A Scoundrel in Uniform

My buddy Captain Clam called one evening to announce that he’d just delivered a fifty-five foot sport fisherman to its new owners and been offered the job of permanent captain. “They’ve got another boat—a seventy-foot gin palace—and they’re looking for someone to run it. I’ve arranged for you to meet the owner tomorrow.”

“I’ve never driven anything bigger than a fifty foot sailboat,” I protested. “I don’t have a clue about power boats.”

Clam--the good-looking one is Lobster

“They’re easy,” says Clam. “We’ll take her for a spin tomorrow. You’ll get the hang of it.”

I wasn’t really looking for a job at the time—I’d made a bunch of money on the futures market and considered myself semi-retired. But I figured this thing might be a bit of a laugh with Clam and me working together.

So the next day I showed up at the address he’d given me in Boca Raton, a ritzy enclave on a network of canals north of Miami. I always considered it an odd name for such an upscale location—Rat’s Mouth in Spanish.

To me, a sailor, the boat I was supposedly taking over seemed like a floating house. Fortunately Clam was there to assist in the starting of engines and other stuff powerboats required.

As we cleared the dock with me at the wheel, I was flanked by Bill—one of the owners—and Clam. The canal was narrow with huge houses and expensive boats on either side. A lot of damage could be done here.

Up ahead, the canal dead-ended. Obviously the vessel had to be turned around. I spun the wheel and very little happened. Clam leaned into my ear and mumbled. “Use the throttles.”

This gem of enlightenment saved the day. With reverse on one engine and forward on the other, the thing turned easily on its own length.

Having changed direction, I frowned professionally and spun the wheel a few times to show that, prior to the turn I’d been merely testing the rudder system.

So I got the job. Bill and I went to his tailor who made up a snappy uniform for me.

Most of the time, the work involved steaming up and down the intra-coastal waterway ferrying a bunch of drunks from bar to bar. At times, I must confess, I wasn't far behind them.

One time when Clam and I were headed up the intra-coastal to West Palm Beach where we were to meet a bunch of freeloading bankers and their wives, I spied a familiar dark blue catamaran up ahead. I looked through the binoculars and who should be at the helm but my old friend Rob from Gibraltar. I quickly changed into my uniform.

Towering above the cat, I began to crowd my old shipmate to the edge of the canal as I leaned on the horn, occasionally darting out to the bridge wing to scowl at him from under the peak of my hat.

Camera-shy Paul and Rob

Poor old Rob didn’t know quite what to do. Being a bit of a scoundrel himself, he was always a trifle nervous around uniforms.

I finally let him off the hook when Paul, who owned the cat, emerged on deck. Once they recognized me there were hoots of derision directed at my mode of dress—neither of my old shipmates had seen me looking so ridiculous.

Rob came aboard for a couple of beers and a bit of a catch-up then Clam and I had to scoot so we could tie up and get the boat ready for our cruise.

Dusk was just coming on when the guests began to arrive. I stood on the dock by the gangway greeting them as they boarded.

Much as I detested this part of the job, I tended to give it my best. I could usually manage to dredge up a compliment for the wives and something vaguely ribald for the fat, balding husbands.

As fate would have it, my old buddies on the cat had chosen this particular marina to spend the night. As soon as they saw me—again bedecked in full uniform with a smarmy smile pasted on my face—a bray of coarse laughter erupted.

The bastards manoeuvred in close so there was no mistaking who Paul was pointing at when he shouted out, “Lawson, you f-----g wanker!"

Being Americans, the well dressed group of bankers and wives clustered around the gangway at the time probably didn’t understand the meaning of ‘wanker’. But the preceding expletive made it abundantly clear that I was not being complimented.