Wasting Away Again in Jageritaville

It's 1730, 90 degrees Farenheit with 100% humidity, I'm not sure what day it is, and I have no clue as to the whereabouts of my shoes. I'm in Lyford Cay Marina, feeling as out of place as a whore in Vatican city. Unlike the owners of these 7 figure vessels , I clutch my only sole possesion like an oyster clutches it's pearl. Even the most deeply flawed pearl is worth more than mine humble precious, a $10 pre-paid phone card with exactly $4.65 cents left thereon. Equates to roughly 30 minutes of connection to reality. A reality I've inadvertantly disassociated myself from since I have brought no driver's liscense, credit card, birth certificate, passport, or badge, absolutly no way to prove that I am who I say I am, or indeed an American citizen.. That being said, if I've piqued your interest, please read on to discover the trials, tribulations, tragedies, and triumphs which led me and mine to our collective states of dishevelment.

Come 0800 Saturday morn, our prediscussed time of departure for Nassau, I'm waterside readying the dink, gear in hand. Over the next 1/2 hour the rest of the crew and captain alike will show with their own stories of what Friday night held. None as impressive as Pat's which entailed him working the TFC until around 0300, he stayed until around 0530. Knowing he had to be up at 0800, he opted to just stay up, and let others take the first few watches while he sleeps, which of course never happened. Post a botched pax transfer from the Baby Jane which entailed one boat crunching into another, as well as Pat's brother Johnathan, and his significant other Maggie, launching drunkingly on our boat. After a solomn promise to Capt Joel from Johnathan assuring him that the Captain's word is gospel, all are aboard. The Second Wind is a 1975 Challenger sailing vessel with a 30 hp Perkind 4.108 engine, and berthing to sleep 4 comfortably. How 7 will sleep on her, the jury is still out on. About an hour out, Pat started breakfast just in time for the system belt on the Perkins 4.108 to go south, necessitating a shift from cook to mechanic back to cook once the belt is safely back doing what belts do on circa mid 70's diesel engines. Once sustainance has been had talks of dinner bring Pat to ask me if I like ....something, I forget what, I tell him, 'sure', he responds, 'Geo's kinda quirky about some things.'. I'm pretty reserved thus far, but this illicits from me, 'You carry a bright orange lunch box with you whereever you go, and I'M QUIRKY?!?!'.

An hour later Pat begins verbally acosting his brother who it seems has forgotten to bring his passport. Which is when I realize I'm identificationally challenged as well. I tell them that I don't have mine either. To which Pat says, 'But you have your driver's liscense, right?'. A series of 'nos', and 'no sirs' later when it's obvious I didn't bring my passport, birth cert, driver's liscense, or badge, he asks me what I did bring. I pull from my right pocket my tips from the prior week, which is a pile of crumpled bills devoid of any resemblance of order or structure. So be it. I just hope I don't need stitches, a tetanus shot, or my government over the next 3 days. Captain pushes the engine a little harder than he usually does and some black smoke is produced. This smoke is where we will lay blame of our trusty Perkins engine malfunctioning. Once we reach the western shores of New Providence Island, we round Goulding Cay and Simms Point, then turn toward the east as the engine turns slowly south. Around mid throttle our speed should be around 4-4.5 kts. Ours is not getting any higher than 2.5. Upon checking the oil, it's discovered that it's quite low if not empty. Cap't Joel had an extra gallon lying around so Pat refills the beast and we throttle back and formulate 'Plan B'.

'Plan B' went through incarnations of throwing a hook out from Fort Charlotte, all the way to heading into Lyford Cay Marina for the evening. Options are critical due to our current time line ETAing us post sunset on a moonless night. I recommended this not be an option because I've never done it, nor would I wish it on anyone with a questionable engine. Lyford Cay won out over anchoring out, due in no small part to the promise of a hot meal and a welcomed shower. Little did we know what awaited us therein, the 'surprise' was shared by the whole of Lyford Cay when we come steaming in the channel and they give us slip 411 to wontonly abuse for an evening. Once safely tied up, appearing like we truely knew what we were doing, our crew splits their interests. Maggie wants to shower, I want to look around (I saw on our way in a sailboat that had to be at least 110 feet long), Johnathan buys us all a shot of warm Cuervo gold that tastes slightly worse than Juanita after her magic donkey show. Then we eat, burgers/conch/shrimp, whatever they would bring us, we're not proud at this point. Pride would be wasted on this lot and we know it. The boats here are immaculate. Our vessel is great for our needs, it has spunk, charisma, and personallity. It does not have, however, a full crew of 8-10 which live on and maintain it 365 days a year, as the Ulima Novia does. Before I open that can of biscuts however let me tell you a little about our crew.

Captain Joel - his boat, his rules
Admiral Jamie - more of an honorary title, sleeps alot, shoes smell like cat pee
1st mate, cook, engineer Patarakus - doesn't sleep, sings bad songs worse
Cara - gassy, classy, and gassy
Johnathan - Pat's brother, Mandrake root hater
Maggie - Johnathan's significant other
Geo - stowaway, 7th wheel

We decide to dink around beachside for the sunset, at which point a drunk(?) Jonathan boards my dink which has a miscellany of flotsam therein including but not limited to a couple big pieces of black coral. One of said pieces he picks up and says, what's with the Mandrake Root?', then nonchalantly tosses it sideways into the water. Joel will later say, it's the only time he's ever seen me lose my composure.'. All I said was 'that WAS black coral!', I quickly followed it by, I have plenty more, and no problems, but for a split second, all I could think was, 'That was worth around $200'. Regardless, once on the beach Joel tries and mildly succeeds in pissing Cara off by saying flight attendants (of which she is one, and loves it) intentionally spread STDs all over the world. Once she's sufficiently torqued, the sun sets. There's a phenomenon known as the green flash. It happens just as the sun dips below the horizon, and as the name implies, it doesn't last long. As the sun was setting it was around %50 cloud cover. That being said, when the 'flash' should have occured, around sixty degrees starboard of the sun's setting locale, between some clouds the sky was visibly a vibrant green. I point quickly and say 'Quick, look, the green flash', I'm not sure if anyone knew of the phenomenon, so I begin to describe and explain how the moisture in the atmosphere is what actually makes the sky blue, and sunsets red/orange/yellow, and due to the laws of light refraction, bla, bla, bla. Whilst I'm going on and on. Joel says 'but isn't it supposed to only be a flash?'', Our 'green flash', is still a vibrant green, so Joel decided it was a misnomer being called the 'Green Flash', and promptly changed it to the 'Green Persistance'. Again, his boat, his rules.

Now where were we? Yes, drinks, night 1. After we are on dock we start drinking margarufi's like Rush Limbaugh eats Oxycotton, rendering us somewhere between drunk and useless. We hit the bar with the plan of the girls flirting with the deckhands on the Ultima Novia, granting us passage on what we now know to be a 135 feet long vessel from Bikini. A plan which goes off with a minor hitch. Jamie is trashed, Cara's into the South African deck hand, so they quickly forget that we are supposed to be part of the package. Luckily the chef of the boat, an indian girl named Suri, just happens to be more shit hammered than Jamie, and I think she plans on taking one or all of us home. Once we are all aboard things get a little fuzzy. Suri has a rule, 'no men in the kitchen', so when a deckhand comes in, Jamie starts chasing him around pinching his nipples with a pair of salad tongs, whilst screaming like a lesbian monkey being fisted for the first time. Then Suri gets the owner's sex toys, whips, etc, and they all start beating each other in the kitchen floor. Not sure why, but they were entertained. Myself and Cara in our exploration of this monster find the captains/owners quarters which is bigger than the bar I work in. Cara HAS to have a piece of stationary, and her picture taken on the bed. Needless to say when the 2nd Mate(?) awoke to these less than pleasant sights and smells she ixnayed the party, sent us packing without the sex toys, and with our collective tails betwixt our legs. Whlie stumbling back around the dock to slip 411 at 1 o'clock in the morning, someone utters, 'that's the biggest boat I've ever been kicked off of!'.

Immediately after returning to the boat, all hands collapse, due to exhaustia, dementia, Jack Danialsia. All but myself and Patrick I should say. Patrick now has been awake for 41 hours and should be tired. Instead he wants to argue about everything from why things burn, to why people have no real choices and should choose to die. I have the pleasure of sharing the cockpit of the Second Wind as sleeping quarters with Patrick, until 3 AM at which point I face the fact that I am indeed not going to get any sleep so I say, 'We should just cast lines now and go, we'll be in Nassau just after day break.' I was kidding. Patarakus however takes the idea to heart and screams to Joel, 'Wake up Capt, we're throwing lines and going!'.

3 AM, no moon, no sleep, no tequila, and little sense. All we have to guide our way through Lyford Cay channel is 3 heads filtering the rest of the tequila we ingested, 4 GPSes, and a .85 milliwatt laser which has a visible beam for 26 miles. 26 mile range makes this bad boy perfect for spotting channel markers from a distance, and giving cancer to any spot on your person you shine the beast for more then a couple seconds. Once we are indeed clear of the channel markers and the GPS swears by all that it considers holy that we are indeed in deep enough water, we alter course to continue our trek to Nassau. Capt Joel and the rest of the boat retires, leaving Pat at the helm. He's now been without sleep for 45 hours, he's opted to trade sleep for chain smoking and warm gin. I grab his bright orange lunchbox and use it as a pillow for about an hour and a half before I'm awakened by the caterwauling cacophony of a drunk Pat and Jonathan tag teaming a Jimmy Buffet song that neither one know all the words to, so they keep repeating the bits their estranged, gin soaked minds can muster, in increasing decibles every rotation. I wake up and curse a world where white reggae is allowed, much less celebrated. I'm now loudly cursing between their vocal stylings about Buffet's mother being dirt licking whore who doesn't know how many beans makes five. I even took a picture of the speaker that wouldn't quit playing the infernal nonescence.

People that lived through the 80's aren't as keen on 80's music as those who witness it second hand. This is obvious by Pat's next choice of music. The entire Top Gun sountrack, followed by Total Eclipse of the Heart, then She's Got Betty Davis Eyes. All with Pat and Jon singing along. Others will later say, 'it sounded like 5 people were screaming the words along with the radio'. I think it was the Kim Carnes that pushed Joel over the top. To truely appreciate this you have to know Joel's musical tastes. Very few words, beats, repetitive electronic, instrumental virtuosity, artsy. So when he woke up not only to a song with words, but what quite possibly could be the worst words ever uttered in a studio to a producer who should be shot for not destroying the tape immediately, he was visibly shaken and pissed. Once he kills the music he stomps in a circle for a full 2 minutes mumbling something about, 'Worst fucking song in history....(mumble, mumble, mumble), and I have to hear it at 630 in the fucking morning...(mumble, mumble, mumble)', all the while Pat's still glowing in 80's bliss, saying, 'could you turn the music back on?',

Nassau harbor proves to be not as intimidating as Capt Joel hitherto assumed. We make it to Yacht Haven Marina slip E11 with no problems. Grab showers and walk 5 minutes to a breakfast place that had a very tall nubian princess dressed like popeye in green drag who served us a 'highly recommended' breakfast.sandwhich devoid of promised ham, half of a 'no-doze' appears on Cara's plate. Which is where it sat until Cara farted and Popeyeina came and took her plate med included to the back. In my haze of insomnia I say, 'we truely have digressed to the level of dumb beasts, social graces be damned, and we're throwing low grade amphetamines at the help, God save our souls!!'. After which Capt Joel makes a suggestion/observation, 'It's time for either a nap, or start drinking', it's 10 am or hour 50 on Pat's-no-sleepo-metre. Jon and Maggie opt to go to Atlantis; I opt for a nap that never happens; Jamie, Joel, and Cara drink while Pat tries to take a nap. Jamie takes the opportunity to fart on Pat's head twice while he's sleeping while Cara is calling names like 'pumpkin-tits, and cuddlepuss'. 20 minutes later Pat wakes, if he indeed slept, complaining about the worst 20 minutes sleep he's ever had. They leave and I think I'm going to get to nap. 15 minutes later I heed Joels words, and go to the Poop Deck bar where I have 3 Kaliks and 2 shots of slightly cooler than room temperature Jager, then start to feel human. Human may be a slight exaggeration, I did, however, feel well enough to take the dink around the marina, under the bridge, and over to Atlantis' Marina. On my departure Joel flags me down and tells me they are going to Bay Street. I tell them I'll take the dink back to the boat, and Taxi there and meet them at Senior Frogs. I warn them, 'DO NOT go in', it's the worst place in Nassau.

I pay a Bahamian gentleman no less than 100 years old, $20 to drive to to Bay Street very slowly. Once I'm there, I give a Bahamian a black coral necklace that I made from a piece of black coral I stole from him in December, catching the notice of a few Bahamian policemen who perk up like Anna Nichole Smith around twinkies and money, at the sight of little zip-lock baggies coming from the pocket of a slightly disheveled looking, and smelling out island whack job. He then tries to sell me more black coral for $60 which I immediately talk him down to $30 (and once all is said and done I'll sell it to silly white people for around $300) that I carry around the rest of the night calling 'my sticks'. We eat at a Greek restaurant where they bring us flaming cheese, and many other delights I couldn't hope to recognize or understand sobre. All taste amazing.

We water taxi over to Paradise Island(which used to be called Hog Cay, but it's hard to sell that to tourists), because Joel and Patrick strongly desire to pay $60 in Crap lessons. A lesson they learn well enough to keep them from the crap tables the remainder of our time here. Cara's foot begins misbehavin' so we try to get her a wheelchair. Seems there were no cripples in Atlantis, because they are not quick to part with a wheelchair for guests without a fee, so our chances are better of seeing Social Security than assistance for footily impared gassy white kids. Whilst Joel and Pat are taking their spanking at craps, Jamie, Cara, and myself settle into a couch where we can people watch. We end up being more watchees than watchers because of Cara's limping, Jamie's sandles smell like something a human would beat a cat for not having the proper shame to bury, and my lack of sleep is starting to show in my appearance, and my actions. My only guess is that there was a wedding somewhere on the premisis, either that or there's some crossing of magnetic lines on Hog Cay which attract silicon and Ken dolls. For here, there be monsters! I quit counting on my way to the bar when I hit three-quarter of a million dollars worth of fake tits, 5 quarts of lip balms, and a gross of viagra. I quietly swear to myself a little spackle and napalm and this place would make a great mausoleum. Three drinks cost enough to keep Sally Strothers disease riddled African child in rotten USDA rejected foodstuffs for the remainder of the Bush Administration. Death to the American Dream, in the Bahamas. My vibrations were getting ugly. I have to get up, stroll around and get distracted before I take a flamethrower to this place.

We get up, and stroll through the aquarium called 'the dig'. Very calming and distracting. Jamie scars a child forever when she screams at him from behind a mask hanging from the cieling along a wall. Poor kid thought she was part of the exhibit. He found out otherwise and paid for his curiousity with a fear that will come out many years from now in therapy. Pat's laser does amazing things to fish, this we knew from torturing the fish in the TFC aquarium. This is a much larger scale of that test with the same results, fish go retarded and start fouling the water around them, and I can only imagine from other parts of the aquarium it has to look kinda otherworldly. On our way out, Joel and Pat decide to lose another bet on one spin of the roulette wheel, me and the girls opt to wait outside. On the way out there is a room with models of Paradise Isle with buildings under construction as well as proposed buildings, complete with little people on the beaches and little cars in the parking lots, in hopes of selling this beautiful island and all it's natural resources by the pound. I'm quietly considering starting to eat as many of the little girl statues as I can before they can kick me out, or start breaking all of the little children statues. Put them in the parking lots with cars on top of them, draw little chalk outlines around them, until they force me to leave. This is when I'm planning on asking them for a job application, technically by law, they have to give me one.

Back to the marina for showers, then to a karaoke/live music bar on east Bay Street. We settle in and listen to the music whilst Jamie and Joel take the 1/2 mile walk to Dominos for dinner/midnight snack. The band needs instructions. It's like a bunch of monkeys wandered upon instruments and started beating/strumming them until someone gave them bananas to stop. 6 shots and 4 Kalik later we are walking up the dock from our boat. Our plan you see is to eat our pizza in a part of the dock as to not disturb our slipmates beside us. So we move our party a few docks north to bother people who can't make our lives any harder on us. We eat, Pat doesn't sleep, and Cara farts, and burps continuing the orifice orchestra she's been preforming for 2 days and counting.

Once back on the boat it's now very nearly midnight thirty. Come one all are asleep, including Patrick, who says this may be his personal best of 65 hours awake with no real sleep involved. His body is soaking all the nutrients it can muster out of bad gin, no doze, and menthol cigarettes. 8 hours later we are up and showered and casting lines to head back to Andros. Once out of the slip and in the shipping channels passing all the multicolored boats/homes/businesses I realize that Nassau isn't the putrid cesspool of humanity that I've always considered it to be. Most everyone was cordial and helpful and a delight to deal with. We exit Nassau harbor and Capt realizes we have around 1/4 tank of fuel. Pat throws me money and I dink back to Nassau harbor while they turn to find anchorage to await my return. The closest fuel dock is just west of Bay Street and 11 gallons worth of fuel cans costs $50, and 11 gallons of diesel also costs $50. Grrrrr. Whilst Pat and Jonathan refuel, Jamie makes herself a bowl of onions. Second verse is different from the first. Again we pass Arawak Cay, and the lighthouse on the point of Paradise Island passes from our starboard toward our stern, this time however, we heave to, raise sails, and take to the wind. With motor running at around 1300 rpm, and both sails up, we're pulling around 6 kts and my GPS tells me we'll be home by 7:30 Monday evening. Everybody is beside themselves with what a wonderful time this weekend had been.

I'm not sure how long after that the engine ran out of oil, but it seemed like 4 minutes. I'm sure it was indeed longer because we were over a mile offshore, in over 2500 feet of water. Still were making 3.2 kts under sail alone, Joel and Pat troubleshoot the two gallons of oil in our bilge and find the culprit. After much himming and hawing, it's discovered our 'timing case cover' is corroded. It seems it covers all the timing gears and jets keep these constantly coated with oil. However, it also sits right underneath the saltwater pump which leaks on it whenever the engine is used, which it has been for around an average of 5.33 hours a day for the last 3 days. When it's saltwater against heated metal, saltwater will win everytime, just as it has here. Our plan now is to sail back to Lyford Cay and hope they don't remember us bettering our odds of them letting us back in, and possibly tow us in the channel. Like all great plans, this one wasn't without fault, it depended upon two variables. Wind and radio, both of which fail us, in that order less than 12 minutes apart. Now we are completely becalmed a mile and a half offshore, 6 miles from Lyford, 7 miles from Nassau. Plan B. I tie the dink to the Second Wind and the rest of the crew feed me beer until we're in Anchor depth. Capt Joel and myself dink into Lyford Cay and procure a tow.

Never have I been afraid in my dink. I distinctly remember seeing on my GPS just east of Lyford Cay's channel there's some shoals which are 'awash at low water', which is where the tide is now. I see some shoals, and I avoid them, they become more numerous, and eventually they bottleneck after countless course changes, I have no idea how we got in the middle of these 'awash at low water' shoals, but we now find ourselves bottlenecked in sharp menacing looking coral less than 4 inches below the surface. Motor up and Joel and I both man paddles which keep us off heads until we are again in a foot and a half of water to lower the engine and continue into Lyford Cay on fumes. Joel accompanies a slightly irritated skipper to assist, whilst I man the phones and try to find someone that can speak Perkinese on a holiday Monday in Nassau. After three tries I find someone who 'may' be able to help tomorrow morning around 9ish. Then I sit on the beach and wait 90 minutes for the Second Wind to round Fort Charlotte point. I hip her to slip 415 where several plans are made, discarded, remade. Most including bringing a boat over from Andros for a trans toto tow.

That night we play 'I spy shapes', due to my colorblindness, it seems fair. We discovered that I'm horrible at hints, and everyone thinks the lights are nipplesque. The next morning we decide it would be a whole new world of suck to get a second boat stranded in Nassau, so we go on a wild Perkins chase. it seems that the Perkins 4.108 is not as popular as we hitherto supposed. Only one man in all of Nassau has in his possession a 4.107 which he 'thinks' will bolt on. In an attempt to pull the old unit off to have a comparison we are reminded that although all involved are reasonably intelligent, our mechanical apptitutes leave something to be desired. We get one pulley off, and the next kicks our collective ass. We take a picture of it and grab a $40 taxi to east Bay Street in hopes of the 4.107 matching. Two hours and around 7 1/2 miles walk later, we are empty handed. The 4.107 had the same problem showing us that Perkins have had this issue for around the last 30 years. So be it. We stop by a Subway which is a less than pleasant experience. and spend $35 for a madman to very nearly kill us on a return trip to Lyford Cay. It's now decided that we will leave the boat here and catch the SeaLink Fast Ferry back to Andros Wednesday morning, have the part FedEx'd to Nassau, at which point a contigency of our crew will return, fix the boat and return her to her home port of Andros.

Post a dinner of donated tuna and dolphin from the owner of a 38 foot sport fisherman in slip 414, we are readying the boat for her extended stay in slip 415. We later find out that 415 is actually the slip of a dinghy from 'Little Paradise', an 80 foot cabin cruiser with a homeport of Georgetown Exuma. They have no problem with our boat being there for upto a week, and Lyford Cay Marina has no problem, especially since their slip fees are #3.XX a foot per day, with no discount for weekly or monthly rates. During the readying of lines, Pat drops his glasses in the ass nasty water which surrounds our vessel. Even the laser can't penetrate the water with enough clarity to find them. Sleeping arangements change slightly for our last night. I'm still starboard stern cockpit, Patrick is port stern in the cockpit, Jamie and Joel in the captain's berth, Cara under the boom, Jonathan and Maggie on the dock. These were only temporary arrangements, since 1/2 hour after all are quiet the weather opens up and sends everyone not below deck scattering like roaches when the lights come on. Maggie and Cara end up in the Laundry where it's air conditioned, Jon ends up.....actually, I don't know where he ended up. I roll over and put a towel over my head and enjoy the rain.

In the morning, I'm up by 6, walk to the gate to procure us a taxi. Pat is snorkling in the ass nasty water fetching his glasses, which ends with him near vomiting at the thought of the Lip Tricinosis he will most likely catch from spending the better part of his morning in water not fit for sea monkeys. Half an hour later we are all in a taxi, on our way to Potter's Cay to catch our boat. We're tired, hot, defeated. Not the best time to squirt Cheese Whiz in the Captains ear, but is there ever a 'good' time to do that? This was the school of thought whcih led Pat to do just that. Thinking it was just a routine wet willie, Joel does his best to clear his ear with his finger, forcing the cheese whiz deeper in his aural cavity. Upon seeing his finger he gives a show or wretching that could win oscars compared to Patricks fear of lip tricinosis. Later, once we're all back home on AUTEC, Joel will break into Pat's room and steal his bed to get even. Cable sucks here we have to make our own entertainment.

Very uneventful ride home, lots of children on the SeaLink, that's what we were missing. Screaming, singing children. I ask one of the ladies in charge of the heathen lot what they are going to Andros for. 'A spelling bee', I'm told. I ask if it's going to be at the Fresh Creek School. She says 'yes', and I promise to go see them. She looks sideways at me as if to say, 'why'. I promptly answer her inquisitive look with a 'I haven't seen enough of the rotten bastards singing some of the worst songs I've heard since 'She's Got Betty Davis Eyes' 72 short hours ago.

Truth be known, we all have a little bit of Gilligan in each of us, as we all have a little bit of skipper, a little professor, and not as much Mr Howell as we all would like. Cara has a little more Mary-Ann than most, but no one's complaining. Lessons learned; never cruise with a schedule. If you have enough money to afford a crew to live on your boat year round, you should hide your sex toys better. And above all, NEVER put cheese whiz in your Captain's ear. You won't enjoy it, I promise.