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Excerpt from Chasing the Horizon
Where to begin?
Where should I start the
tale of my life – a life devoted to Chasing the Horizon? I’m an
individual almost entirely satiated by mere physical movement, if
it is upon the sea. How did this happen?
Adventure? Oh, yes. Plenty. I’ve been
through eight tropical hurricanes aboard various sailing craft within
the last forty years. I survived them all, though twice the boats
didn’t. Pity. It’s so difficult to dog-paddle around in the water in
the midst of a hurricane as your vessel founders – and maintain any
sort of personal dignity.
I’ve been shot at, arrested, kidnapped,
beat up, glorified, and spat upon. I’ve been held up to public
ridicule; and I’ve even lectured at the better Universities. I’ve
attended a total of about five years of school (too many!), and have
been involved in some misguided endeavors which I hope will never see
the light of day.
Yes, I believe I’ve led a rather
adventurous life. I’ve loved enough women to have forgotten many of
their names. I’ve lived with mud-caked Third World friends I’ve had to
nonchalantly rub with a damp wash cloth to determine skin color
(curiosity, not prejudice). I once overheard a dozen crewmen calmly
discussing knocking me overboard in the middle of the night because
they suspected I’d secretly hidden some fish guts in my cabin instead
of properly sharing them (we were hungry; I’d caught a large dolphin,
quickly cleaned it, and then stupidly thrown ‘its best parts’
overboard).
Maybe I should begin my tale by telling
you, dear reader, about the people; the barnacle-encrusted actors which
will stroll across my sandy, water-colored stage.
The title of this book could just as
easily be "Seadogs, Clowns and Gypsies". Or "Wonderful Waterfront
Wackos". Or "Lush Tropical Vegetables".
Certainly, the characters are at the very
core of any tale worth telling.
Or perhaps I should begin my tale in the
present tense, though there is nothing very tense about my present.
Let’s try.
I’m sitting at the nav table of a small
black fiberglass sloop anchored by a small hot island off the coast of
Venezuela. The boat is named Wild Card and she is a 38’ S&S
designed, Hughes built racer/cruiser. St. John, USVI is her hailing
port.
We are hiding out from hurricane season
here at Latitude 11 North, Longitude 64 West. Pampatar, Isla Margarita
– an ideal place to play Jimmy Buffet’s "Wasted Away Again in
Margaritaville" song at full volume on the cockpit speakers. I do;
often.
Living (and life) is cheap here. Most of
the people are friendly. Many of the boat boys, beggars and thieves
know me. They know I’m broke; hell, I cage drinks from them when
possible. They steal mostly from wealthy Americans wearing too much
tasteless jewelry. Yes, even the Boat Boys of Beanerville have certain
professional criteria.
A frosty cold beer (Polar) ashore on the
beach here is 22 cents, and I feel that I am losing money if I’m not
drunk.
I have no shirt on as I write these
airless words, and sweat rolls down my nut-brown body. It pools in the
folds of my belly. My armpits reek. The sun is fat and boiling and
merciless this far south. Not a breath of wind is upon the sea, and a
glassy, sickening swell is rolling in from the east.
Oh well. Paradise is no more perfect than
anywhere else, and that’s a difficult lesson to learn.
All my life I have been both blessed and
bedeviled by a curious sort of internal third eye – a perpetual camera
within my twitching brain. Click! Any experience which has
touched my heart, stirred my dick, or twisted up my guts – I’ve
captured forever. My mind is filled with a million pulsating images –
pure slices of juicy life.
After all, memories are compact,
waterproof, and easily stowed; the perfect ‘collectable’ for the
seafaring man.
I am here now at this miserable nav table
scribbling these stiflingly clumsy words because all my life there has
been only two things which interest me, two things which motivate me.
Sailing and The Stories.
I’ve spent nearly all my time engaged in
both. By this measure, I am a successful man. By any other, I’m an
abject failure – perhaps to the point of pity.
"Just ’cause everybody says that you are
wrong doesn’t mean that you are right – but it usually is a good
indication that you are.." my father often advised me.
Good advise.
Copyright by Cap´n Fatty Goodlander. All rights reserved. |
