Tales from Stool 17; Finding Port St. Joe: The Nigel Logan Stories (Vol. 1) (Volume 1)

by Kirk Jockell

  That made me smile; it was a friendly spar from a brother in anchors. I grabbed the bottle and helped myself to a healthy, long pour. I picked up the glass, took a sniff, swirled the contents around in the bottom of the glass and took a slow sip. The aromatic burn felt wonderful as it coated the inside of my mouth and tongue which was followed by a clean finish as it went down. I needed that.

  From a bag I had with me I pulled out several small-scale charts of the Gulf of Mexico. Where to next? That was the question. I followed the entire coastline with my finger. I studied it hard, looking at almost every waterfront town. Then I realized my finger was tapping the chart, keeping time with the classic rock playing at the bar. One song after another, good music. The commercial breaks were interesting as well, very hometown, not produced to compete in a big town market.

  “Steve,” I called. “What are we listening to? Which station? I might want to tune in when I get back to the boat.”

  “You can’t tune it in down here. It’s being streamed online. Oyster Radio, 100.5 on your FM dial. Comes out of Apalachicola, OysterRadio.com. Some of the guys go up there to fish. They like to listen, so I pull it up on the computer and play it from time to time. Whatever makes them happy, you know.”

  I studied the charts some more and wrote down several possibilities before folding them up and stowing them back into the bag. I knocked back what was left of my bourbon and set the glass on the bar. I slipped a twenty under the bottle and called out a thank you to Steve as I headed to the door. He waved back.

  Before I got to the door Steve said, “Chief Logan!”

  I stopped and stood there. I didn’t recall exchanging last names. I turned around.

  He walked up to me so nobody else could hear and said, “So, I guess if anyone comes around asking, you were never here, right?”

  “I don’t follow you,” I said.

  “Listen, Nigel. We stream a lot more than Oyster Radio around here. The guys also like to get their Navy news online from Tidewater as well. I recognized you when we shook hands.”

  “Oh ... I see. Well, I would appreciate that,” I said. “But the truth is I have nothing to hide. If somebody asks, you can be as honest as you like. I wouldn’t think any less of you. If they ask you where I was headed, you can be honest there too. Tell them you don’t know, because the fact is, I don’t even know yet. I’m only out for a sail.”

  “What if they press me for a destination?” he asked.

  “Come on, Chief. Do I have to think of everything for you?”

  He smiled as I thought about a song I heard while sitting at the bar. A catchy tune I’d never heard before. A line from it was still running through my head.

  “I tell you what, Steve. If someone is so damn bent on hearing a destination, tell them you heard me say something about Colorado … Colorado sounds nice.”

  We shook hands and he stuffed my twenty dollar bill back into my shirt pocket. “On the house,” he said. “Courtesy of the Key West Chief Petty Officer’s Association. Fair winds, shipmate.”

  “Thanks, Steve. Really.”

  I walked back to my boat.

  It was dark early when MisChief and I pulled out of Key West. We had a nice broad reach, starboard tack, meaning the wind was approaching the boat from abaft the beam, or the back right quarter. The solid 10 knots of breeze made for an easy, fast point of sail. With the autopilot on, MisChief was balanced and tracking well. When the sun came up, I made my rounds to inspect the boat one last time to secure for sea. I wasn’t expecting it to get rough, but you always expect the unexpected at sea. Secure everything.

  At the navigation station I found my laptop still open and running, eating the battery, the Oyster Radio website still on the screen. I had connected to the marina Wi-Fi when I returned to the boat. I streamed music in the salon all night long, even slept with it on. I liked the station. Now, the website was a static page, no connection, no music, no nothing. I turned the laptop off and closed the lid.

  Back on deck and at the helm–I prefer to steer myself–I poured another cup of coffee from my thermos and settled in. It was nice and quiet on the outside, only the sounds of the sea and the graceful motion of a classic yacht surging along. Inside my head was a lot of noise; my mind raced from one issue to another. Thoughts of the Navy, Virginia, and what I had left behind consumed me. MisChief and active sailing was the therapy I needed. They would both help ease my mind.

  I had gotten a good head start on the day, but the sun was catching up, racing towards the sky. As the shadows grew along the deck of the boat, the gorgeous blues and clarity of the Gulf of Mexico served as a great distraction to the demons in my head. I had never sailed in the Gulf. I was an Atlantic, Chesapeake Bay kind of guy. I still love it there, always will, but this was great, beautiful.

  I assumed my position at the helm and spent the next few days contemplating the matter at hand–the next landfall. Several times I took the list of potential ports from my pocket and evaluated the pros and cons of each. I couldn’t bring myself to a decision. I couldn’t focus. The subliminal messages I had received via Oyster Radio were still ringing in my head: Port St. Joe, Indian Pass, Cape San Blas, Mexico Beach, and Apalachicola. If I heard those locations mentioned once, I heard them a hundred times during my last night in Key West. I looked at the list one last time, studied it again. Then I shook my head, wadded it up and stuck it back in my pocket. I sailed on.

  The plan was to head west for a while, towards Mexico until I made a decision. MisChief and I made passage past the Dry Tortugas, leaving them to starboard. Down below I was back to studying the chart, mulling it over, finger on the paper, circling the area around Cape San Blas. Then I remembered hearing Oyster Radio mention another location, one I took to describe the whole area: The Forgotten Coast. I said it out loud so I could hear it with my own ears. I liked it.

  I looked at my watch. It was morning, time to get a 1000 fix on our location. I grabbed my sexton and stood on deck, my left elbow hooked around a shroud to anchor my stance. I looked through the telescope of the sexton and found both the sun and the horizon through the mirrors and series of filters. I manipulated the index arm until the lower limb of the sun touched the horizon, three and a half nautical miles away. When I was satisfied with my measurement, I quickly looked at my watch and marked the time. After completing my calculations at the navigation station, I compared my findings to the GPS. I smiled; reassured once again the GPS readings were almost as good as mine. One of these days I might gain enough trust in one of those fancy gizmos to use them exclusively, but I doubt it. I’m old school that way.

  I came back on deck with a cold beer. I was feeling pretty good about myself until I noticed the sails were not trimmed, not as shipshape as before, and the old girl was putting up a mild protest. The wind had veered a few degrees towards MisChief’s stern. With the autopilot maintaining her original course, the sails were now out of trim, not bad, but enough that MisChief didn’t like it.

  On any sailboat, if the wind shifts its direction, one of two things must happen: adjust your course to bring the trim of the sails to the new wind direction or maintain course and adjust your trim to the new wind. In her gentle protest, she was asking for one or the other.

  I studied the wind shift and smiled. The new wind was favorable for what I had in mind. I reached down and cut off the autopilot, patted the tiller with my hand and said, “It’s OK, girl. It’s time for new course, anyway. Let’s go to weather.”

  Go to weather, meaning sail closer to the wind’s actual direction. I trimmed in the main and headsail as I brought the boat towards the wind, about five degrees off a hard beat. I set the headsail first, and then I made final adjustments to the main so they worked in concert. The helm felt good in my hand, perfect actually. The boat was very balanced, meaning I could walk away from the helm and the boat would maintain her course without my intervention. To a skipper, that is the best of feelings. I settled back in the cockpit, a light touch on the tiller. I
studied the compass and applied the necessary adjustments for variation and deviation to establish our new course, 015 degrees true. What was previously due west, 270 degrees, we were now a bit better of north… north by east.

  I got comfortable in the cockpit to finish my beer and to wrap my head around the long voyage ahead. My only problem was a pesky line from a new song, stuck in my head. It’s hard to concentrate on anything when that happens. Maybe one day I would learn the rest of it. Until then, I sang into the wind what I knew as MisChief pressed on, “Where to now? Well, God only knows … Colorado sounds nice…”

  After a long and eventless transit, I arrived in St. Joe Bay a little before noon at low tide. I found a nice spot out in the bay not too far away from shore. The holding looked good, so I dropped a hook. With the boat secure, it was time for some well-deserved rest that turned into a four-hour power nap. I woke up refreshed; a nice breeze was brought below by my Wind Scoop which hung above my forward hatch. I rested there, still in motion, looking at the overhead. Then the pang hit, I was hungry and thirsty. It was time to go ashore.

  I got up and took off my clothes, grabbed my ditty bag of toiletries and a towel. I stuck my head out the companionway to make sure the coast was clear. It was, as was the water. It was beautiful, crystal clear. I spotted a large stingray under the boat, enjoying the shade of MisChief’s shadow on the bottom. I joined him, falling in backwards, taking the Nestea plunge. The water felt cool against my dry skin and I didn’t want to get out but the bar of soap and bottle of shampoo were calling to me from on deck. I could swim later, after I scrubbed days of salt and sweat from my body and hair.

  “O.M.G. Red! They’re fighting.”

  “What are you talking about, Trixie? Who’s fighting?”

  “Don’t know.”

  Trixie held up her phone to show Red a picture that had been posted to Facebook. It was an action shot taken with a cell phone which meant the subjects were blurry, not in focus.

  “Candice posted it about 15 minutes ago,” said Trixie. Then she giggled and said, “Read the caption, Red.”

  Red took the phone from Trixie and read the small print. Hurry up and come on out. We got music and live action tonight. Never a dull moment at the Reid Avenue Bar and Bottle Shop.

  Red chuckled, “Nothing like a good fight to bring in the paying customers. That Candice is a smart girl.”

  Candice is the fulltime bartender and manager of the Reid Avenue Bar and Bottle Shop in Port St. Joe. She is in her mid-to-late thirties, very attractive and single, having ditched her third husband about a year and a half ago. She has worked at the bar since graduating high school where she was the homecoming queen two years in a row. She never went to college, but she is ruggedly smart, except when it comes to members of the opposite sex. In the relationship department, she has a tendency to fall a little too quick … action without thought.

  Red and Trixie were enjoying margaritas and finishing up some chile rellenos at Chico’s Taqueria, the local Mexican restaurant. They were celebrating Thursday, a good day and a warm-up to the weekend. They debated on whether or not to drop in to check on Candice. Then the restaurant lit up like a salsa discotheque as the flashing blue lights of two squad cars filtered through the window blinds.

  Red and Trixie looked at each other. The discussion was over. If for no other reason than curiosity, the desire to take a peek was too great. They finished their drinks, gave the local cops a chance to sort things out, then paid their check and walked out onto the sidewalk. The bar is a short walk down and across the street.

  The first thing Trixie noticed was someone sitting in the back of one of the squad cars, bloodied up pretty good. Then they saw two of the cops trying to question someone sitting on the sidewalk, hands cuffed behind his back, head hanging low. A stranger.

  Trixie looked over at Red and said, “Is that Billy in the back of the car?”

  “Hard to tell. Could be. He looks busted up pretty good, though.”

  Trixie walked over towards the car so she could get a better look, then walked back towards Red, smiling. “Yep, it’s Billy alright.”

  Candice walked out of the bar with a couple more uniforms. They seemed to be in a fair mood. There were no telling signs of seriousness in the way they were carrying on. They walked on over to where the two other officers were trying to interview the stranger.

  “He’s not talking,” one of the officers said. “He’s pretty loaded.”

  Candice looked up and saw Red and Trixie rubbernecking from the sidewalk. She excused herself from the officers and walked over, the cops giving her skin-tight blue jeans a little too much attention as she walked away.

  Red looked over towards Trixie and whispered, “I think she looks better as a blond.”

  “Hush your mouth, Red. She might hear you. She looks fine.”

  Red chuckled under his breath. Candice is known for her hair color changes. She may be a brunette one week, a redhead, or a strawberry blond the next. This week was black, jet black with a bright blue streak down the left side.

  “What is going on?” asked Trixie. “What’s Billy done now?”

  “The jackass came in here tonight and decided he was going to try and make up. I haven’t seen the bastard in over a year and he shows up here drunk asking me to come back home. That he was sorry for everything. It was ridiculous.”

  “Come back home?” said Trixie. “Well, that’s a little odd.”

  “Hell yeah. Tell me about it. I divorced his worthless ass over eighteen months ago and now he shows up out of the blue like everything’s okay.”

  Candice thought for a moment and said out loud, more to herself than anyone else, “I still need to have my butt kicked for ever getting involved with his stupid ass. Live and learn.”

  “Well, what’s his story?” asked Trixie as she nodded towards the stranger on the curb.

  “Oh! He’s a keeper.”

  Red chuckled.

  Embarrassed, Trixie gave Red a look and backhanded him across the arm.

  “Never mind him, Candice. Go on.”

  Candice turned her head to look at the stranger for a moment. Turned back and said, “He’s been in the bar since about five this afternoon. He’s a real nice guy, started off with beer and later switched to bourbon. He likes his bourbon and has had a lion’s share. He started a tab and paid it off three times so far. We’ve been talking all day and most of the night.”

  As Candice continued talking, all three of them walked over to where the stranger sat on the curb.

  “Billy shows up already tanked and starts with his shit. When he didn’t like the reception he got, he started getting hostile, like the old days. Some bastards never change. Billy started to get a little rough. He grabbed and twisted my arm. Then this one here walks up, he’s pretty drunk, and says, ‘Buddy, you don’t want to do that. Leave the lady alone.’”

  Trixie said, “What happened then?”

  “Well, Billy looks at him and told him to mind his own business and he said, ‘She is my business. She’s my bartender and I always take care of my bartenders and waitresses.’ Then Billy says, ‘Shut your drunk hole.’

  “You should have seen it, Trixie. This one here says, ‘That’s where you’re wrong, puss. I’m not drunk. I’m just drunk enough.’ Then he puckers up and blows Billy a kiss. Billy let go of my arm and went after him. That was a mistake. A big mistake. Billy got whacked on real good. I’m sure his nose is broken. I heard it snap on the first punch. Billy went down like a rock, but you know Billy isn’t real smart, so he got back up. That’s when I grabbed my phone to take a picture. Billy took a couple more shots to the face before coming to rest over by the jukebox.”

  One of the uniforms asked Candice, “So, do you want to press charges on this guy or not?”

  “No! Of course not. He didn’t do anything. It was Billy that started all the trouble. This one here stepped in to protect me. That’s all. Now take the damn cuffs off already.”

  Red, Trixie,
and Candice watched as the cop bent down and told the stranger, “This is your lucky day, fella.” As his arms went free he looked up at the small audience and smiled. Then he found Candice and smiled more. He looked at her hard and did his best to say, “Are you alright? Is everything okay” Then he fell backwards with his head bouncing off the sidewalk.

  All excited, Candice looked at Trixie and said, “Isn’t he just the sweetest thing. He’s just precious.”

  Red chuckled again, this time catching a cutting stare from Candice.

  One of the cops said, “So what are you going to do with him? He can’t stay here on the sidewalk. We’ll have no choice but run him in for public drunkenness.”

  Candice looked at Trixie. Her face spoke volumes.

  Candice said, “Please. For me. I still have a few hours before I can close.”

  “Candice,” Trixie said, “I can’t take a perfect stranger in. We don’t even know his name.”

  “His name is Nigel, Nigel Logan. Cute, huh? He was my hero tonight and I like him.”

  Trixie turned to Red for support. She didn’t find it. Red looked back and said with a chuckle, “What? I like him too. He’s a keeper!”

  Trixie pulled a cigarette out of her purse and lit it. Pulled a long drag and thought about it for a few seconds and finally said, “Oh, brother! Throw his drunk ass in the back of the car.”

  Red Shucks a Yarn

  It was a long day of yard work, pulling weeds and trimming shrubs amidst the heat and humidity. Keeping the grounds of The Blown Inn, my two bedroom, one bath cottage, is a never-ending battle. It’s worth the fight though, if you think of it as an all-out offensive against radical Islamic terrorists. Destroy the enemy, victory is sweet.