©2009AdrianLeverkuhn
There are some stretches of road that are nothing less than Hell. Some stretches of water, too, for that matter. And mountains. Mountains are rather like life, too, but it's better to get by the rough patches and move on than it is to dwell on the toll they take. Sometimes there's just no way to avoid the rough spots; other times find us tempted by the idea of taking a short-cut around life, maybe missing out on a little pain or finding our way to happiness just a little quicker. Some detours work out fine, others don't. Some detours take you where you want to go -- eventually; other drop you off unexpectedly in the middle of nowhere, leave you confused and not just a little shaken. Some are full of pain.
'Beyond this place there be dragons.'
Wouldn't that be nice: little road-signs warning of imminent danger just ahead, that even the expected curves conceal dangers so unpredictable that mere words alone cannot convey all the implications of a single slip?
And why are these short-cuts so tempting? I'd really like to know the answer to that one.
+++++
I was northbound on the Atlantic Intra-coastal Waterway somewhere just north of Ft Lauderdale and headed for Palm Beach, deep in what's called Gucci Gulch, bound eventually for Port St Lucie. The homes that line this strand between the ICW and the beach are massive, rambling estates whose annual property tax bills are rumored to be in the hundreds of thousands of dollars. Fifty acre parcels of land are not uncommon, homes with fifty thousand square feet and private heliports abound -- these types of shacks are the norm along this stretch of the waterway.
Another feature of the waterway, and an unwelcome one at that, are the countless bridges spanning this section of the ICW. Roadways cross the waterway at fairly regular intervals: a very few are so tall that even large vessels can pass underneath without issue; most of these bridges, however, are not. Most of them carry simple surface streets across the waterway and boats can pass only after the bridge has been raised over or swung away from the main channel, and because road traffic in the area is so heavy these bridges only open a few times a day. Folks can literally travel all day long and, by missing bridge openings, find that they've traversed a stunning ten miles for the day; in other words at a pace even a Green Sea Turtle could walk away from. Needless to say, tempers can flare. This is the voice of experience speaking.
And another unique feature of this stretch of the ICW concerns the folks who man these bridges. They watch million dollar yachts and duct tape-patched inflatable motorboats pass by all day long so perhaps they are consumed with the thought that life has somehow passed them by -- who knows? Whatever the reason, some of these folks have a rather highly developed sense of humor, some more than others. Some tenders will let all the boats queued-up pass before closing the bridge; others will wait until just the right moment to close their bridge -- and cause the approaching skipper to ram his engine into reverse and take all kinds of (obviously hilarious) action to avoid having their boat turned into kindling. These bridge tenders can be seen laughing their asses off and generally having a fine ole time as they watch weekend warriors and old farts scrambling around and cussing while trying to save their boats. For want of a better word I've taken to calling these bridge-tenders "Bubba" -- and I mean no slight to people so named. Rather, there seems to be a mean-spiritedness to the actions of these crimson vertebrae'd fellas that seems uniquely Southern. I feel it necessary to add that I am myself a Southerner, or was once, and that I too have been accused of red-neck tendencies -- most frequently regarding my unqualified love of Lone Star beer and Carolina-style barbeque. Be that as it may, Bubba and I have been having a running dispute over his operating procedures for years: I shout at Bubba, shoot the bird at Bubba, I slam my poor old sailboat's transmission into reverse and throw the tiller over and just miss the closing bridge by inches and look up in time to see Bubba pointing at me and laughing his ass off. It's a tiring ritual primarily because I always lose.
On the day in question -- and it was a nice clear December day, by the way -- it was nearing evening rush hour and I knew I had to clear the bridge ahead or be caught waiting at least three hours for the next opening -- and I had the howling engine red-lined as I pushed the boat to make that opening. I could see a dozen other boats queued-up perhaps three hundred yards ahead when the bridge began opening, and was perhaps twenty yards from passing through when Bubba decided to close it.
Slam it in reverse, helm hard over, engine rumbling, diesel fumes billowing, rude finger gestures all around, more than a few impolite expletives tossed overboard -- and I look up in time to see Bubba rolling in laughter, huge gales of laughter. I had been utterly defeated and he knew it. The Score: Bubba, 340; Hapless Old Fart, Zero. Humiliating, really. No other word for it. I missed the bridge by inches, continued the turn until I was southbound and straightened out and ran down the waterway while I tried to calm down. Again.
There was a restaurant a ways back and I thought I might head back and tie up, grab a bite and waste a couple of hours before I gave Bubba another shot at my mast -- when I saw her.
She was standing on a private dock along the waterway, the dock behind a house somewhat larger than an aircraft carrier and just a little smaller than the Taj Mahal; said house was all the more unusual in that it was painted what I consider a revolting shade of hot pink -- but more often than not these subtle hues tend to be the norm along Gucci Gulch. The woman standing on the dock was dressed in hot pink, too, for that matter. Maybe I should have, in retrospect, taken that as a warning. As I motored down the waterway I saw her laughing, then she waved at me. Another warning?
So of course, like the moron I have long been accused of being, I waved back.
Now, is it just me or have you noticed that this is a behavior common to most people out on the water? What is with all this nautical bonhomie, this completely nonsensical "we're-all-brothers-while-on-the-water" thing? Why do complete strangers who would under other circumstances (and perhaps quite naturally, too) hate each other -- suddenly become so wonderfully receptive to other people once they hop onboard a boat? Put these spiteful people in a boat and they start waving like crazy at strangers in each and every boat they pass. It's downright spooky. And I'm as guilty as can be: when I get onboard I start waving like a flag in a hurricane. Just silly, I guess, but I do it.
Anyway, the woman in pink was waving, I was waving -- hell, everyone was waving, even Bubba.
Then the woman was motioning me to come alongside...
Third warning? Three strikes, Dude, and you're out!
I slowed and circled to bleed off speed, then idled alongside the dock she was standing on; I recognized her instantly. She'd been a singer of some repute in the 70s and 80s, mainly Country Music, and I mention that in passing only because if there's one thing I know absolutely nothing about, its Country Music. I grew up in a house with Perry Como and Andy Williams, graduated on my own to The Beach Boys and Led Zeppelin and had had only an occasional serving of Willie Nelson. But given the nature of celebrity culture in America and mass media coverage thereto -- I knew this chick. She'd been married a half dozen times that I'd heard of and been in and out of rehab more times than that. Her last husband -- some forty years older than her at the time of their nuptials -- had popped off a few months later and left her with something like twenty billion dollars.
Thinking back on things now I realize I should have motored-on down the waterway to the burger place, but I'm here to tell you -- people do dumb stuff when they get in a boat. Like wave back at people who wave at you. Stupid, really. Just plain dumb.
+++++
Judging from the hive of activity on the lawn behind her it was apparent that final preparations for a party of historic proportions were being completed. A stage had been erected, complete with lights and a sound system that looked bigger than anything Zeppelin had ever used, and tables and chairs for hundreds of people were set up and being attended to by an army of hired help. There were cops in the bushes and private security personnel in the trees and Secret Service types walking along the edge of the waterway, and as I approached the dock one of these fellows waved me away until the woman waved him away. I dropped the boat into idle and drifted toward the dock...
"Hi there!" she said in a Tennessee accent so thick you'd need a chainsaw to cut through it.
"Howdy," I replied in my best 'congenital-idiot-from-Texas' voice.
"I just hate the man operatin' that bridge," she crooned. "He's a bona-fide mother fuckin' prick!"
"Yeah, well, he gets my vote for asshole of the year." She laughed. I laughed. Very funny stuff.
"He likes to get sailboats," she said. "I don't think he likes sailors."
"That's quite understandable. I don't like bridge-tenders."
She laughed again, looked at me like she was measuring me for a tuxedo -- or a coffin -- then said: "We're havin' a little get-together here tonight. My birthday party! Would you like to stay?"
I didn't know what to say. "I don't know what to say, Ma'am; I didn't bring a gift."
"Say yes!" she said with a pouting lower lip hanging out like a Frisbee. "Please! I don't have a date!"
Ah. A damsel in distress!
"Well of course, I'd love to stay. Where can I tie up?"
She hopped up and down and clapped her hands, turned and called out to a stud named Skip and told him to help me tie off at the dock, then I hopped ashore and introduced myself:
"Bond, James Bond," I said as I held out my hand; we laughed at my idiocy, then: "Just call me Hank."
"Hank? I'm Rose!" She held out her hand; it felt fine boned and her skin was cool and dry, she looked me in the eye with electric blue precision while I looked at her; we shook hands and she took my arm in hers and led me across the lawn. A smoother putting green I have never seen, except this one was about two hundred yards square. I shuddered to think what the descending legions of high heels would do to this masterpiece. It looked like a billiards table.
We made polite small talk while we walked; she asked where I was headed on my boat and I asked her about the house and the festivities about to begin: a couple of her dearest friends were going to drop by, George Strait was going to sing a couple of songs before dinner and Stevie Wonder -- her "oldest and dearest friend" was going to perform later -- right before the fireworks.
A little party. Uh-huh.
