A Beer And A Sea Breeze

There's something about sailing in light wind that pisses me off. This day was no exception. The spinnaker sail was bulimic. It would fill partially before spitting the air back out. Our magic wind-compasses wagged their vanes lethargically. And the sun pressed down firmly upon our backs, causing our shirts to stick to the skin. All I wanted was to get home, to get food in my stomach. Every glance at my GPS receiver was a grim reminder that home was a long long way away. Our velocity made good was negative for we'd to round the promontory in the bay in order to reach Fairhope.

The mainsail would not stay full so I was perched on the gunnel, in the shade of the main, holding the boom in an effort to keep it from swinging athwart ship under its own weight. The shade was pleasant but I was far too famished to enjoy it. We had ordered our breakfast two days prior. Nancy had been responsible for bringing our breakfast down to the island when she came to meet us, but somehow the bag containing my breakfast never made it. An unconvincing "sorry" had only served to temper my ill humor. The skipper and his first mate had breakfasted blissfully while the rest of us looked on glumly. All except for asshopper who begged his way into an apple pastry.

Thus as I squatted on the gunnel watching the pelicans (or pelicunts as we often joked) dive into the bay, I was not only in a foul mood, but I was nearly delirious with hunger. I had lost interest in the bottle of stale drinking water that was tucked away in my life jacket and thus I was beginning to battle dehydration as well. My arms ached from holding the boom. I was young and spry and the strenuous tasks were always assigned to me. And theretofore, I'd always welcomed such tasks.

I sighed and allowed my head to fall forward. An incoherent string of mumbled expletives tumbled from my mouth as I glanced down through the porthole next to me. I could see asshopper asleep in the cabin, his leg propped atop the beer cooler. Asshopper. He had a real name like Bill or Jim or something but no one cared. To us he was just asshopper. My God! Had he not the decency to suffer along with the rest of us? He had even had the luxury of an apple pastry and there he was sleeping soundly below deck whilst the lactic acid was turning my aching forearms into mush. But propping his leg on top of the beer cooler was by far the most outrageously inconsiderate act that I could think of. I stared murderously at his leg in hopes of splintering his kneecap with my mind-bullets.

Beer! My God! "I must have it and now!" I said under my breath. Asshopper's kneecap was impervious to mind-bullets and I stirred from my haunches and looked around as if I were rousing troops for an assault. I ducked my head under the boom so that I could see the helm. Big Dave was smoking a cigar that was as big as a salami. "Butch," I growled hoarsely, "rouse asshopper and tell him to fetch me a Hoegarrden from the cooler." Butch nodded and yelled to asshopper through the hatch. Beer: It kept Belgian monks alive during lent. In fact, the most famous of all Belgian beers, Chimay, is actually brewed in a monastery. I had no Chimay, but Hoegarrden was a fine substitute. It was a Belgian white beer with a fine smooth flavor, heavy on the malt and light on the hopps. Just the way I liked it. I had three bottles of Hoegarrden in that cooler and all had been submerged in ice-water for the last twenty-four hours. They were chilled to thirty-two degrees exactly.

I could hear asshopper stirring below and I looked through the porthole and saw him up to his elbow in ice-water, rooting around for my Hoegarrden. I smirked. I watched as the ice-cold bottle of beer was passed up to me. The glass was frosty with condensation. The soothing sound of the hiss as the cap was pried loose. I looked down at the little vapor cloud that lingered in the neck of the bottle. I lifted the freezing cold beer to my parched lips and tilted my head back so that the world began to spin. My eyes closed to the image of the sail rising into the deep blue sky. Tears formed as gulp after icy gulp of beer surged into me. The little bubbles tickled my throat. Chill bumps formed on my skin as my body temperature plunged.

As I sat in the shade of the mainsail, gulping down the fresh Hoegarrden, a brisk sea breeze came at us from the south and I heard the reassuring crackle of the spinnaker filling with air. The breeze carried the sweat from my skin and chilled the painful sunburn. I felt the boat accelerating and shortly thereafter, I began to hear the sound of the prow slicing through the emerald-green water of the bay. I motioned for a second bottle of beer and consumed it just as hastily as the first. I was drunk and I knew it. And with the sea breeze dancing in my hair, I could not imagine a more blissful state.