@BigSur5: I just remembered that I wrote a humor article about my best bud's Islander. Lemme go back in the old section to see if I can find it. It is later. I found it, but I dunno if it will copy. Here goes:
All At Sea With The Nautical Nuts
c Walt C. Snedeker
For thousands of years, Men have felt the irresistible urge to go far out to Sea, and many of them have died. Things got a lot better after boats were invented.
But still, it is a very, very dangerous thing, going to Sea. Especially with me on board. I suppose I could say that I am an experienced sailor, as I've leaned over the rail calling dinosaurs in both the Atlantic
and the Pacific.
There are times when my pal, Jerry, manages to get me onto his sailboat. Granted, most of the times that he is successful in this endeavor occur when the sailboat is in a dockyard somewhere, getting the lazarette club-hauled or whatever. But sometimes, the horrible thing is actually afloat. And therein is the kernel of my misery.
I firmly believe that sailing can be defined as being cold, wet, miserable, and seasick while going nowhere slowly at great expense. To me, being on a sailboat is like being in jail with a chance of drowning.
Also, I hate wind. Jerry doesn't mind it at all -- when it's windy, he just tells me that it's my turn to take the tiller, while he sits back and watches with the gleeful, evil, beady little eyes of a spiteful goblin. In these conditions, the first hour or so is endured with
only that sail out there in the front strung up (note my excellent nautical terminology).
Last time, it was awful as I tried to keep the boat from swinging around in a sudden, uncontrolled circle... or falling off to wander around the wrong way, with my bowels doing the polka. Jerry, that wizard of shaftcraft, eventually took pity and fixed the problem. If I were a nautical man, no doubt I could tell you what he did. I'm not, thank God.
If I were Bosun McSalty, I daresay I could describe how we jibed with our futtock gan'sls clewed up to the orlop bitts, and weathered her, d'ye see, with a lee helm and all plain sail in the bilges, burn me buttocks. As it was, when some more sail got strung out, the bleedin' boat got a lot easier to steer.
But now, Gentle Reader, it is time to let you see the true nature of sailing with my fiend (I mean, friend), Jerry:
You must sail a grueling course, starting right near the launch ramp and ending, as many as two hours later, right near the launch ramp. Along the way, you must battle not only waves the size of throw pillows, but also the occasional other sailboats, some of them piloted by people as naked as jaybirds. Tragically, a lot of these people turn out to be, upon examination with binoculars, Men.
Braving the abyssal deeps that sometimes reach more than four feet, I go to Sea with my Boon Companion Jerry, his Beautiful Wife Fleek, and the Fabled PC (my Scottish Spouse). The boat is unnamed (or the name changes) because Jerry refuses to put extra money into it for frivolous items, such as lettering, water jug, working outboard, flaregun, or sweeps for the galley slaves kept freeze-dried in a small plastic baggy under the "sleeps four--honest!" miniature bed.
But the vessel has the two qualities that PC and I consider absolutely essential in our sailing craft:
1. She has beer on board.
2. She belongs to somebody else.
There are times when Jerry takes his sailing very seriously. He does not have his first Pina Colada until nearly 90 seconds after we start. You have to understand discipline, at Sea. To help you understand, I'll reprint the Ship's Log here:
0900 We check our equipment. "I've got your binoculars," Captain Jerry says, "so we can see the nudies."
0903 We approach a lane through the thousands of lobster buoys. This lane is currently being utilized by two "K" class boats. (Jerry has never explained to me why he
always classifies sailboats as "K" class). We maneuver toward the lane while disdainfully ignoring the screams coming from the other boats about rights-of-way, and other trivial nautical esoterica. Jerry correctly refuses to be baited when the captain of one of the larger boats shouts, "I used to cry because I had no shoes... until I met a man who had no class!"
0912 We pull into the 19-foot wide "deep channel". The K boats come bearing down on us. We have or Tuna Coladas in hand, but we know that we're in for the long haul... we deftly switch to beer. Jerry has opted for liquified bison's waste gases (Budweiser), and I'm drinking Beck's.
0918 We start falling behind the other boats. Jerry says this is because he has a smaller jib than the other boats. Jerry has
serious jib envy. We tell him size is not everything. He has another beer, morosely.
0926 The following nautical conversation takes place between Fleek and Captain Jerry:
Fleek: Everybody else is going
that way.
Jerry: Yes, I know.
Fleek: Why are we going
this way?
Jerry: (nothing)
0950 We have our first [nearly] confirmed sighting of a semi-naked woman. It turns out to be a large inflated plastic banana trailing from a K-boat.
0951 Fleek and PC, who are clearly starting to feel the strain of the long voyage, go downstairs (is that the term?) to take naps. Jerry and I, being Men. remain on deck, drinking beer, and watching boats with bigger jibs pass us by with stately roarings and gushings.
1005 At a crucial moment, I start pulling on the wrong rope, as Jerry calmly keeps pointing with wild jabbing motions to something out of sight that I'm supposed to do something with; all the time his voice is rising higher in a panicky coolness. It seems I have caused the jib to "furl", which means that it becomes even tinier than it already is. The ship is saved by a convenient utter dead calm which settles down over the boat for two hundred feet in every direction. We have a beer.
1022 Fleek comes back upstairs (?) looks around for a moment, and the following nautical conversation takes place:
Fleek: What I wonder is, how come there are never any other boats
behind us?
Jerry: (total silence)
Fleek: I mean, how come all those other boats are in
front of us?
Jerry: (total silence)
1030 We are exhausted, and heading for home. We have been on the water all day (well, an hour and a half, at least) and have seen zero naked people of any sex whatsoever. We're almost out of beer. The Sea can be a harsh and unforgiving body of water, all right. We cannot believe that Columbus sailed all the way across the entire ocean hundreds of years before the discovery of aluminum cans. Of course,
he had a much bigger jib.
1036 Our boat rams the dock exactly one stall down from where Jerry had said he was headed. Jerry grunts in immense satisfaction for the result of his navigation, and leaps out with ropes tied to each end of the craft.
1037 We pull Jerry from the water. One rope has snagged a cleat, cutting short his magnificent leap. We hold up our "9" rating cards. We have a beer.
1038 The wind begins to blow surely and steadily -- exactly paralleling the shore. Jerry begins chuntering.
1038.5 Jerry speaks:
"Who wants to go sailing?"
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Lordy. Had to multiple-format every fargin line. Hope it is readable.
