I didn’t see the pelican, honest. Mr E and I were busy warping the HideAway
backwards around C Dock. We had been out
on a day sail with family visiting from Alaska
along with our daughter and beau from Chili.
It was a beautiful day on our favorite bay, however as the wind grew, conversation
became difficult. Stories of moose, bear
and Chilean culture became lost amid growling commands to come about or gybe amid
fervent discussion of reefing or heading to port. The decision was to port and Mr E, our gasoholic,
out board was happy to take us there.
I suppose it should be noted here that one questionable
feature of the Gulfport Fl channel is a fish cleaning station and its proximity
that is closer to our destination than desired.
Fishermen, or fisherpersons if you are of that persuasion, clean their
catch throwing the fishy remains to the flock of various birds gathered in the
channel for a handout.
Our pelican was
one of the beggars. Proving it was not choosey;
the pelican received a fish head of epic dimensions then retired to the
unattended C dock for rumination and other biological contemplations.
A loud, strangled squawk hung in the heavy air after the
pelican flew to avoid the HideAway after lightening his load depositing said fish head on C dock. The fish head fell to the dock at the precise
point where a sailor person would stand to warp a boat around the dock.
The Fustiest Fish Head This Side of the Universe
Or at least southeast
Gulfport
waited
the foot of an unsuspecting sailor.
Have you seen the latest boat shoe fad? Toe Pocket Shoes have toe pockets for each of your
little piggys, a sort of glove for your feet as it were. While their looks describe discomfort, they
are quite comfortable I’m told. All
those free toes provide unparalleled ground feedback, the need of which is hard
to visualize while trouping about on a fusty fish head.
A sliding kick knocked the offending head off the dock
providing some reeking relief and served to contaminate innocent toe pockets causing olfactory hallucinations lasting months.
The much flaunted barefoot shoes were put into a plastic bag
and thrown into the automobile’s back seat for transport. This solution was as short lived as the odor
was foul. Shorty, the malodorous toe gear was wrestled in a sealed container then
relegated to the murky depths of a car trunk owned by our resident double Iron
Man competitor.
The offending collection of toe pockets is still soaking in chemistry
of unknown composition and probably has given birth to some kind of mutant
creature that will likely become an elected official or at least smell like one.
And all of my gloating over the 110 degree temperature
difference between Fairbanks, Alaska and Gulfport, Florida hung in
the air like the fevering aroma of a fetid fish head.
SMALL BOATS ROCK!
