One fine weekend in the fall, I want to say September (so I will), we were having us a fine Indian Summer in California. Biff and I drove our happy asses on down to San Luis Obispo from San Fran for a little drunken revelry with Chris and Greta.
Down there in SLO town, it was uncomfortably hot. We took ourselves on down to the neighborhood drug store and stood in awe of the summer toy supplies that the store had, in what seemed bad timing indeed, marked down considerably. We walked out with an inflatable pool, snorkel, diver's mask, water wings, and an inflatable killer whale that was longer than the pool was wide, and was naturally named by us "Zorca"
What followed was an aquatic frolic the likes that Esther Williams never dared dream. And some none too careful nail painting. At some point Greta and I wandered down to the liquor store for more snacks, or beer, or both - Greta simply resplendent in her fluorescent orange water wings. When I look back at pictures of that afternoon, I get dizzy trying to figure out how four relatively upstanding citizens could possibly have gotten that drunk so quickly.
Zorca managed to survive the weekend intact and was some time later brought down to Biff's parent's boat in Long Beach for 4th of July. We were having a good enough time jumping around the marina water with Zorca, but then the stakes were raised. A kid with an outboard motor, and a desire for good graces, suggested we tow the triumphant Zorca behind his tiny boat.
Chris and I rode that inflatable bastard all over the marina, and then the stakes were raised but again. The kid decided to tow us out into the actual ocean waters.
I was game to try it first.
Now let me tell you, you envision in your mind holding on gracefully to a polyethylene killer whale, brought to life by beer tainted lungs, flailing an arm in the air like some sea cowboy and shouting out mantras to your own manhood. But in reality, the open ocean is a little choppy, a little wave filled. It is in fact no place for a man-boy to ride an inflatable killer whale being towed behind some kid's Boston Whaler.
After what seemed to be about five minutes of my triumphing against drowning, I looked up from the trough of a wave, one arm slung desperately around Zorca, to see a giant Coast Guard vessel coming my way. One of the Coast Guard guards looked down at me with an amazing amount of derision in his gaze and said over a bullhorn, "does that really seem like a good idea?"
It did at the time, yeah...
Zorca didn't survive for any further adventures, but at least he went out in a blaze of butterscotch glory!
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: Burning Skies by Tones On Tail.
*by the way, I have no idea what the hell "butterscotch glory" means.
1 comment:
bill, it's Native American Summer. you wouldn't want to offend the redskins would you?
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