Grown Man Cries in The Bahamas Chapter 2

I’m not sure if it was the acrid taste of exhaust fumes that awoke me or the reverberating banging on the side of the hull. My first thought was that it was the fumes because I’d been quite content in a dream in which I was living in a drum. I rolled off the bunk, slid open the main hatch and stepped into the blinding light of day.

    “Cap’n English, you look like shit! You been fuckin’ all night or what!?”

         “Who’s there?”

         “Down here!”

         Dockmaster Jimmy Bones clung to the side of the boat by one tattooed arm, a mask on his face and a snorkel sticking out of his bleach blond mane like some sort of Bahamian witchdoctor. “You gonna be late for school teacher man!”

         “Oh shit! What time is it?” The sun was low over Paradise Island but it was already scorching hot.

         “It’s fuckin’ Saturday, I’m jus’ fuckin’ wid you man!”

         The relief was short-lived. There were Señor Frog tumblers rolling in the cockpit, rain-swollen cigarette butts, a half-smoked joint in a pool of ash. 

         “So, you been partyin’ all night or what?” He was doing pull-ups on the rail and I saw that he was wearing yellow Speedos.

          “Uh, not really.” The boat rocked on a passing wake-line and I thought I might actually be sick.

         “Why not?” His blue eyes bulged through his mask every time he popped up above deck. “You got a problem man. At your age I was having pussy for breakfast, lunch and fuckin’ dinner. See this?” He switched to one arm, opened his mouth wide and pointed to the underside of his tongue.

         “It’s a fuckin’ ulcer man. You know how many times I made Sally come last night?”

         “Fifteen! And that was before I put my dick in her!” He grabbed on with the other hand and pulled himself up so that his upper body slumped on deck. Straggly blond hair stuck to his leathery shoulders. He propped himself up one elbow, like some sort of pantomime seal. “First orgasm, didn’t even fuckin’ touch her. Know what I use?”

         “Your tongue?”

         “Very funny English.” He lifted up his mask, deadly serious now. “Vibrating razor.” His blue eyes bore into mine. It looked like he’d been wearing mascara. “Vibratin’ blade man, just lookin’ at it makes them wet! You cream that pussy up real good, then when you apply the blade man…” He moved onto one elbow so that he could use his spare hand to brandish an imaginary razor.

         I rubbed my eyes and scratched my neck.

         “English man I know you a bit green but you gotta know you talkin’ to the fuckin’ Trim Doctor man! Use’ to take a fuckin’ shavin’ kit to parties. Would not fuck a woman without shavin’ her first.”

         He pulled off his mask and swept back his hair. He looked like Mickey Rourke cast an aging rocker, orange muscles bulging. “Where’s ya sexy wife?” he asked.

         Despite the heat, I went cold.

         “You know she’s fuckin’ sexy right?”

         I wanted to interrupt, to stop the punishment, to save the embarrassment, but I was out-staged by this bona fide wild man and powerless against the onslaught of his monologue.  

         “Cap’n English, gotta tell ya, she causin’ some serious disturbance in the yard buhy, walkin’ around in that incy wincey fuckin’ bikini! Tell ya straight, there’s been some wonky fuckin’ paint jobs man! You know I gotta tell ya somethin’, man to fuckin’ man…”

         I flashed a look up across the dock. Charter boats Never Again I and II were gearing up to leave, a group of white men cracking beers while the black crew threw off the lines. Jimmy waited until he had my full attention once again, until our stares were locked.

         “She was askin’ my help with ya batteries. But I tell her, I say I will not step foot aboard without the captain’s permission. And you know what she say?”

         I was frozen to the spot.

         “She say she the captain o’ this boat!” The dock master roared with laughter and slapped the deck with his hand.

         I wasn’t sure if this was meant to be humiliating or if it was just regular chauvinistic boatyard banter.

         But he wasn’t finished. He’d suddenly turned deadly serious again. “Still wouldn’t do it. Would not set foot aboard your sailing vessel, an’ you wanna know why?      

         “Why?”

         “Too tempting,” he said. “Too fuckin’ tempting man cos’ you know what…” He flashed a look past me into the cabin. “Where is she? Still sleepin’ hey?”

         I thought about kicking him in the face and diving over the side. Swimming to Paradise Island. Catching a taxi to the airport. Calling my mother on Skype over a beer in the airport bar. Let her call the school and let them know I wouldn't be coming back. This was Alice he was talking about. Alice. Gone.

         “Still sleeping,” I said.

         “Alright English. I get the fuckin’ message. Get the fuck off my boat.” He slithered back beneath the lifeline, mask back over his eyes.

         “No,” I said being way too English. “It’s not that at all!”

         “Then what the fuck else is it!?” he bellowed through his snorkel. “I’m just fuckin’ with you man!”

         I thought the pain was over. But when I peered over the side, I saw that he was treading water, looking up and down the hull.

         “Fuckin’ sailboats man,” he said. “Nothing but fuckin’ work. How old’s the engine?”

         “Uh…”

         “How old? When did it last get changed?”

         “1980,” I said. That would do. That was the age of the boat.

         “Fuck me! How many cylinder?”

         “Uh…”

         “Come on man. I know you got a hangover but his aint fuckin’ Trivial Pursuit. It’s gotta be four or fuckin’ six.”

         As if things couldn't get any worse, a couple of old seadogs had now gathered on the pontoon. There was Ray the ancient live-aboard (the only one until me and Alice) and his sidekick the gas hut man.

         I took a punt. The odds at fifty-fifty. “Six,” I said.

         Jimmy was still treading water. I couldn’t tell his expression through his mask. The men on the dock looked at each other.

         “Can’t be six,” said Ray. “You change the engine?”

         “No.” I just mix the drinks.

         “If it’s a 1980, she got a Volvo Penta Diesel.”
         “Four cylinder,” said the gas hut man.

         “Raw water-cooled,” said Ray. “You sailed it from the states right?”

         My neck was hurting from nodding.

         "Water's more salty over here."

         “Watch out for corrosion!”

         “You got salt water pumpin’ around an engine," said Ray. "Whachu think is gonna happen?”

         I was done with this.

         “Should rip the fuckin' thing out an’ get an outboard!” bellowed Jimmy from the water. The men went quiet. “Save you years o’ fuckin' work!” Everyone watched the dock master swim the length of the boat, some kind of freak He-Man action figure, taking in the seaweed below the waterline, the greasy streaks on the hull. He took a deep breath and disappeared below the surface. 

         Why didn't I say four? My head was pounding. My guts were in turmoil. I pretended to readjust a line and took a step towards the open hatch.

         “Yo English!” Jimmy appeared on the rung of a dock ladder, hanging by one sinewy orange arm, mask down, slicking back his hair. The men awaited his verdict.

         “When ya headin’ out?”

         What more I could I say but “soonish.”

         “Heard that one before. What’s ya hurricane plan?”

          Jimmy told me in no uncertain terms that I was not to leave my “ol’ tub” docked at the yard. In the event of a hurricane it would plough straight through the wharf. And he knew “for a fuckin’ fact” that I wasn't insured. “Fuckin’ live-aboards man,” he said. “Y’all the fuckin’ same!” I couldn't help but notice ancient Jay, the other live-aboard, slink away up the dock with the gas hut man. Jimmy’s advice for the likes of us was to take our heap o’ shit to “Poor Man’s fuckin Hole.”

         Now I was scared. I swallowed what little pride I had left and asked him what and where Poor Man’s Hole was. Apparently it was a “bolt hole” in the western corner of the harbour, where "all the junky fuckin’ Haitian sloops" anchored up. It was the poor man's alternative to Hurricane Hole marina on Paradise Island. 

Strangely enough, I knew exactly where he meant. "Wait there!" I said, diving below and coming back up with a dog-eared postcard that Alice had blue-tacked above the galley sink. It showed a ragged fleet inside the harbour breakwater, waves spraying over the bleach-white lighthouse on the point. I held it out to the HeMan figure still hanging off the dock.  

"Poor Man's fuckin' Hole," said Jimmy, slicking back his hair and pulling down his mask. 

Guess one man's postcard was another man's reality. “What if I have to abandon ship?” I asked before he could drop back into the water. “How do I get back to shore?”

I thought he was going to say swim. His eyes bulged through the tempered glass of his mask. “Where’s ya fuckin’ dinghy man?”