gets a flute of 
Bruit. And this last one here gets a diet coke." The waitress 
wrote all this down, without so much as a blink, and then 
asked me if I'd like some food. I ordered four cheese 
encliladas, two orders of rice, a chile relleno, a plate of 
jalapenos, huevos rancheros (which she wouldn't give to me 
for some reason) and I emphatically instructed "NO Frijoles 
with the enchiladas!" I thanked her, and before she walked 
away she reached over to the nearest table and removed one of 
its dining sets and placed it on my table, evidently 
believing I was ordering for two people. It seemed none of 
the fulltime waitresses had warned her about me and my 
eatting habits.

The drinks came just as Cram gave up getting in the woman's 
pants, and he went to the little stage in the bar to sing for 
his pay. He started the set with that all-time family 
favorate, "Let's get drunk and screw." When the loud noise 
started, The Beast under my table gave a monstrously loud, 
heavy sigh and kicked his hind feet a few times, shaking the 
table. The Beast settled down after a minute or so.

By the time dinner arrived I had finished all of my drinks, 
and was enjoying the spinning room, and singing along with 
Cram (there are very few songs of which Chris knows the 
complete words to, so I had to help him out, you see). I was 
so happy, I often put my head under the table to talk to The 
Beast. "HI, DOG! WHAT THE FUCK'S UP, DOG?! DO YOU CLEAN 
PLATES IN THIS SLEEZY DUMP, DOG?!"

I looked over the dinner put before me, and noticed that, 
true to my wishes, I didn't get beans with the enchiladas--- 
the waitress had mistaken my desire for NO beans, with my 
wanting them on a seperate plate than the plate the 
enchiladas were on. Hummm. I like a woman who does precisely 
what she's asked.

I put my head back under the table. "WANT SOME BEANS, DOG?!" 
but it continued to ignore me.

I picked up one plate of enchilads and dumped it on the other 
plate of enchiladas. Then I dumped on top of that both 
portions of rice, then the chile relleno on top of that, 
being sure to put a layer of salt in between each dumping. (I 
pushed the beans to the far side of the table.) I couldn't 
possibly eat it all, but I was going to try. And to tell the 
truth, I had by then lost all interest in food.

Just as I was about to dig in, my friend Nikki came down 
stairs and came bouncing up to me. I hadn't seen her for five 
months. Oh Goddess did she look GOOD! Imagine Cristy Brinkley 
in her mid-twenties, fresh and golden- tanned and ripe for 
the pickin'--- then multiply that image by about two 
thousand, and you'll get Nikki. I gave a heavy sigh much like 
The Beast under the table had uttered. She asked me what I 
had been up to, and I told her "Dreaming about you." I'm 
soooooo smooth, ain't I? She laughed as if I were kidding, 
then trotted off. So much for the "nookie" part of the 
evening.

I finished all the food in an orderly, efficiant manner, and 
was left with a cold plate of beans. I grabbed the plate, put 
my head under the table, and yelled "HEY DOG! HAVE SOME 
BEANS!" and put the plate near its nose. Dog gave a 
long-suffering sigh, stood up, sat down, and slowly ate the 
beans, as if I had put a gun to his head and was forcing him 
to eat. "HEY! YOU -DO- WASH DISHES IN THIS DUMP, DOG!" I 
yelled at it.

A very fat, sullen old Mexican fart was staring at me from 
the bar, obviously curious about what I was doing under the 
table. I left the table, without paying for anything, and 
went to the bar for another drink. I stood next to this 
Mexican guy, and while waiting for the drink I pointed at his 
bulging gut and said "When's the baby due?" All he could say 
was "Eh?" I was trying to start a fight, but there was this 
language barrier getting in the way. I doubled my efforts to 
insult by trying to speak Spanish: "El ninja! El ninja!" I 
said, pointing to his gut again. "Ehhhhhh?" he said, 
suspiciously--- if he spoke Japanese he would have been even 
more mystified. My drink came so I gave up.

I went to sit in the "lounge" area in front of Cram, and the 
old Mexican went to go look under my table. I very much hoped 
he, too, saw the dog and that I had not been hallucinating. 
He stayed under the table for a minute or so, so I assume 
they were hitting it off.

Chris sang several Eagles tunes, none of which contained the 
correct verses in the correct order, then he sang a few he 
had written. One song is about "used cocaine."

     "Would you like to buy a coke-laced bugger?
     You may think it's coke but it's'not.
     But used cocaine is the only coke I got."

Then he sang a song about a budding young minor-aged girl 
named "Precious" that could have landed him in prison for 
life, or at least on the Deviant Sex Offender list in every 
city in the nation. Disgusting! Then a curvatious, boney, 
buxom, busty young woman named Tiffany got up and sang a song 
with him. She couldn't sing worth shit, but that didn't 
matter.

He sang "Free falling," "Southern Cross," and "Hendrix," 
whatever the hell that is. Then he asked for requests. A 
chant started at the bar:

"Lennon! Lennon! Lennon! Lennon!" which I assume is / was a 
Beatle. Naturally I had to start my own chant:

"Marx! Stalin! Brezhnev! Gorbachev!" but I ran out of 
Russians and wine.

"Last call" came and Chris Cram said he would "tell Tiffany 
here to lay anyone who gets me a shot of tequila," so I 
jumped up, walked carefully to the bar, and ordered a shot of 
tequila. The bartender asked me "Tequila? Really? You really 
want a shot of tequila?!" (he may have been surprised since I 
only drink wine when I'm there). I said "agave tequilana, as 
a favor!" He looked at me with one eye, then put a shot glass 
in front of me, filled it with tequila, put a slice of lime 
on top of the glass, then handed me a salt shaker. What the 
fuck was the lime and salt for, I wondered?! I left the salt, 
walked carefully back to Cram, and gave him the shot.

Chris downed the shot with one gulp, then stuffed the glass 
down his pants, saying "Thanks, bro." But, sad to say, I 
didn't get to have my way with Tiffany.

When my bill was added up, I discovered that I had spent 
US$14 on food and US$55 on drinks. That's a decient ratio.

I wonder what they will think when they find the plate under 
the table?


... Noah's Flood--- it just doesn't wash . . .
* Shy.David@EdenBBS.com