Wednesday, August 6, 2014

8-2 (II)-First Night on the Water

I'll level with you--I felt like a bad motherfucker.

Battlepack and bedroll slung over my shoulder. Spec-ops stubble caking my face. Five hundred miles of long road behind me. Step after step, the rugged vagabond, making his way toward the docks.

All of which went right out the window when I padded up to the sweet old lady watering her petunias and asked "excuse me, ma'am, which way to the port?" with what I hope was a pleasant smile on my face.

She directed me down the road, and I trudged on.

Eastwood incarnate, baby.

Camden, I soon found out, is a freaking gem. Its inviting shops contain all the fluorescent panache of a beach down; its demeanor exhibits all the blunt, charming sincerity of the American South. Its main (Maine--ha-ha.) street forms a pair of hills, the bottoms of which meet to spill into the harbor. Here, unsurprisingly, the boats are docked.

In a phone conversation with the captain, he told me I could crash on one such ship until the Grace Bailey and the Mercantile come back to port tomorrow. And that's how I came to be sleeping on this tonight:

Not pictured: Rum, parrot.
The Mistress is the smallest in the fleet, but she makes up with all the latest amenities--hot water, electricity, the works. Not bad at all.

I meandered the town, and after purchasing a much-needed pair of sunglasses, I began my crusade for an even more sorely needed burger and a beer. I found a small bar called Cuzzy's, sat down and ordered both.

The beer was good, the burger was better, but perhaps best was the stern education undergone courtesy of the waitress, who informed me in inarguable terms that I am now a Red Sox fan.

Eh. Why not?

I returned to the Mistress and met Captain Parks and his companion Alexia, who it turns out, despite well over a decade of sailing experience between the two of them, are as new to the Mistress as I am. In a way, it's reassuring to know I"m not the only one on an adventure, as I drifted off in the tiny, cozy, and inky dark confines of the cabin.

Adventure. That term was on my mind all day. A friend of mine tends merrily to proclaim "it's an adventure!" immediately prior to shit catastrophically hitting the fan. I tend to agree with her definition, even as many well-meaning friends and family tell me to "enjoy my adventure". Are the two at odds? Or do things have to go a little bit wrong to make a story worth telling? I guess I'll find out soon.

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