Big Tune #3

Leaving Peru today so it seems appropriate. 401

Big Tune #2

Straight outta' Ancash

The Birds (Pt. 1)

It was early November and the air was crisp and smelled like Fall. He was loading provisions from the bed of his  Chevrolet S-10 in to a wheelbarrow. He loaded the cans of food and two cases of Heineken beer in to the bottom of the wheelbarrow and on top he put the eggs and meat and the rest of the vegetables. He also had two new fifty foot braided nylon lines that he’d picked up to replace his tattered dock lines. 

Peter Day was sailing singled-handedly to Bermuda and did not intend on pulling up to the customs dock in St. George looking like a schmuck. He had worked hard on the boat since he bought it in May. The boat was a Catalina 26’ and when he picked it up from the previous owner in Wickford it was sound but the paint on the topside and hull was all shot to hell. It was his first boat and he wanted to do a good job so he took her down to the glass with the soda blaster and started from the bottom up. He applied the two part barrier coat first and then laid on the viscous dark blue Ultra-lux anti-fouling paint up to the waterline. He taped off a two inch thick waterline and it took two coats to properly cover it red with the same grade anti fouling paint. The topside was white up to the rub rail and he waxed and buffed it with the pneumatic buffer so that it shone almost pearlescent in the sun. He laid strips of chrome along the outside of each rub rail after he had stripped and varnished the teakwood underneath. Above the rub rail was about four inches of topside that he painted a deep marine blue with his old badger hair brush. Finally there was a teakwood toe-rail that ran the perimeter of the deck that was brought down to bare wood, treated and then protected with five coats of varnish.  

The boat had come with new sails, winches and lifelines and the only real equipment Pete had to buy was a self steering vayne so he could sleep and still trust the boat to stay on course. He found one at the marine consignment store next to the ice cream shop in North Kingstown. It was one of those stainless steel jobs with removable mounting brackets so he cut the tubing to fit the angle of the stern with a hacksaw and then replaced the mounts accordingly. The owner of the consignment shop couldn’t find the top fin for the vayne that sensed wind direction so he had to make one out of balsa-wood that he reinforced with thin strips of oak. 

Pete spent the two weeks leading up to his departure punching in way-points on his handheld GPS and listening to the NOAA forecasts on the old VHF radio in the cockpit. He had wanted to leave by the end of October but a steady procession of low pressure areas moving up the gulf stream had delayed his trip by nearly a month. With the second week in November came a window between two systems that would give him adequate time to clear the stream and head toward Bermuda. The first low to pass by was nearly 300 miles across and while he rushed around picking up some last minute provisions he had to wear his yellow foul weather jacket. After a final visit to the grocery store for some tuna and beer and canned beans Pete drove over to Emory’s garage where he had stored his outboard engine. He mounted the fifteen horsepower Johnson engine to the stern of the boat and attached a length of PVC to the throttle with a hose clamp, allowing him to steer without leaning out over the stern.  He pumped the fuel bulb until it was firm, let out the choke and it started up on the second pull as the clouds began to break. It was about 9:30 am. 

With the engine running and the clouds quickly evaporating Pete walked up the dock and over to his truck with the wheelbarrow. He loaded up the beer and the groceries and the two new lines that he was very happy with and locked up the truck. He put the keys in his pocket and started back down the dock, careful not to snag the wheels of the wheelbarrow on any of the electricity meters that lined both sides. When he got back to the boat he realized he was sweating with the humidity so he took off the rain jacket and tossed it over the wheel in the cockpit.   

In Compliance to the Vulgar (pt. 3)

He walked across the plaza diagonally, passing the groups of viejos in soft hats and wool suits who sat talking on the benches. The great fountain in the center was lit against the dark sky and the jets of water from the top glowed yellow. There were a few stray pigeons left shuffling around the plaza but most of the flock had gone up to roost in the various alcoves of he cathedral. He could even see one resting on each shoulder of the carved Virgin over the doorway. The stars were beginning to show, sharp and clear  in the thin mountain atmosphere. The dark grey stone on the ground was worn smooth and the shrubs and flower-beds were maintained well. It was a beautiful plaza and he liked walking it, especially at night. He crossed the street on the other side of the square and started down a small pedestrian road feeling good and light and gripping the familiar weight of the leather bag in his right hand. He arrived at the ABC cafe and John the crazy host opened the door for him with his crazy looking smile and bulging eyes and said “buenas, Señor Day.” “Thank you John, have you seen el jefe?” Crazy John said that he had not but that “el jefe” would surely be here soon if Mr. Day would like to take a seat at the back table near the wall. That sounded excellent and he would certainly appreciate a Johnny Walker Black and a bottle of water with gas while he waited. But of course. And Crazy John was on his way to the bar with that long country stride and big loose crazy head. He watched the crazy host and then walked to the back, placing his bag on the floor next to the table. After removing his navy blazer, he hung it on the back of the chair and slid the bag under the table with his foot. He looked around the nearly empty restaurant and then seated himself. Crazy John returned quickly with the drink and watched with approval as Mr. Day took a long drink from the glass. Once John had left him, The man who’s last name was Day poured some of the gaseous water in to the whiskey and took another drink. 

RIP Ted

In the words of my pal Cody Allen it's up to us now " to carry on the torch of personal buffoonery and massive social change."