Don't Wear Your Boots to Town

Don’t Wear Your Boots to Town

Schooner press: v., the act of putting one’s body between the dock and the boat and using leg force to momentarily move the boat, in order to free fenders or adjust fender boards, etc.

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I didn’t get a chance to write last night or this morning because we all hitched a ride into town directly after dinner, and proceeded to get very, very inebriated.

We went to a bar in Newport called Sailor Jerry, where everyone in the place looked like they worked on boats. We played darts and wrote with chalk on the ceiling and after a while, Cap and Smith and Jane went back to the boat leaving Eve and I to fend for ourselves. Which we did. Very poorly. Suddenly it was 1 AM and we were turned out on the streets of Newport, with not a cab in sight. I have a record on my phone of having made 40 calls to three different cab companies between 1 and 2 AM. It was around this time that we stopped calling and started trying to get the pizza delivery place to take us back to the boat. They wouldn’t go for it. Finally we prevailed upon these two guys who were walking out to their Landrover to take us home. Travis and Victor were apparently high as a kite. Something Eve noticed but which I was completely unaware of, since the only thing that mattered to me was that I did not have to walk 2.2 miles in my four-inch heels.

All of this combined to make me a little slow today. I made easy stuff all day long. But I also managed to get a run in. I weighed myself today and have decided that this life is not good on my body. It’s time to crack down.

After lunch, just when I’d decided to lay down for a nap, Cap got back with the groceries and Mamma and Pappa Smith arrived with a TON of stuff: dried pineapple and dried apples, slivered almonds, coriander, cardamom pods, yeast, baking powder, and 35 pounds of flour, both white and stoneground wheat.

After dinner I did the loop around the fort once more. The visibility had been poor for hours. As I walked, I listened to the rotating lighthouse horns, sounding like a game of Marco Polo in the fog.

There’s a strange feeling on the boat right now. It feels like a kink in the neck that you can’t get out. Maybe it’s growing pains.

For the transit to Marblehead we’re getting two more passengers, and once we arrive Bly will leave for his new job. He talks about coming back at the end of the summer. It’s a strange thought, that if he does, Eve and I will be the only familiar faces.

Sunday’s Menu
Breakfast
Scrambled cheese eggs and bacon
Lunch
Spaghetti with meat sauce and garlic toast
Dinner
Hamburgers
Red potatoes
Fruit salad of mango, banana, pineapple and toasted coconut