October 31st 1997 - The Admiral's coming

• High temperature this period 33.2 Celsius
• Lowest temperature this period 12.5 Celsius

When you're sailing day after day by yourself you have time to ponder things that you normally don't have the time to think about when you're home. Like; why do toe nails grow five times slower than fingernails? Like; do fish sweat and, if so, how would we know? Like; if the Houston Astros baseball team moved to Kissimmee Florida, would that make them the "Kissimmee Astros"?

Ah yes, sailing alone from Fernadina Beach, to Daytona was very nice and I discovered a lot about myself and the boat. I discovered for example that on the ICW, there is in fact no sailing, only motoring. "Putt-putt-putt" from sunup, to happy hour.

One nice surprise on the ICW is how courteous everybody is when it comes to taking responsibility for their wakes. In fact I'd have to guess that the most militant supporters of the "no wake" rule are the trawlers. Often they are heard on the VHF radio snapping at fellow power boaters who fail to watch their wake when passing slower boats or going through a "No Wake Zone" usually associated with a waterway marina.

Whenever a boat tosses up a monster wake through a "No Wake" zone, or when passing a slower boat, VHF radio channel 16 goes insane with angry boaters swearing at offenders! Some even document the names of boats who do not know that it's the size of the wake, not the speed of their boat that must be controlled. In one case that I heard over my VHF in Georgia, a marina operator called a drawbridge to get the bridge tender to refused an opening for a rebel powerboat until he returned to the marina to negotiate damages with furious boat owners tossed around by his wake. I have to admit that I am very impressed with how seriously and professionally most power boaters are down here.

Here is the normal procedure is for a power boat, let's say a mega yacht for purposes of illustration, to pass a slower boat, in this scenario, Destiny Calls. The Mega Yacht, registered in Delaware as a legitimate business expense, comes screaming up behind Destiny Calls at about 500 miles an hour, dropping down to idle just in time to avoid a collision yet still be close enough to see me reach for a clean pair of undies. At that point I pull the throttle back on my tiny Yanmar diesel to dead slow position and the skipper of Mega Yacht, gives a me shout on the VHF to let me know which side he's going to pass me on, and to point out the gaggle of chesty blondes laughing at me from the hot tub on his fore deck. Within a few seconds, and with no wake at all, the Mega Yacht passes, then cuts in front of Destiny Calls. The skipper takes a sip of cognac and raises the throttle, pouring 15 gallons per second into hits twin Saturn five booster engines, resuming mauc four in just under five seconds and powers off into the sunset. A perfect pass that only could have been improved if I had been offered a sip of the champagne that was being passed around the Mega Yacht's garden deck at the time!!

I have noticed, and this seems to be supported by my conversations with fellow boaters, that Quebec power boats, have a terrible reputation all through the ICW for their inability to control their wakes. So far of the four worst, cabinet opening, wakes Destiny Calls has been hit with, three were from Quebec stink pots. This is not to say that there aren't boats from every state and province who don't seem to care about their wakes, it's just some thing that even I've noticed about some of my fellow Quebec yachties. Shame!

I am now in Daytona and awaiting the arrival of the admiral. Joni and Mik the dog who are coming down with friend Gail Mc Taggart. They commandeered a "drive-away" car and expect to arrive Monday, Nov 3rd.

Destiny Calls and I are staying at the Halifax Harbor Marina, right in downtown Daytona. It's "BikeOberfest" weekend, the annual meeting of 50,000 Harley Davidsons. It's not quiet.

I strolled over to the giant party a few blocks from the marina and introduced myself to some of the bikers, who were all dressed up for Halloween as motor cycle gang members. I thought about perhaps trading the boat for a "Boss Hog" when one fellow non-biker observing the going-ons pointed out that I was not qualified to ride. Apparently, all male Harley riders attending this event must have waist measurements that exceed their chest measurements, and have at least one tattoo with a ex-girl friend name blacked out.

Even though I wasn't qualified to ride, I was welcomed to party when I discovered the local biker bar, "Crooks Den" just around the corner from the marina. It's a busy little place with lots of broken chairs and loud music and all the bar maids and waitresses scurry around so fast serving thirsty bikers that to keep from over heating they wear bikinis. Clever little kittens!

One girl, Viki, had a serious problem with her bikini top however, as it seemed to come off at the most inopportune times. Fortunately there was always a helpful biker guy their to help her fit it back on, although I don't think any of these guys had dated much in high school seeing how long it took some of them to help Viki get back into her top. Towards the end of happy hour, poor Viki must have been serving so many drinks that she had to stay cool by putting on a white T-Shirt and asking some of the boys to cool her down by pouring beer on her chest. It was quiet a scene, an frankly a complete waste of beer in my opinion.

Speaking of beer, I have more valuable information on the problem down here with local wildlife stealing visiting Canadian's beer.

The other day on the TV news, (I am not making this up, this story really happened!!!) there was live coverage from downtown Coco Beach of the dramatic rescue of a Sea Cow from the sewer. Apparently the Manatee had swam into the drain from the Indian River, and could not turn around to escape. As the TV report gave his live report, as rescuers lifted the beast through an eight foot maintenance access, I couldn't help but notice that the Sea Cow had been caught right in front of (you guessed it!!!) a beer store!!!

Coincidence? Not on your life! The thing was on a beer run, probably sent by some beer swilling alligators and porter stinking porpoises!!!

Again, I will continue to follow these strange and disturbing tales of Southern Wildlife.