Killin’ Time in Miami
I woke up confused and cold in the dark. Standing, I bumped my head in Gaia’s not-quite-enough-clearance salon, and was reminded where I was. Why I was sleeping on a bench in the salon and not my nice comfy cabin was at that point unclear; all I knew was that I needed a blanket and a glass of water.
“Hey, anyone in there?” I called into the pitch-black forward cabin where I should have been sleeping. The previous night, Saturday, was a bit of a blur, and I wasn’t certain if we’d invited people over who might be sleeping in my cabin. While there was no response, I didn’t figure that meant much at 3am on a Sunday, so I did the Canadian thing and went back to sleep on the bench, extremities thoroughly chilled.
“Maricon, what the fuck are you doing?” David cursed at me an hour later when he got up to piss. “Go to bed.”
This past weekend we celebrated the skipper’s birthday in proper sailor fashion; by drinking in the morning and passing out early. Saturday started around 10am with breakfast beers on the boat, followed by an afternoon stroll to a posh grill in nearby Coconut Grove (which is exactly like what it sounds like). There, we bumped into a cadre of lovably shady characters at the bar and flirted shamelessly with pregnant women and senior citizens. It was a PG-13 kind of afternoon.
David, trying to be a good samaritan, pulled me away from a table of girls around 4pm (I was sitting beside the pregnant one and he thought I didn’t know) and we shuffled back towards the marina and its much-more-familiar sailors’ dive. Happy hour was in full swing ($3 draught!) and we ran into more of David’s comrades, then made new friends with everyone at the bar. That continued until the sun went down, after which I lost track of details and ended up bumping my head at 3am on the boat. Full circle.
Noon, Sunday. Deck-stomping and pitchy South African accents woke me as the skipper and some of his yacht-life pals returned from a boozy brunch. They crashed into the salon and introduced themselves politely as I pulled on a damp pair of shorts. Wait, why were my shorts damp?… I was brutally hungover, but tried to trooper through for the sake of national pride; I managed to get one beer down before being forced to return to my cabin for another few hours’ sleep.
I finally emerged around 2pm as the crew were getting ready to head out to the suburbs where David’s family was preparing a BBQ for his birthday.
“Hey Rusty, how’s the arm buddy?” asked Joey the Chef.
I looked at my arm to find an Unidentified Drinking Injury spread half down its length. “Ohhhh fuck, yeah, I almost fell in the drink trying to get on the boat!” I laughed, relieved to find a relatively innocuous explanation for my damp shorts.
“You fell in the water?” David asked with a blank stare.
“Nah, I caught myself on the life lines and you hauled me onto the deck.” I was mildly embarrassed by the unseamanlike display. “Fucking fuck, I lost my Hinano hat though!” I had bought that hat on Rangiroa atoll, my favourite place on Earth other than Toronto, but not somewhere I was likely to return to anytime soon.
Seven of us piled into cabs and returned to the burbs for the BBQ. David’s brother is a chef and the grilltastic aroma was enough to banish any lingering effects of the night before. Just to be sure, the skipper prepared me a tall gin & tonic, widely recognized as a universal palliative. The health and well-being of his crew was clearly paramount.
Surrounded by four generations of David’s Colombian family, the younger folk (plus me) sat around chatting in the concrete backyard on a chilly Miami evening. A cold front continued to pull strong winds down from the north, booting the temperature down to 60 F and preventing us from sailing across the Gulf Stream. Would-be DJs took turns interrupting each other’s songs in an attempt to find the best Spanish BBQ tune. The night ended early with murderously strong coffee and some pleasant tiramisu.
“Hey fucker,” David said, clapping an affectionate arm around my shoulder, “remember when you tried to pick up that pregnant chick?”