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Free Range Human, Sailor, Writer, Artist, Videographer  

Friday, February 7, 2014

The Pelican and the Fish Head


Pelican Sick and the Fish Head

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. 


Sailing HideAway
The Pelicans Of Gulfport Florida Channel

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


A Fusty Fish Head

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!