Chrass Landing

I could hear the fire truck sirens in the distance slowly getting louder and I wished that they’d hurry up.  I was helping to balance the incoherent old man next to his car in the middle of the road and was he…? Yes, he was beginning to take off his pants.  This was beginning to get awkward and the confused motorists behind us were taking longer and longer to drive by no matter how furiously I tried to wave them past.

I was on my way to a friend’s house last night on my motorcycle when I encountered the man.  His car was shut off and stopped in the middle of the street about 100 feet short of the intersection.  He was slowly opening his door and sort of leaning on it.  He didn’t look well.

I rode around him and turned the corner.

I began to think of all the times people will walk past someone in distress, and decided I didn’t want to be one of them.

I turned around, parked the bike, took off my helmet and gloves, and approached the car (which hadn’t moved an inch in the minute it took me to do all this).

“Excuse me sir, are you alright?”

I got some incoherent grumbling and an uncoordinated attempt to look in my general direction.  He looked either drunk or in dire need of medical attention.  I couldn’t smell booze.

Having watched more than my share of medical dramas on TV I knew the questions to ask someone when they seem out of it…

“Can you tell me your name?”

No reply.  The man sort of swayed a bit and seemed to be having trouble sitting upright.  He was clumsily pawing at the ignition which had no keys in it.

I figured that maybe he was drunk and didn’t want to give me his name so I proceeded…

“Do you know what day it is?”

He mumbled something incoherent, it didn’t match the correct answer, “Wednesday”.  Or even the more clever answer “Today”.

“Do you need some help?”

This was the first time he said anything I could understand.  He quietly mumbled a request for me to leave him alone.

Throughout all this I did not smell any booze.  Still I figured he was either extremely drunk or having some sort of medical crisis.  I decided to call 911.

Unfortunately, I hadn’t turned off the Bluetooth on my GPS receiver so when I dialed and held the phone up to my head, I couldn’t hear anything.  I hung up.  I realized I had just pranked 911.

I turned off the GPS on my bike so my phone would work.  My phone rang.  It was the 911 operator, she sounded annoyed.  After getting transferred to another operator I was told to stay with the man and that a fire truck was on the way.  The man, as far as I could tell, was not on fire.  Somewhere, I imagined, a group of paramedics were marching into a burning building to noisily die.

Okay, keep the old man occupied…

I looked him over.  He was wearing dirty clothes and his hands had, what looked like, engine grease on them.  There were tools and miscellaneous handyman supplies in the back.

“Are you a contractor?”

Mumble, sway.

I looked at the sky.  “Nice night isn’t it?  It’s like fifty degrees and it hasn’t rained in days.”

I felt like I was talking to a toaster.

“My wife is sad,” he told me.

“What’s wrong with your wife?” I asked.

More mumbling and uncoordinated swaying.

The man started to try to get out of the car.  I really didn’t feel like having to hold him up or prevent him from getting run over.  I put a hand on his shoulder and told him help was on the way.

He reached out and handed me his keys.

Eventually, despite my ever increasing discouragement, he got to his feet.  He looked like he was about to fall over.  I used one of my hands to help balance him as he leaned against the car.

I could see him fumbling with his belt.

Shit!

I could hear the sirens.

Good!

He managed to get his belt half undone.

Shit!

The sirens were getting closer.

Good!

His belt was undone and he had begun to pull his pants down.

Shit!

The fire truck arrived.

Good!

Three firemen got out and asked me if I was the “good Samaritan”. For some reason, being called a good Samaritan made me want to deck him.  I guess it’s because I fancy myself as a royal selfish asshole.

“Here’s his car keys,” I said as I handed them to one of the fire fighters.

“Is he drunk?”

“I don’t think so.  I didn’t smell any booze, and in his current state I can’t imagine how he could have driven his car at all.”

I got the fuck out of Dodge.

It wasn’t until later that I realized that, if the guy were drunk, he would probably not think too highly of me.  So, in my mind, I remain a royal asshole.

I was on a pub crawl with my friend Steve tonight.

Eventually we would up at the Fun House which is, as those of you who’ve read this shit before would know, an extremely punk rock bar.

I talked the bouncer into giving us a half-price cover (since I was wearing a dress shirt, I think the idea amused him).

The first band we saw was okay, and the second (apparently from Bremerton), pretty good.

I was feeling pretty ready to fall over by then, and I announced to Steve that I had had enough.

I knew there was no food at my house (I was preparing to leave for a week), but luckily there was a McDonalds next to the punk rock bar ready, as far as I knew, to sell me delicious sin.

I approached the door.  There was a McGarbageBin pressed against the door, clearly indicating it was not intended to be opened.  I walked around the building clockwise.  The next door was similarly barricaded.  I continued walking.  It wasn’t long before I had made a circuit and realized that the McDonalds was closed to foot traffic.

The drive through (sorry, “Drive Thru”) was obviously still open, so I walked up to the Magic Talk-o-matic Box as soon as the car in front of me moved on.

“Hey!” I said, tentatively.

“Hi!  Welcome to McDonald’s!” the box replied.

Figuring that it’s easier to get forgiveness from McDonalds than permission I powered on…

“I want two hamburgers, extra mustard, and a large or jumbo or whatever the fuck you call the ‘big’ fry.”

Silence.

“Hello?”

Silence.

“Hello?”

This repeated many times.

An SUV pulled up behind me.  It was thoughtful of the driver not to run me over.

I can’t be sure if you’re drunk while reading this, but if you are, the next step is obvious.

I stepped aside so the SUV could pull forward a bit.  I did my best not to look like an axe murderer.  I gestured for the driver (some pretty girl) to open the window.

Even though I was really intoxicated I was surprised she complied.  Doesn’t she know I could be an axe murderer?

“The store is closed and only the drive thru [yes, I pronounced it "thru", not "through"] is open… could you order some food for me?”

“Uh… Yes, I suppose.  What do you want?”

I decided it wasn’t worth getting fancy with her… “I want two hamburgers and a large fry.”

Okay.

I watched as she pulled up to the magic box.  She ordered her food and then looked back at me (I was about six feet  behind her) and said, “I also want…”

“Two hamburgers and a large fry,” I said.

“Two hamburgers and a large fry,” she told the robo-teenager.

As she pulled ahead, I walked up beside her vehicle in the most non-threatening manner I could manage and held up a $10 bill for her to take.  She told me she didn’t want it.  I pressed her to take it.  “I promise you, I’m not homeless!”  She assured me she both believed me and didn’t care.

I walked ahead of the waiting vehicles and waited, figuring there was a 50% chance that I’d get my food and a 50% chance that the police would show up.  Eventually, her SUV cleared the drive through (that’s pronounced “thru”) and she stopped.  She handed me a large fry and two hamburgers.

Again I tried to offer her a $10 bill.

She told me to pay it forward.

I got the reference because it’s the title of a movie I never watched.

I sat in the parking lot and ate my delicious free food.

Napkins are for pussies.

Hot chick in the SUV… I’m kind of in love with you.

Another weekend, another regatta.  This time, the Sloop Tavern Yacht Club’s Fall Regatta (the STYC has the distinction of being the only land-locked yacht club I know of).

For a change the wind was strong and only got stronger as the day went on.

Some of our competition. From left to right: Kiwi Express, Dacha, and Magic Button.

Our second race was most notable to me.  By now the wind was very strong (at least 20 knots) and out by the West Point marker the swells were at least six feet.  Most of the crew was spending most of their time on the windward rail trying to keep Slingshot’s heel at a manageable angle.

There are three main rules that govern right-of-way when racing sailboats:

1. A boat on a port tack, must stay clear of a boat on a starboard tack.
2. If both boats are on the same tack and they overlap, the boat to windward must stay clear of the boat to leeward.
3. If both boats are on the same tack and don’t overlap, the boat that is overtaking must stay clear of the boat clear ahead.

Since you can’t sail directly upwind, sailboats have to tack from one side to the other in order to zig zag their way up to the windward mark.  The normal order of operation goes something like this:

1. Helmsman says “Ready to tack.”
2. The crew responsible for wrangling the jib get ready to tack.  The bowman gets ready to help the jib cross to the other side of the boat.  The cockpit man, mastman, and anyone else that isn’t involved in the tack get ready to move to the other side of the boat.  Typically this step lasts 3-10 seconds.
3. The helmsman says “Helm’s over,” and begins to steer the boat through the tack.
4. As the boat turns, it levels out.  The ballast (cockpit man, mastman, etc.) cross to the center of the boat.
5. As the boat begins to heel over on the opposite side, the ballast hikes up to the new windward rail to sit down and be heavy.

When done correctly, this process takes about 10 seconds to complete.

Although it was sunny, the decks were wet from the spray.  I remember at one point looking at our bowman and mastman (Martin, and Juan) and noticing that they were drenched (the saps at the front of the boat get splashed a lot).

Magic button directly behind us, Sea Tiger to the left.

I remarked to one of my crewmates how happy I was that I wasn’t working on the bow (I was manning the cockpit).  About 30 seconds later fate intervened.

We were on a port tack and cruising along at some quick-for-a-sailboat speed (maybe 7 knots or so). Unnoticed by the helmsman (until the last second), a boat on a starboard tack (Kiwi Express) suddenly emerged in front of Slingshot (the sails can often obscure the helmsman’s view ahead of the boat).

Emergency tack!

The normal tacking procedure was modified slightly:

1. Helmsman yelled “Tacking!” while simultaneously turning the boat hard to port.
2. The crew on the rail went from being eight feet in the air to three feet underwater in about three seconds.

As water rushed over the deck I looked to the other rail where I was supposed to be.  Instead of being a 30 degree uphill hike the deck was now a near-vertical wall.  Judging by the angles involved, I estimate the tip of the mast was about five feet from the water.

Hiking was out of the question.  I was holding onto the lifelines so I wouldn’t be swept overboard.  Unfortunately, the weight of the ballast (i.e. me) was now on the wrong side of the boat and only making things worse.

Eventually Slingshot righted –it’s extremely hard to capsize a keelboat because the weight of the keel tends to make the ship self-righting.

I was completely soaked and we still had half of the second race and a two-hour third race left to go.

Other than being very cold, the rest of the day went quite well for us.  Due to some confusion over the third race’s instructions, it appeared that we were disqualified for missing a mark.  This put our day’s standings at first place, third place, and eighth place (fifth overall in our class).  It appeared I had gotten soaked and frozen for nothing.

Since we weren’t the only ones confused by the course of the third race, the race committee relented and counted our run which put us in first place.  Our final standings were now first, third, first.  This meant that we were now first place overall, and the boat that was previously in first place, Dacha, got bumped to second place (in the event of a tie, the last race is used as the tie breaker).