Rob and the Bottle of Bourbon

My friend Rob could be a contrary sod at times—merely for the sake of being so I suspect.

It was my birthday and we were half way across the Atlantic in the twenty-six foot westerly Centaur sailboat. The wind had died to almost nothing and the sails slapped around as the boat rolled languidly on an undulating sea of bright blue.

“Why don’t we have a celebratory drink since it’s my birthday,” I suggested.

Rob and supper

“What have you got?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

“Nothing. But you’ve got a bottle of Bourbon.”

“I don’t feel like a drink.”

“Then how about shouting me one,” I said, hoping to stoke some sense of camaraderie in the crew.

But my effort was in vain. “It’s a new bottle,” he said. “I’d rather not open it.”

“Then I’ll buy it from you—how much?”

“A hundred dollars.”

“WHAT? You only paid forty for it.”

“Mid-Atlantic price,” the rotter replied with a grin.

I wasn’t about to back down at this stage so I bought the wretched bourbon, poured myself a good slug and offered him the bottle. “I told you I don’t feel like a drink,” he said stubbornly. “And besides,” he added self-righteously, “you’ve always maintained that it’s not a good idea to drink at sea,”

“It’s a pond,” I said, downing the glass and pouring myself another. I’m not particularly fond of bourbon but having just forked over a hundred dollars I determined to get my money’s worth. In short order I managed to get through over half the bottle and was overtaken by a sense of euphoria.

Westerly Centaur

It was a hot day so I decided to cool off with a dip in the ocean. “There could be sharks,” Rob suggested gravely with a shake of his head.

Ignoring his warning, I plunged over the side and began thrashing away from the boat. Rob pulled the sails down, started the engine and came after me. “Get back on board,” he yelled, repeating his warning about sharks.

But did I care about sharks? With a gut-full of bourbon I was invincible - I could have ripped the fins off them. “You’re only worried because you can’t navigate,” I shouted back before turning and ploughing away once again. This was before the advent of GPS so navigation was by sextant - Rob didn’t know one end of a sextant from the other.

This time he simply followed me until I ran out of steam, then helped me aboard wearing a smug grin.

Back on board, I collapsed into my bunk and slept through the afternoon and night, awaking the following morning with a head full of hammers. Rob spent the day smirking at my discomfort.

Throughout the remainder of the voyage I lived in hope that he’d ask me for a nip from the remainder of the bottle…but the bastard never did.