A Night On Moon Dog Bay

 

Dark Tropics original art by Matt M Maloy

The Sailing Hideaway crew had a long day of tall winds and strong waves.  In darkening waters, we needed to make port, and soon.

I recalled an old beach bar/grill just off the ICW in the back-waters of paradise on a forgotten spit of land. The recollection suggested that reaching it by sea was less perilous than navigating the neglected sand road, notorious for trapping vehicles during King Tides- effectively deterring all but the most dedicated patrons from visiting Moon Dog Spit.
Encouraged more by the tide than wind, the Hideaway glided to the maintenance deficient dock. Nudging a piling sent a dock rat scurrying, with great enthusiasm, along the old grey wood pier.
Under my sloppily dropped main and storm jib, deck work became a challenge that I sorely didn't need. I threw on a couple of springs and, side stepping a sleeping sailor whose right arm dangled off the finger pier as if shark fishing, made my way to the secret back door - the one with the “Keep Out” sign painted on it. The lock was broken. An obvious invitation. I did not resist.
The concrete block box of a building preceded building codes
And looked it. At first, the swayed roof appeared to be what you would find on an Irish cottage, but the 'thatch' was fallen palm fronds deposited by two palms planted too close to the faded yellow paint peeling building. The rest of the roof consisted of corrugated metal panels, most of which were in various stages of rusty decline with a few fasteners furtively holding them on to the rafters.
The structure hadn’t seen a paint brush in decades yet sported a variety of textures and colors, blues, orange, pink all once bright Florida Gaudy style, converted now to a mass of persistent peeling paint. Its street front consisted of a large picture window that had not been washed during this millennium. The faded sign advertised something about mooning a dog. The ominous entrance was surrounded by weathered wooden trim adjacent to haphazardly applied stucco. Loose fragments of stucco adorned the worn-out light blue courtyard floor featuring paintings of orange and green sea creatures. The uneven concrete floor shone from a puddle of viscus yellow liquid oozing from a moldy green pipe that curled around the side of the building into a pile of odorous debris. Unshielded from the sun, the patio courtyard provided a thirsty income stream for the establishment.

I pushed my shoulder

Against the grungy door, which popped open. I grabbed it to slow its speed. Spreading late afternoon sun into a dark bar is never a good idea. Glaring behind the bar the heavy-set Bar Keep wore a sullied green apron with pink flamingoes on it and a long faded discolored red muscle shirt. The kind with large holes to be inhabited by tattooed arms which real athletes might wear, but never would. Sweat beaded from his bald head spattering onto the abused wooden bar.
The Bar Keep gave an unfavorable look at my order of a large iced tea instead of my usual scotch. Neat. I’d given booze the boot a while ago, I started to explain….. He handed my iced tea wiping the sweat off the bar with what once was a white dish towel sometime in the last half century, more recently employed to clean iced tea glasses. He pointed towards the front patio to prevent a smelly, tea-drinking sailor from hanging out in his grill/bar.

A well-dressed customer…

As I walked towards the patio past a well-dressed customer sitting at a nearby table trying, unsuccessfully, to liberate his artificial silverware from the table’s cheap plastic cover with white and reddish orange squares. He’d be better off to leave them, I thought, remembering my greeting from the hairy, four footed dock hand I’d made a brief acquaintance with earlier.

I set my iced tea on the metal patio table…

The one that featured an open weaved lattice designed for spilling drinks on your pants in embarrassing places. You know the table, cheap, with chipped Fuchsia and Turquoise paint and three legs of various lengths. A bright yellow chair of similar construction and comfort leaned against the wall. An over flowing ash tray with a still burning cigarette addressed the edge of the table. I picked up the cig and took a long drag. Memories.

I didn’t mind the rejection …

I was, after all, there to conduct business with a new client. I was packing my 70D slung over my shoulder in a quick draw sling at my hip set to AV- RAW automatic high speed shooting with 256 gig extreme chip and a variable density filter. You never know who or what you will encounter in a place like this.

The iced tea didn’t last long…

I walked into the bar. At my questioning look, the Keep gestured towards the darker end of the bar to a large plastic palm tree with fronds lit with green Christmas lights, its trunk with yellow. The yellow ones were flashing. I walked down the narrow hall, devoid of substantial lighting, to find a few parts of the Head’s door attached to its frame by only the top hinge – The rest of the door was scattered on the floor, with one door chunk sticking through the wall. A disagreement on line position the most likely catalyst.

You can either clean a room or screw in a dim light bulb to hide its sins

This establishment chose the latter. The grimy walls of the Head were covered with tactless jokes, written in several languages, using a variety of writing instruments. None were engaging.

A small sink sat below a discolored mirror next to a long galvanized metal trough filled with ice cubes that screwed to the wall at an appropriate height. Two patrons attired in Yacht Club regalia stood facing the wall in animated conversation did not seem notice the trough was dripping on their boat shoes.

A much younger version of a man sat on a stool in a grey corner of the head. His garb consisted of the socially required filthy tee shirt, raggedy shorts and one flip flop. He looked like someone who did not pay close attention during high school. The Ice Trough Guard didn’t look up at my entrance, preferring instead to concentrate on his supper balancing on his lap.

My business completed, I made my way back to the faux art patio, breaking the remains of the door off its last hinge as I passed by.

I sat down, at my self-bailing table,

Stabilized by a crushed beer can and a piece of broken stucco. I relit the cig stub, a cough immediately ensued sending a smoke signal into the sky to remind me why I stopped that sin. I snubbed it out, spilling the overflowing ash tray through the open webbed lattice table on to my shorts. The darkening night my salvation from imagined new client disgrace.

My Client!

I glanced up from my crimes to find her shinning in all her bright glory! And she’d brought a friend, whom admittedly, was somewhat duller. The curse of forgetfulness left me without my tripod. I leaned against the decaying stucco wall and fired off 14 shots free hand, adjusting my variable density filter twice before they vanished like the foggy memory of a recent hurricane.

It was a good night at the Two Moon Saloon.

At the Two Moon Saloon on Moon Dog Bay Photo by Matt M Maloy

All rights reserved

SMALL BOATS ROCK!

Colorful Sailboats On Beach Desk Mat
by SailingHideAway
Imagine the feeling of being on a beach, the sun on your face, the wind in your hair, and the sound of the waves crashing on the shore. Now imagine having that feeling every time you look at your desk