It's Sunday, I'm standing on the bow of a boat that's sitting at anchor just off of Wisteria Key, along with the dozens of others sitting at the free anchorage. It isn't in particularly good shape. I mean, the engine is like-new and the hull is dry, but she's missing a lot of details, not the least of which is the port-side running light on the bow. I'm trying to make mental notes here, because the guy who brought me to this boat is waiting outside on his Jet-Ski.
Maybe I should back up a bit.
Saturday, I was sitting on Sunset Pier looking out at Wisteria Key and Sunset Key, absentmindedly swilling Jack and Cokes and eating a tuna/mahi/shrimp ceviche, watching some people Jet-Ski on the 2-3 foot seas. I was struck by how different it was from the Jet-Skiing I had done in the past, in the calm, protected waters of Garrison Bight. There were real waves here, some large enough to really jump off of. A couple showoffs in particular were going the whole time. I got some conch fritters to take to the girls at Baby's and left.
Later that day, a fellow from Craigslist emailed me a couple times, seemed relatively enthusiastic to sell his 33-foot cabin cruiser, so I said sure why not, I'll have a look. He set up a time and place to meet him (Sunday, north end of Simonton at the wooden dock). I wasn't sure if I was going to get killed or robbed, but I went with it.
Sunday arrived, and I went to our meeting place, and he showed up right on time. Then, he told me he had to go get the Jet-Ski that would take us to the boat that was anchored off of Wisteria Key. Uh oh, I was beginning to comprehend, I was going to be doing exactly the same high-seas Jet-Skiing I had witnessed just a day earlier. To underscore the point, one of the showoffs I had been watching yesterday, pulled his Jet-Ski up onto the beach. It was going to take an hour for my new friend to get his Jet-Ski ready, so I passed some time at Schooner Wharf drinking two Jack and Cokes (just two, mind you, I needed calmer nerves, not reckless abandon) and of course I had some raw oysters.
"You've sat in my section before?" the waitress asks. "That order is familiar."
"Yep," I reply, "every Sunday." Congratulations, Christopher. Being recognized at the Schooner Wharf is no small achievement.
As I was thoughtfully chewing oysters and listening to Michael McCloud, my teeth hit something very hard. I used my tongue to bring the offender to the front of my mouth, because this happens often with small solid fragments inside oysters. But this time the object was different:
Here it is, shown inside a bottle cap for scale. It seems to be a perfectly round, 2mm or so diameter pearl. Okay, somehow I've been eating oysters for awhile, but I never expected that. I put it in my pocket, settled up the tab, and walked back up to the Simonton dock.
Once again, there he was, this time his friend had brought a red Jet-Ski. I knew they weren't going to kill me when they insisted I put on a floatation vest. I got onto the passenger seat of the Jet-Ski, the driver got in front, and out we went. Some of the waves were hard enough to throw both of our butts a few inches off the seat. Sexuality be damned, I hugged his rib cage hard enough to signify that if he took anything a bit too roughly, he'd be coming with me to Davy Jones' Locker. He got the message and took it relatively easy.
Just a couple minutes later, we were alongside the boat that I was to check out. I climbed aboard and checked it out. Aging cruiser, no doubt technically fine, but cosmetically? Or for that matter legally? The lack of a $30 port-side running light really bothered me for some reason. But the outboard was in prime condition, the water tanks, batteries, and solar panels were all great. She just wasn't much to look at. Regardless, I lingered an unnecessary extra minute or two in the cabin, listening to the water hit the boat, looking around the confined space, the messy bed, the pots and pans piled up on the galley stove, the small head, thinking, "so this is life on a boat." I eventually finished my tour of the cabin, bow, and bridge, climbed back on The Guy's (I never got his name) Jet-Ski, and we headed back to Simonton Beach. This time, the ride was a little faster. I took a whole wave to the face. It didn't exactly scare me, but I did have to catch my breath.
"Sorry bout that!" the driver yelled.
"It's all good!" I yelled back.
A minute or so later, the Jet-Ski was pulled back up onto the beach, and I had stepped off of it and onto dry land (after walking through a couple feet of ocean, getting my sandals full of saltwater). I talked to the boat's seller for a few more minutes about its various features, thanked him for his time, and got on my way.
...With saltwater squishing out of my sandals with each step, and soaked shorts (but the video camera and cellphone survived). What a salty fashion plate I must have been, walking around the Harborwalk in that condition. My little 2mm pearl was still in my shirt pocket.
I did what anyone else would do, I shook it off and went back to Schooner Wharf for more bourbon and paid Michael McCloud for his playing, wondering exactly how I could retell all the stories and capture all the intrigue of just a couple hours' events.
-Chris