Captain's Log

Skinwalker Log February 28, 2007, Wednesday 0630 hrs

On the edge of the Everglades at Turkey Creek, Ortona, Florida but only to April 1st.

It’s springtime in Florida!

In my head I imagine the rumbling of our twin diesels, the snapping of pennants in the light breeze, the gurgle of water as it slips by the north bound hull. I see big white birds; necks un-craned, angling over the bow; gators sunning on the bank raise their ugly heads in mock salute of farewell, their dark, unlit, stone age eyes suggesting they may get me next time. There is a Blue Heron along the shore, standing ready to strike then with a fish speared through the side, faster than my eye can perceive. The unheard bellow of the pastured cattle along the river is seen in their posture, my hand and arm jerks to a stop as it starts to wave to the creatures, then quickly falls as I realize I am waving goodbye to a cow. Holy cow! Wait. I don’t think that’s a cow bellowing at me

“Wayne, what’s that noise, what are you doing down there, It sounds like a barnyard, do you have the bilge cleaned yet? Stop calling cows and get that bilge cleaned” said Lynn. She who must be obeyed is perched on the stool in the saloon talking through the hatch into the engine room looking and sounding for all the world like a hen about to lay one—or two. It’s springtime in Florida. Which prompts the question which came first the egg or Capt’n Lynnie? No matter, she has good reason to cackle.

Over the last three months our chore list has gone from 75 items to 150 things to finish. For every task completed we add two more. Now that is just plain wrong.

Now do you understand why sitting on the fantail with a rum and lime drink is so much more productive? That way my “to do” list never grows larger, Lynn doesn’t need to be after me to finish what I am doing and life remains good. Besides, the damn chore list is never going to be finished anyway.

The chore list simply morphs, it shape changes like a skinwalker. It changes shape and size as it succumbs to the Time Spatial Relativity Effect. Now who am I to be messing around with the laws of science. It’s like me challenging the laws of gravity by drinking rum and riding my bicycle, I can do it, almost. Gravity is a constant, and, well, my efforts only lead to a certain level of dysfunction. Fall down, go boom. “Help, I’ve fallen and I can’t get up--again.

It’s springtime in Florida. Wait, this is an actual happening as I write:

What’s that I hear? Yes, by the gods, it is a conch horn, a soft, single, strong note rising above the multitude of morning sounds. There it is again over the thrum of a diesel engine. Listen. Look. It’s a big catamaran coming down the canal. Wait. I’ll ask. “Where are you going?” The crew of the cat responds as they are amidships of Skinwalker. “We’re off to the Bahamas. We’ll be back in May” The intrepid captain of the catamaran raises the conch and blows it one more time as they round the corner and enter the Caloosahatchie. The conch and the catamaran fade into the rising sun.

OK, that’s it. Capt’n Lynnie pack that list up, we finish what we are doing and we leave as soon as we can. The heck with my Mom and sister coming in a month for the start of our cruise. They can swim to catch up. No more list. The list can wait another year, we can work on it while underway, like we didn’t do last year and the year before. This is spring time in Florida, I’ve gotta go cruising.

Fill the tanks, fill the larder, fill the batteries, start the engines, then cast-off, this isn’t no darn condo, this here is a boat, it is suppose to be exploring, seeking out new adventures, spilling rum in a seaway, not tied to this damn dock for a lifetime.

Walter Mitty, move over please.

Wayne & Lynn Flatt