Oh, the stories we could tell...
Here are some stories about things that happened to me while rolling along on the river of life. The first two stories are new. The first one, "Silver Fox" is about a lesson in life learned aboard ship while in the Black Sea. Silver Fox was the U.S. Navy's name for any misssion undertaken in the Black Sea. The next new one is about a hard day's night, a profound moment in my not-so-profound life. It is simply called "The Beach." The other's are called "First Night" and "The Gag."
Silver Fox
It had been tense throughout the night. As the light began rising over the Black Sea to our port side, the bleary-eyed crew that manned the small space filled with the latest electronic gear and computers known in the ship's venacular as "Outboard" was checking everything they could to ensure that the job would get done - and done right.
USS Caron turned a few degrees to port once again. The scream of the twin gas-turbine engines emphasized the threat to come. On the MC-1, Bridge is yelling, "Outboard...Bridge, you guys got anything?" "Negative, Bridge," was the reply, "we don't have any birds in the air." Then we could hear the speaker in the adjoining space blare out the call, "Radar...Bridge, you got anything?" Again the reply, "Negative Bridge, Nothing's moving out there."
The new Spruance-class destroyer, USS Caron, DD-970, had entered the Black Sea four days earlier. We had transitted up the Aegean Sea in the bright Greek sunshine, zipping among the tiny islands that dot the shipping lanes. We had entered the Dardanelles after taking aboard our pilot, then had passed the ruins of Troy, glorified in prose by Homer, and then entered the Sea of Mamara after about five hours. That portion of the trip is always a strain - going much slower than the ship is capable of, with final thoughts before meeting the "enemy" and making all final preparations before the "Silver Fox" run. We passed through the Bosphorous, admiring the sites of Istanbul, dreaming of a liberty never to come, watching all the olive-complexioned women with shiny black hair sunbathing along the shore. A sailor's dream in the bright June sunshine.
Ourransit complete, we stopped just beyond the exit of the strait and disembark the pilot, who boards a Soviet merchantman heading out of the Black Sea. Check the registration ... yes, the "Kharkov," bound for Egypt out of Odessa. We're in the Black Sea, there's work to be done. Look ... over there, about 355 degrees relative, our shadow for the next five days, can't make out her name, but she'll get close enough for pictures, I'm sure. "Outboard ... Bridge, who's our escort?" "Bridge ... Outboard, Sir, that would be the Lama, bearing 017 true." "Aye, Outboard ... range about 50K yards."
Steering a course of about 075 degrees, we headed for the eastern section of the Black Sea, staying just outside of Turkish territorial waters. When we reached the peninsula that was to be my future home a few years later, we started a high speed run (+30 knots) toward the Soviet coast that would take us away from the protection of Turkish territory. The Soviet Navy reacted slowly, but when they did react, it was with the weight of the entire Soviet fleet, or so it seemed at the time.
The headlines would read, "US SHIP OVERFLOWN," and the stories, from all our accounts told of the more than 1,500 overflights we'd received in a three day period. The Silver Fox runs had never drawn this amount of attention, and we chalked it up to Caron, the Navy's newest destroyer, which was the size of a small cruiser. So the Soviets wanted to see what we could do, and, to some small extent, we showed them. But the four days of endless activity were taking there toll. The crew, from the lowest seaman recruit to the Commodore, were tired.
The crew members in Outboard were tired, also. My Black Sea specialist had come down with the flu upon reporting aboard, so I was having to do double duty - 24 on and laugh it off. Naps when I could find 15 minutes, or so, of inactivity. The team of specially trained operators I had brought aboard when we had embarked in Norfolk, Virginia, were all restlessly awaiting the arrival of their relief team as soon as we reached Naples in about six days. With all the activity we'd encounered, I had them putting in extra hours, tough when you're already working a minimum of twelve hours each day. They were becoming very proficient at their job, and learning about other jobs that made up the diverse rating specialty. They could relieve the communications operator or sit at the main positions or run the computers. There was more than enough work to be done, But there was this one LT (jg) who had been temporarily assigned to our division from USS Forrestal. He never seemed to do anything except watch everything that happened and take notes. There was some scuttlebutt about him being a manpower type - SIAC or some other silly initials that the Navy loves to use. So, there he was, constantly lurking, never helping out. Few words were spoken to him, and as few were returned by him.
About 4:00 a.m. on the fourth day in the Black Sea, one of my team operator, known as "Sarge," a Marine Lance Corporal stuck in a naval environment, was getting edgy. "Saf," he says, "only 27 more hours till we clear the Bosphorous, then we can sleep for a week." "Yep," I replied, "and today will probably be the busiest day of them all. I think the Ruskies are gonna throw most of their Naval Air Force at us today! Boy, this could get sticky. Rumor has it that the Gunner's mates are planning a special surprise for them, and they won't like it one bit. If they light us up (illuminate the ship with radar) and they're gonna think WWIII just started." "Yeah," says Sarge, "it's gonna get a little sticky."
With our bantering seemingly finished, the lurking LT(jg), finally chimes in about how serious the situation is. Sarge and I exchange glances. This miscreant just doesn't realize, "IT'S ALL IN FUN!"
So, a few minutes lateer, Sarge says that he's gonna go to out on deck to the aft Harpoon launcher site (nicknamed the "Outboard" lounge) and have a cigarette before things start hotting up. A quick nod tells him to go ahead, I'd watch his position for him. As he works the security latch on the hatch, I look up at him and he gives me a big wink. Knowing the Sarge as I have for the past three months, I inwardly groan, "Oh no, what's he up to now?"
About ten minutes later, we hear the "click...click...click...click.... cha-chuuunk" of the latch's security lock. Sarge rushes in and babbles, "Gawd, ya oughtta see all those BIRDS out there . . ., there must be two hunert of 'em! Whew! Tons of G-U-Elevens's and B-One-R-D's, fillin' the sky; there's so many of them, you can't count them all."
Upon hearing this, and seeing how agitated the Sarge was, the LT(jg) rushes to the security hatch, throws it open, runs down the passage to the outer hatchway and flings that open, not even attempting to secure the hatch behind him, a major breach of seamanship while underway. I slowly followed the LT, this being my time to have a cigarette, and, as I step from the hatch and look around, I see the LT(jg) up on the signal bridge. So, I climbed the ladder to the next deck and looked out upon a glorius early June morning. The sun, rising to the east, was throwing out a blanket of color upon the sea - a beautiful sight for any sailor. But the lieutenant (junior grade) seemed very agitated; he couldn't see the beauty, he was too busy looking for something that wasn't there. Excitedly looking to his left, then to his right, then back and forth. . . "Well, where are they?," he asks with great animation. "Where are what?," I replied. "The B-One-R-Ds and the G-U-Elevens, all those Soviet planes that are coming in to overfly us?"
"Oh good lord" I think, "this guy is serious." So, adopting my best John Wayne manner, I sidle up to this lost soul and say, "Well now lieutenant, if you'll just look around very closely, you'll see all the B-1-RDs and G-U-11s that you'll ever wanna see, ever hope to see. . . Pilgrim." Then, taking the the young lieutenant by the arm, I swept my arm out and pointed toward the flocks of birds and the gulls flying around the ship. Eventually, a stunned look flushed across his face, the dawn of realization: "But ... But ... But ... they're JUST birds and gulls!" "Yep, Lute, they're just birds and gulls. Isn't their dance of flight graceful? Aren't they beautiful... the way the early morning light gives them the golden glow?" I wished I had had a camera to capture the look on that young man's face. It was priceless.
So, on a fair June morning, one young LTjg learned the beauty of early morning at sea, and, hopefully, he came to appreciate B1RDs and GU-11s for the beauty and the grace they can impart to a hurried and tense world.
The Beach
Several years ago, I was stationed with the Navy in Spain. After a couple of chaotic years living in the town of Rota, immediately adjacent to the base, I decided to move a bit farther out, mainly to get away from the Americans who tried to act like the British on holiday. I asked a close friend if he could recommend the town he lived in. "Great," he said, "small town, nice people, few Americans." So, I found a small semi-furnished flat, and moved in.
Some of you might want to read the story about my first night in the new town - it's the story called First Night.
Now, the road leading out to my new digs, was what many described as treacherous. I, personally found it challenging - about 15 kilometers of a twisting, narrow, semi-paved strip of macadam with a straight-away that you could get lost on and turns so tight and narrow that if you didn't scrape the side of your car on the adobe walls next to the road a car coming the other way would give you a scare and a half.
But, just as you reached the point where you were ready to stop, get out and walk the rest of the way - no matter how far the rest of the way was - there was a little dirt road that led off toward the beach. At the end of one of those days -the kind filled with a sense of nothing accomplished, just a lot of energy expended, I was just frustrated enough to mummur, "What the hell, time for a change. I wonder what's down this road."
It had been a mild spring day and with the ssunflowers just beginning to bloom, the evening held a certain promise of good things to come. MY day that had started very early, seemed never-ending, never-ceasing, and had lasted late into the afternoon and early evening. With the majority of my daily routine down the tubes, I was ready to try something different just to get away from the feeling I was in a rut. With the first signs of the darkness descending on this little area of the planet, the fading light was monopolized by a huge red sun dropping toward the line of evergreen trees that abound in southern Spain. As I broke over the crest of a small knoll, a sandbar near the beach, I saw a beautiful, almost untouched expanse of beach. Oh, I knew that people had been there before, if I looked closely I could see the traces of civilization, old cigarette butts lying in the sand where someone had carelessly thrown them and other traces of human litteer. But there were no footprints in the sand. The receeding tide had erased most of the signs of human occupation.
I was alone on this expanse of beach, a sailor set awash on a deserted island. As a I started to walk along the beach, the trials of the day seemed to fade, ever so slightly, into backroads of my mind. I was still in uniform, so I turned back to the car momentarily, and stripped off the dark shirt and tie, the cumbersome shoes and socks, and hat. I threw them into the tiny trunk of the little Mini, and decided to try the opposite direction from where I had first headed, away from the view of Chipiona in distance.
After walking several hundred yards, I happened upon an old, large piece of driftwood, almost a log, and decided to sit. As I turned sit, I was facing the ocean, and the sun, the enormous red-orange ball that was the life-sustaining force, was dropping into the black expanse of ocean. As I watched this daily ritual being played out for the umpteenth-billion time, I knew that this performance was god's gift to me for the trials of the day that I had weathered. As I accepted the gift in all its glorious beauty, I felt a peace that I have known only a few times during my lifetime, but each is indelibly engraved onto the chalkboard of my memory. This time the sailor had come home to the sea.
That was more than 20 years ago, and I still can remember that walk on the beach as if it had happened yesterday.
First Night
Andalucia! A lovely expanse of beaches, rolling hills and flat plains in southern Spain - the home of legends and the cradle of the Americas. Many Spaniards consider these plains, beaches and hills as the one, the only, the true Spain. It was from this southern region of the European continent that the Spanish quest for gold lead to the discovery of the New World. From the prisons in the tiny port town of Puerto de Santa Maria, an Italian adventurer, Christopher Columbus, drew his crew for the three ships that would become famous. The prison still stands today, a stark reminder of the world that was yesteryear - a monument to the pride that is Spain. In the upper reaches of the province, the fabled knight-errant wandered in search of windmills to conquer. And here, nestled in the valleys of the rolling hills are the white towns that Hemingway wrote about so fondly. This land is the cradle of Iberia, described in detail by Michener. Here, to the shores of this land that time seems to have forgotten, steeped in pride and tradition, came a wild-assed sailor in search of himself.
Arriving in Spain, just a few months after the death of Franco, I found the country in transition - into democracy, into the European community, into the twentieth century. Most of the people of Spain as late as the mid-1970's had never traveled more than 100 kilometers from where they were born. A trip to the next village was a major undertaking. There were few cars on the roads. And, above all, this was the region that could proudly boast of giving the world the idea of "manana."
After a little more than three years of living in Spain, learning the customs, and at first a word of Spanish or two, and spending my apprenticeship cruises in the Mediterranean, I was ready for something slightly different. I was recovering from a serious automobile accident and, having acquired a room-mate whose girlfriend would scream loudly in the night, I decided, "Enough is enough!" That night, on the midnight watch, I talked to a friend and asked if he knew of any inexpensive apartments in the small resort town of Chipiona, about 15 kilometers from the base and where several of my good friends had lived at various times. To my amazement, he said, "Yes, the place next to me just opened up." My buddy Pete had recently returned to the States for advanced language training and had vacated his apartment just a fews days before.
On the next break between watch strings, I drove out to the town, found Tony's place and with Tony and his wife Su, went around to meet their landlord and landlady. Their house stood on the corner, perpendicular to Tony & Su's house. As we enter the gypsy gates, painted shiny black, we stepped into an enclosed foyer with a polished marble floor of bright gray. On the left was a wide stairway, with the same polished marble on each step. Adorning the light yellow walls were ceramic plates depicting scenes from each region of Spain. And lining the stairway to the second floor were plants of every description, giving vivid impressions of colors. As we walked the few steps to the entrance I was awed by the beauty, the colors and the images created.
Meeting Alphonso and Mary Lourdes was a treat. They were hale and hearty folk. Alphonso ran a construction outfit that built homes in Sevilla, Mary Lourdes was the consomate housewife. Two teenage boys and a Alphonso's mother completed the family. After a bit of conversation and exchanging pleasantries, I was taken up the stairway and shown the apartment. It had a large living room with a balcony,and a hallway off of which were a small dining room, a miniscule kitchen and bath, and a bedroom. At the end of the hallway was a large master bedroom. From the kitchen and bath, there was a view of the family's lovely open-air patio. From the apartment's entrance, up one more flight of stairs was the almost flat roof with a storage area for boxes and suitcases. A perfect apartment for a newly single bachelor.
Arrangements made and a monthly rent agreed upon; handshakes and a glass of wine to seal the bargain, keys passed with stern warning to keep the gate locked at night. Then back to Tony and Su's house to talk and share another glass of wine. Tony is quick to point out the small bodega right across the street that is more of an alleyway. So, we go over to the winery as soon as the doors open, and sample the proud owner's muscatel. A lesson is the fine art of wine making will ensue with Pepe bringing out samples of his entire stock, from the Nuevo Ano wines through the 12-year old muscatel that is worth about $15.00 a glass. Obviously not your cheap muscatel that many people in this country are familiar with. The 12-year old wine was as thick as syrup, thick enough to pour over ice cream. Yummy!
Moving day arrives - May 1, 1980. Mayday!. A friend with a pickup and another with a station wagon volunteer to work for dinner and drinks. On my first trip from Rota to Chipiona that day, I ask Tony where we can buy beer and wine. He takes me down to a bodega in the center of town and we make the necessary purchases to see about 10 people through the day - 10 cases of beer, 5 liters of good muscatel and 5 liters of fino, a very dry sherry. Back to Tony's house, put the beer on ice and start unloading boxes. Not a lot of work with a dozen people all pitching in and I'm invested in my apartment by early afternoon. I'd given Tony and Su some money to setup a barbeque with steaks, hamburgers/cheeseburgers and hot dogs, potato and macaroni salads, and all the trimmings. We had a hell of a party that afternoon, but by early evening almost everyone had had to return to their families or had prior committments, so it was Tony, Su & I sitting atop their house looking down on the streets and boulevards of the small Spanish town. After a bit of conversation and a few welcoming toasts, the evening breeze from offshore gently reminded me that I still had a lot to do. Feeling a bit sweaty and gritty, I excused myself to go shower and start unpacking.
About an hour later, a knock pierces the sounds of rustling packing paper. Tony and Su have decided that we've done enough work for the day and it is time to go out and savor the delights of my new hometown. So, we head out of the house, making sure I have the keys to the gate and to my apartment door. As we strolled down the street known to the Americans as "Tree Street," we were quite merry, feeling much had been accomplished and their were new places to go and new faces to meet. As we strolled around the town they introduced me to Greg, an expatriate American who owned a small roast chicken shop that would become almost a second home to me. To Manni, and the mayor, to Jose and Pilar, and all the other wonderful people also out for a stroll. There was a certain joyousness in the air, the weather had turned very mild, the roar of the ocean could be heard in the distance with the smell of the seabreeze on the air. The flowers in the ceramic pots that adorned the white walls of the houses spread their scent, a heady perfume that added to the celebration of life.
Tony and Su, after a stroll around the tree-lined boulevards and avenues of the town, are pointing out all the nice little places that only the locals know about. The specialities of each tiny venta yield a bounty of new tastes. Testing the bars for the tapas, we made our way around the hamlet, until, with several drinks impairing my judgement and adding to the joie d'vivre, we finally acknowledge that it is time to find somewhere to alight and spend a while off our feet. So, heading for the "Walking Street" in the center of town, we come across some Spanish sailor friends of Tony's. They take us to a nice bistro with tables outside, where we can enjoy a rhum & coke and watch the other strollers. So, I get to meet Pepe, the Communist!, the manager of the little corner bar. He is most effusive and attentive and, after learning of his political leanings, I accuse him of not only being a Communist, but a capitalist communist. He laughs and says, "But the children must eat."
The night is still quite young and the conversations and the people are all pleasant. I am thoroughly enjoying myself, something that I couldn't do in the town of Rota, where you always were aware that you were an American. Here in the small seaside town of Chipiona, you became a Chipionero, accepted as the person you were. We laughed and sang and drank. Midnight came and went, then 1 AM, then 2 AM. We all laughed and sang and, finally, Tony and Su made some excuse and left, after making sure I knew how to get back and that I had my keys. It seemed the night could last forever.
But, alas!, all good things must end. Pepe began washing the last of the glasses, locking the doors and pulling the curtains. We sat and talked for a while, then he too had another place to be. It was time to head home, and, after a final check to make sure I knew the general direction of my apartment, Pepe locked the door behind me and left through another door in the alley.
I felt elated! Free of encumbering acquaintenceships, with enough rhum in my belly to float a battleship, I began making my way, staggeringly at first, toward my new home. After a few steps, I took measures to stop the staggering and feeling a new sense of security began the not-to-long trek for home. And I was doing quite well, really, until the old town cop, Pepe, stepped on one of my hands. With the graciousness of an ambassador, he and his young friend, helped me up from the cobblestone street and half carried me down the way. Except for one small, minor detail, this would have been the end of the affair. The one detail? In my drunken stupor, I seemed to have forgotten where my new apartment was and what the address was. All that I could remember was that it was off Avenida Ejercito <Tree Street>. So we, actually they, walked <I stumbled and was carried> up and down several streets looking for amything that looked familiar. Finally, after having been up and down several streets, and I'm sure the same streets several times, old Pepe propped me up against a car and asked, "Do you have a car?" I answered, "Of course." To which came the reply, "What kind and what color is it, is it an American car?" Thoughtfully, at least I hope it appeared thoughtfully, as I could hardly stand, even propped against the car, I answered, "A yellow American car, a Pinto." Well.... ol' Pepe scrunched up his face, gently placed his hands on my shoulders and, turning me to face the car I had been propped up against, asked, "Like this car?" Oh, joy of joys! I had found my car. Now we could drive to my apartment. But wait, wasn't my car parked in front of my apartment. Then the thoughtful old man inquired further, "This new house you live in, what color is it, white?" "No," I say, "it's also yellow, just like this house." So, rifling my pockets, the old cop finds my keys and tries them in the gypsy gate. Presto! the lock turns, the gate opens. Then Pepe and his friend help me up the stairs and I am effusive in my priaise for the old gentleman and his not-so-gentle friend. They deliver me unto my apartment, look around and help me to the bed. And leave, with my slurred "Thanks" echoing in their ears.
The next morning, after several "hairs of the dog" I could remember only small bits and pieces of the previous night's episode. But, damn, I couldn't find my keys. How the hell did I get home and in the gate without my keys? I reasoned that I had dropped them somewhere and looked on the stairway, through every ceramic plant pot there was, and still couldn't find them. I went around the corner to Tony and Su's, but they couldn't shed any light on the situation. Figuring that I had possibly dropped, or thrown them in one of the boxes filled with paper, I started the dauntless task of looking through the plentitude of boxes scattered around the apartment.
The next morning, after several "hair of the dog" I could remember only small bits and pieces of the previous night's episode. But, damn, I couldn't find my keys. How the hell did I get home and in the gate without my keys? I reasoned that I had dropped them somewhere and looked on the stairway, through every ceramic plant pot there was, and still couldn't find them. I went around the corner to Tony and Su's, but they couldn't shed any light on the situation. Figuring that I had possibly dropped, or thrown them in one of the boxes filled with paper, I started the dauntless task of looking through the plentitude of boxes scattered around the apartment.
After a thorough search, which had not yielded the keys, a clatter arose on my doorstep. There's this old cop, who looks vaguely familiar, asking if I had my keys. I replied that I didn't, and what the hell did he want my keys for anyway. Well, he pushes me aside, strides into my apartment, looks briefly at the clutter and heads for the small balcony. He bends over, plucks something from the floor and hands me the keys. He explained that he'd needed the keys to lock the gate and so, once finished with them had just tossed them onto the balcony.
Old Pepe and I became good friends and I used to wave to him each evening as he made his rounds of the town. Until he retired a few years later, he would stroll down my street each evening, checking to see if the American with the yellow car was safe. Thanks, Pepe, I will never forget your kindness and your friendship.
The Gag!
If you'd like to know who that beautiful woman is and why's she's watching me drop my shorts, read on...
Sometimes I have a devious and evil mind!
It must have something to do with the 23 years I spent in the Navy hording secrets and analyzing people as a part of the supervisory jobs I held. I could always spot the strengths and weaknesses of certain persons.
When you communicate online, it's much harder to get to know someone. They can adopt a personna that is totally different than their normal self. So, when the opportunity came to meet several of the denizens of the Parrotheads! section on Compuserve, I jumped at the opportunity. The occasion - my son was getting married in Orlando, home of several of the main characters that frequent the beach. Word of my trip spread and several gatherings were planned. I was finally going to add -=jbt=-, the QP and "Rainbow" to the growing list of people whom I'd met from the forum. Joy!
I breezed into Orlando on a Wednesday in late August and found my motel in Winter Park, called Jim Thomas and set up a meeting for later that evening. Unfortunately, Marek the Gypsy had heard I was in town, and decided to drop in for some advanced training in the finer arts of sabotage. Quickly introducing him to a couple of new methods over a steak sandwich, he retired for the evening and left jbt and I to the craziness of Orlando in the midst of the dog days of summer. However, he warned us that he would be at Sloppy Joe's in Church Street Station the next night, and if I wanted my son's wedding to proceed in any type of normal fashion, JBT and I should rendezvous with him.
So, Thusday night, after dinner with my son and fiancee and my daughter, I invited them to SJ's for a bit of fun and to meet the crowd. After intoducing them to JBT and Marek, in comes this vision of loveliness, a beautiful woman dressed to kill - wearing an ivory silk blouse, black leather miniskirt, and leopard-skin heels. She walks right up to our table and introduces herself as Rainbow and her friend Phil, just back from a business trip to Amsterdam.
The evening became delirious. Drinks, Buffett songs, drinks, laughter, bannister slide-dance, more drinks, table dance with Fins to the left, Fins to the right... What an evening!
Rainbow ends the evening with a reminder not to miss her party on Saturday evening. After the display of her wares on Thursday, I wouldn't have missed the party for anything, even if I had to walk out of my son's wedding reception early. Which, fortunately, I did not have to do.
I really enjoyed my self Saturday. What more could a father ask for his son than a beautiful, talented, intelligent woman. God knows our family of males need special women to keep us on the straight and narrow. He was very lucky to get such a great woman and a good family close by for support. But, all through the reception, I kept hoping for it to end so I could get to Rainbow's party. After the last of the pictures were taken, the last of the champagne drunk and the last of the good-byes were waved, I hopped into the car and made a parrot-line for Rainbow's house.
Good times and riches and son-of-a-bitches were all there. Not wanting to waste time changing, I rushed to the door, knocked and entered the house to find a kaliedescope of food, drink and people. Parrot Heads seemed to be missing until I was directed to the back yard. Ahhh, parrot (heads) in their natural environment with drinks in hand. Cap'n Ale, Marek, JBT, and, at last, the Queen Parrot herself; then Chris St. Somewhere and his lovely wife, Cec, were introduced. A phone call the missing Beckmeister and the world was indeed a lovely place, especially with a glass of the 'Rita's Phil was mixing. The Loyal Order of the Keyboard Knights granted Phil the title of Mixologist, First Class. The core non-PH party guests trickled away and by midnight there were only PHs <including two who claim IANAPH status> and Amsterdam Phil remaining. Given the company and the amount of alcohol consumed, as I watched Rainbow dance beneath the moonlight, I thought of a gag <better reserved as a April Fool's Gag, but what the hell, April was next year> and the outline began to take shape. It would take a lot of work, but as Rainbow continued to dance the prospect gained validity and impetus. Wow Rainbow! How high can you get your skirt to go?Safely back home in front of the computer, the plot begins to thicken. I briefly mention how thankful I was of the gift Rainbow had given me. The bait was set; but would she take it or just play with it. Well, things had been pretty fuzzy by the end of the party, so she was unsure of what might have happened and inquired, in the public forum, what she had given me.
Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzttt! Strike! Now to set the hook. "Why Rainbow, don't you recall the black silk underwear that you gave me?"
With that little question, the next stage was set. The gag would be played to its logical conclusion in Key West in October. Little reminders and a promise to model underwear in Key West were sent to Rainbow, juicy tidbits to keep the hook firmly in place. Play for the trophy.
The Gathering at Key West in October. About 20 wild and wonderful PHs from the forum meet for the first Virtual PHC gathering. And there's a small group staying in the same guest house. Rainbow, the -=zenmaster=- and -=zenmistress=-, Cap'n Ale, Leslie from Siesta Key and myself. So, the -=Zens=- announce they will host a cocktail party on Friday evening, prior to dinner and the big conference. Ahh, the perfect opportunity to land this trophy.
Friday evening approaches and I am prepared. After a few Margaritas and a few Scotches, I allow Rainbow, now renamed as Flipper, to conduct the unveiling. Can any of you imagine what she was thinking as she literally tried to get to the bottom of this mystery. Maybe that's why the photographer didn't try to focus on Flipper's enigmatic expression.
"But...but...but those aren't mine," said she. "Did I say they were yours? Don't you recall giving me a pair of Phil's underwear when you spilled chili all over me?" And she is trying hard not to believe this, but the evidence before her very eyes. Then someone hears the phone ring in her room and answers it. Taking the call, she reappears a few minutes later and calmly announces, "You're had Squid, that was Phil on the phone and he doesn't have any black silk underwear." "Of course not," I say thinking quickly, "you stole them and gave them to me."
But it was not to be, Phil was still on the line and I had to explain that it was a gag on JoNell. After a hearty laugh of understanding from his end, he wanted to talk to his sweetie again.
And then... we discovered YACHT DRINKS!
