Hot Peppers & A Mutt

I was staying in Coconut Grove, Miami with an ex-girlfriend Patti. Although we were no longer ‘going together’, we had an easy and comfortable relationship and always managed to have a good laugh.

An incident that occurred when my buddy Willie came down for a visit however, provided splendid amusement for both of them. Unfortunately, their hilarity came at my expense.

Patti - ten years earlier

I was cooking breakfast one morning with Patti as my sous-chef, whilst Willie perched on his butt in the living room doing absolutely nothing.

A couple of months prior to this, in Canada, Willie had played some kind of prank on me—I’ve forgotten exactly what it was, but it had to do with a beer I was drinking. Now, I decided, it was payback time.

I extracted the seeds from some jalapeno peppers—the hottest part of them—and crushed them with a fork and my fingers. They were to be a surprise additional ingredient to Willie’s scrambled eggs.

“Two minutes your lordship,” I called gleefully toward the living room when the eggs were almost done.

Ahhh, the anticipation of sweet revenge!

So preoccupied was I with my vision of a red-faced, goggle-eyed Willie with steam hissing from his ears that when the urge for a quick pre-prandial pee hit me, my pepper-smeared fingers failed to register as a threat.

The peppers made their presence felt when Private Part was summoned to action. It was as if he’d been hauled out from barracks by hot tongs. With tears of agony streaming down my cheeks, I somehow managed to finish what I was doing then darted back to the kitchen.

Willie & Me - ten years later

“Quick,” I said to Patti. “Get me some ice cubes.”

“What on earth…?” she began to ask—but my anguished appearance and desperate tone of  voice conveyed the urgency of the situation and she let it go. As she went for the ice, I grabbed a glass jar off the counter and filled it with water.

“The peppers,” I gasped out as I submerged the soldier in soothing water. Patti added the ice cubes. Upon grasping the significance of my predicament, the corners of her mouth gave a cheeky upward twitch, which I didn’t appreciate.

“What’s taking so long?” calls his Lordship from the living room. Patti couldn’t answer—her jaws were clamped shut in order to contain her mirth.

“Won’t be a minute,” I squeezed out through clenched teeth.

Of course Willie picked up on my distress and came sauntering out to the kitchen. His jaw dropped open at the spectacle of me dancing around with my equipment in a jar of steaming water (well, maybe it wasn’t quite steaming, but it felt like it should have been).

He seemed puzzled at first—and I was not about to enlighten him—but when he spied the gutted peppers on the counter he quickly determined their significance. His eyes lit up gleefully as he began to convulse with laughter. And of course this got Patti going.

My misfortune was the cause of much merriment

So while I’m dancing around in agony, the two of them are hooting and cackling like a pair of hyenas.

Now comes the dog.

Those of you who are thinking, hmmm, this sounds interesting will be disappointed. The dog story has nothing to do with the peppers. The two are related solely by time-frame.

The dog came a couple of days after the peppers when I’d partially recovered from my ordeal. I say partially because there were actual blisters involved.

Anyway, the three of us were sitting out front when this thin, mangy-looking canine trotted in off the street, tail thrashing happily in (what I determined later) a desperate attempt to show goodwill. The thing had no tags on it and seemed to be in dire need of nourishment.

Patti gave it water and a bite of something then we scooted inside so it wouldn’t think it had found a home. The message proved to be overly subtle for this mutt though. Next morning, when I went out onto the porch the beast greeted me as if we’d been pals for years.

I was in no position to take in a dog—I planned to head down south somewhere in a month or so—and Patti didn’t want the responsibility. More drastic measures were called for.

I bundled Fido into the car and drove about ten miles to a nice neighborhood in Coral Gables where I dropped him off—figuring someone there was bound to want a pet. For a few blocks the wretched thing chased me, but I’d learned a few tricks from my bank-robbing days (joking) so was able to give it the slip.

Several hours later, as the three of us sat out on the porch sipping Bloody Mary’s—what should appear but our exhausted friend. How he’d found his way back from ten miles away I’ve no idea. And why he’d singled us out as potential parents was equally obscure.

Needless to say though, after that sterling effort, he found a home with Patti.

Edited by Davina

My Father-in-law the Scoundrel

My ex-father-in-law was a sailor, but mostly a scoundrel. He was rather bright in some areas—he built Canada’s largest tall-ship, the Empire Sandy, from a World War Two steam driven tug boat—but somewhat naive in others.

Norm was not a popular man around Toronto Harbour but he did earn my admiration for some of his antics.

At one time, he was running a private ferry service between Toronto and the harbour islands. His vessel was steel and didn’t leak a drop so he had no cause to use his bilge pump. But for the annual Coast Guard inspection, a working bilge pump was a requirement.

The night before this annual inspection Norm discovered that the pump didn’t work. Attempts to repair it failed, and the inspection was to take place first thing in the morning.

Norm’s devious mind came up with the solution.

As the Coast Guard inspector—a chap by the name of Wyberg—asked Norm to demonstrate the functionality of the various components on his list, Norm would comply with a military repetition of the request.

This must have disarmed the inspector—this civilian’s apparent respect and deference to his authority.

Wyberg might ask for navigation lights, and Norm would respond with, “Navigation lights on,” as he moved the switch.

When it came around to the bilge pump, Norm once again made his announcement as he switched the appropriate switch. “Bilge pump on.” At this time a crew member who’d been crammed into the bilge took his cue by making slurping sounds from beneath the floorboards.

“She’s a rather dry vessel,” Norm commented proudly as Wyberg ticked ‘Bilge Pump’ off his list.

But Norm couldn’t resist crowing about his deception and in due course it got back to the Coast Guard, earning him the enduring enmity of that organization.

Around Toronto Harbour, a non-functioning pump became known as a ‘Wyberg Pump’.

Norm was in my wife Cathy’s office one morning (she owned the party boat ‘River Gambler’ which I worked on), when I mentioned that I was going to Woolfe’s, the scrap metal dealer, to get a piece of pipe.

Norm, having had frequent dealings with this outfit chirps up. “Mention my name and they’ll probably do something for you.”

I followed my father-in-law’s advice and Mr. Woolfe offered to shove the pipe up my rear end.

Norm was never a modest man regarding his achievements or knowledge. Whenever the opportunity arose I derived great pleasure in taking the wind out of his sails. He was only a year older than me so I felt I owed him no paternal respect.

One such opportunity came about with a visit to a Canadian Tire store. I mentioned to Cathy that I was going there to buy a few things and Norm, once again in the office, pipes up, “I’ve got some stuff to pick up there. I’ll come with you.”

Well, ‘some stuff’ included a bench drill and other heavy items that required the loan of a dolly to wheel out to the truck. When we’d unloaded his purchases, Norm threw the dolly onto the truck as well.

A few days later I was talking to Cathy on the phone and she mentioned that Norm was in the office—he spent more time there since he’d handed the company over to her, than when he was running it. A plot came to me. “I’ll call right back,” I said. “Tell him the call’s for him and watch his face.”

When Norm came on the phone I put on my best French accent. “Ahh, Mister Rogairs, zis is Jacques La Pierre of Canajan Tire. I am wondering when you will be returning ze dolly you ‘ave borrow.”

“What dolly?” he demanded.

“The one you have put in your red truck.” I then rattled off the license number.

“THIS IS PREPOSTEROUS!,” shouts the pater-in-law into the phone. “I haven’t borrowed any dolly.”

“You ‘ave been seen to put this dolly in your truck,” says Jacques. “But it is okay if you are wanting to keep it. We ‘ave your credit card numbair, so we will just add the dolly to your bill.”

“YOU CAN’T DO THAT!” Norm shrieked.

“Ave a nice day Mister Rogairs,” Jacques said. “We much appreciate your business.”

Cathy told me later that Norm’s face was red as a beet and the veins of his neck were standing out like hawsers. He apparently fumed for a good half hour after our little conversation.

A month or so later I was at a party where the host wasn’t aware that I was related to Norm or that I even knew him. He began to introduce us. “Norm Rogers,” he announced. “This is…” But before he could finish, I thrust out my hand. “Jacques La Pierre, Canadian Tiare.”

Much to our host’s surprise, Norm loudly proclaimed I was illegitimate.

Edited by Davina

It’s only a F’ing Wind—famous Last Words (almost).

(Excuse my f’ing prudishness, but some office computers reject the language of sailors).

After my first couple of winters in Canada I got to thinking—when falling leaves began threatening my Australian bones—what the hell am I doing up here?

So I packed my bags and headed for Florida.

I ended up in Coconut Grove, South Miami, where I managed to get a job as a sailing instructor at an outfit called Biscayne sailboats—owned by an eccentric old salt by the name of Alan Bliss.

Captain Bliss

Sailing was anything but blissful though at the Bliss establishment. Why the Coastguard didn’t condemn his entire fleet remains a mystery to me to this day. Almost every voyage involved a breakage of some kind.

One afternoon Alan, a couple of his cronies and me were standing on the dock swapping stories and quaffing beers. Business was slow because the weather appeared a little threatening, with the sky gray and scowly.

As we looked out across the bay, a ridge in the clouds developed a kind of tail that slowly extended itself down to the water and started coming toward us. “Waterspout!” Alan exclaimed, grabbing his cash box. “Let’s get out of here.”

Never having seen the likes of this before, I was curious. While the other three ran for Alan’s car, I held back.

“It’s a f’ing tornado,” Alan yelled. “Get in the car!”

With no experience of tornado’s before, I yelled back, “It’s only f’ing wind.”

Alan jumped into the car and sped off.

In front of the dock was a bunch of moored sailboats, the nearest perhaps 100 feet away. Behind them stretched a low island covered in scraggly Australian pines.

Path of the Waterspout

The waterspout appeared to be attracted to things that stuck out of the water. When it reached the island it paused to thrash around and uproot most of the trees, sending branches flying up into the air amidst clouds of sand.

It was then I realized that this was no ordinary wind.

Having virtually leveled the island, the tornado went on to attack the moored vessels—fixed keel boats of around thirty feet in length—instantly turning all of them over onto their beam ends and sinking about a third of them.

It was then I realized I should have gone with Alan.

Fortunately for me, the monster spied more attractive prey further up the dock. As I watched, it pounced on a two-storied houseboat of around forty feet in length. Plucking it rather delicately from between two other boats it sucked it some fifty feet into the air where it twirled it around a few times. Tiring of this sport, it dropped the unfortunate vessel sideways onto a wooden piling which skewered the thing right through.

When the spout moved off in search of other mischief, I ran up the dock to see if anyone was inside the houseboat. As it turned out there wasn’t. But a rather confused-looking German Shepherd poked its head out through a shattered window.

Amazingly, the two boats on either side of the houseboat suffered little damage.

The bay ended up covered with debris from wrecked vessels and it wasn’t long before small boats of all descriptions ventured out in search of treasures. As they picked through the wreckage, some wag on shore yelled, “It’s coming back!”

Well, you should have seen the thrashing of oars and paddles. The water was churned white.

I watched one guy desperately trying to get his small outboard started. He’d obviously left it in gear and was too panicked to take the time to put it in neutral. He must have propelled himself some twenty feet by pulling on the starter cord before the engine kicked in. 

Edited by Davina

’Twas An Ill Wind

One of my earliest memories is of my father’s morning bathroom performance—of which he appeared to be rather proud. In our house, it was considered impolite to expel wind in any other room. Dad made the most of the bathroom exemption. Looking back, I can’t imagine how he managed to contain the volume of gas his innards generated over the course of a night, but his rendition each morning attested to the fact that he did.

My family’s particular euphemism for the act of expelling personal wind was known as ‘making a gun’. I guess it was either my brother or me who coined the term—Dad’s morning sessions reverberated through

the house like a naval bombardment.

Mum, Me & der Vater

I remember once innocently asking my mother why she never ‘made guns’. “Ladies don’t do such things Peter,” she replied primly—and it was years before I discovered otherwise. Not from  Mother of course—she always acted the lady.

At North Sydney Technical High School I took German. Had I gone to a regular high school I would have been given French as a second language. As it was a tech high though, it was German—presumably because of that nation’s engineering prowess—and one of the first phrases we learned was der Vater (the father). Vater was pronounced with a soft ‘v’ that sounded more like an ‘f’. How wonderfully appropriate, I thought.

Even Mum couldn’t complain about my use of Vater in referring to Dad—I was simply improving my German. In time, with frequent use, the word lost its unpleasant connotation and simply became Dad’s nickname. Even Mum came to adopt the name in the more endearing form of ‘Fartley’.

Gug

When my brother moved to New Guinea, his room was taken over by Mum’s mother—affectionately known as Gug. She was even more proper than Mum. The other resident was our dog Sac, who was not so proper, being prone to rather malodorous emissions. Sac did not adhere to the ‘bathroom rule’.

After supper, we’d all retire to the living room to watch TV (except Sac of course who’d just lie there, usually snoring). Occasionally an unpleasant odour would befoul the room and Mum would turn to Dad. “Alec, was that you?” (Whenever she switched from Fartley to Alec it signified mild rebuke). I don’t know whether Mum had a nose that was capable of distinguishing between human and canine wind—but it was normally Dad who came under suspicion.

The unfortunate Sac

His straight-faced reply was invariably, “It was the dog.” Then, turning to the unfortunate beast, he’d order it from the room.

There’s no telling who was actually responsible for these discharges—I might even have snuck in an occasional quiet one myself—though I am certain that nothing of this nature would have come from Mum or Gug.

It got to the stage where Sac, upon detecting an unpleasant odour in the air would, without being told to do so, rise to his paws and, growling softly, stalk from the room.

An ill wind, it is said, blows nobody any good. In this case though, it was always poor old Sac who bore the brunt of the blow.

Edited by Davina

    

Wine Tasting in Brest

Must have been the end ’78 when John Morris and I were holed up in Brest, France aboard the Dutch fishing boat De Toekomst, waiting for a break in the weather to allow us to cross the dreaded Bay of Biscay. We were headed for Gibraltar where we planned to give the vessel a lick of paint prior to crossing the Atlantic. Haiti—where John had some sort of fishing business—was our final destination.

Low tide in Brest

We’d entered Brest at the height of a gale—with waves crashing over the bow, sweeping the deck and slamming into the wheelhouse. Before gaining the relative calm of the port, we passed a number of fishing vessels being hammered by the storm yet with crews still working their nets.

To this day I have a mental picture one of those fishermen’s faces—a young man of perhaps twenty with long blond hair thrashing wildly off to the side of his face in the shrieking wind. He was clinging to a rope staring at us—mouth agape as he sucked air through the flying spume.

“Those bastards are mad,” I remarked to John as we struggled toward the port entrance. He nodded agreement. We later learned that five of the boats had gone down with all hands. I wondered if the young man had been among the drowned sailors.

We’d been stuck in Brest for over a month as storm after storm pounded its way through. One morning a battered freighter limped into port, its bow bent to one side by huge waves out in the Biscay. ‘The Bay’ is reputed to be second only to Cape Horn in its ability to send both ships and men to the sea floor.

In Brest we met Ronald, a Scotsman living there. On a number of occasions he acted as translator for us. Just after Christmas he invited us to a New Year’s Eve party at a farmhouse owned by one of his friends. It turned out to be a place out of history with thick fieldstone walls, slate roof and a hard-packed earthen floor inside. When we arrived, a pig was roasting on a spit in the huge fire-place.

Around twenty people were there—none of whom possessed more than a smattering of English—but they made us instantly welcome. We sat at trestle tables in front of the fire and began tucking into the delicacies heaped before us—truffles, oysters, shrimp, mussels and a variety of cheeses.

Me and John--local celebrities

At one point, as I attempted to take a swig of wine after downing an oyster, the man seated next to me, lightly grabbed my wrist. “No Monsieur,” he chided me. “You must ‘ave zis wine with the oystair!” He then proceeded to pour me a glass of the correct grape.

At this early stage of the event, I learned much of French etiquette from my table companion—which wines were suited to the various foods; which foods should precede or follow other foods.

But by the time we got to the pig, all protocol had gone by the board—wine was being haphazardly gulped from bottles; raucous singing filled the air, and the unfortunate pig’s head was flying around the room. A couple cleared a space on one of the tables and danced until a trestle gave out and the table—along with its burden of food and wine—crashed to the floor. It was becoming my kind of party.

The moral of the story is this: If you drink enough of the right wine with the right food, in short order you won’t give a rat’s rear end what you’re drinking or what you’re eating—or for that matter, what day it is.

Edited by Davina

Killer's Killer Spaghetti

I arrived in Toronto in early 1967. About a year later, a friend from Sydney—Terry Kilderry—joined me. My apartment wasn’t big enough for the two of us so we looked for other accommodation. We found the ideal spot on Eglinton Avenue, just east of Mt. Pleasant. A couple of Englishmen had the house and were renting out rooms.

Killer & Lightning*

During our search, while driving around in Terry’s car, for some reason the two of us began clowning around belting each other on the arm. “Careful,” Terry warned me. “They don’t call me ‘Killer’ Kilderry for nothing.”

“It’s you who should watch out,” I replied. “I’m known as ‘Lightning’ Lawson’.”

Whether Terry made up his name on the spur of the moment I don’t know. I did with mine and to this day I’m still known as ‘Lightning’ to some people.

When ‘Killer’ and I moved into the house on Eglinton, the only other tenant was ‘Big Dave’ Small—another Englishman—making for a total of five residents. ‘Big Dave’ was a strange bird. While the four of us spent the majority of our evenings out bar-hopping or partying in pursuit of females, Dave appeared content to remain at home. I think he disliked the idea of spending money on anything that would eventually find its way into a toilet.

We’d leave him perched upon a beer-barrel in a corner of the kitchen drinking a cup of tea. I’ve no idea what he did during the time we were out but he was usually there on his barrel when we arrived home—a fact which often presented a problem whenever one of us returned with a young lady in tow with seduction in mind.

Dave’s barrel afforded him a perfect view of the front door. He was like a spider lurking on the fringes of its web waiting for a fly. “I’ve just brewed a fresh pot of tea,” he’d announce. “Surely the lady would like a cup.” He was sneaky that way, addressing his offer to the girl, who invariably found it difficult to refuse.

So, rather than getting on with the intended business of the evening, Dave’s victims would be forced to endure polite idle chatter for half an hour or so whilst forcing weak tea down their gullets.

Six months or so later, ‘Big Dave’ bought himself a used Ford Falcon. But not having enough money to insure it, the thing sat out in the back garden while he accumulated his pennies. Every evening after supper, he’d take his cup of tea out to the prized vehicle, start the engine and sit there with the radio playing.

One night, ‘Killer’ threw a dinner party for about ten of us. The meal was to be his famous (according to him) spaghetti. As it bubbled away on the stove we sat around the table guzzling beer and telling tall tales. Dave was out back sitting in his car with his tea.

‘Killer’ was in the middle of a lengthy anecdote when Dave burst into the dining room in an agitated state. ‘Killer’ ploughed on with his story despite our house-mate’s obvious distress. Only when the punch line had been delivered did the ever-polite Dave interrupt the proceedings. “Excuse me,” he said. “But my car’s on fire.”

One of the guys grabbed a fire extinguisher as we all raced outside. Sure enough, smoke was issuing from the vehicle’s engine compartment. While the one with the extinguisher stood poised ready for action, someone else lifted the hood.

With the added oxygen, the previously smouldering fire burst into life. The trigger of the extinguisher was depressed and a gob of foam plopped to the ground. Unchecked, the flames leaped into the night sky.

It was then that ‘Killer’ sprang into action—he went darting back into the house, returned with his huge pot of spaghetti and heaved the contents onto the car’s engine. The flames were no match for ‘Killer’s’ ‘famous’ concoction.

But the vehicle was beyond repair. Dave had owned the thing for perhaps two months and had yet to actually drive it. Next day, poor old Dave could only watch forlornly as his pride and joy was towed from the back garden on its way to the wreckers.

*We were congratulating ourselves after converting a canoe into a square-rigger with the aid of bed-sheets. She wasn't bad downwind.

Edited by Davina

Clam Comes into the Chips

Memory blurs—I can’t recall exactly what took me down to Nassau, Bahamas on this particular occasion. Some sort of monkey-business I imagine. I’d planned on flying in and out the same day.

Last time I’d been there—some six months previous—my old diving buddy, Alex 'Captain' Clam had been camping out aboard his nineteen-foot Seacraft runabout at the Nassau Harbour Club. I had a few hours to kill before my flight back to Miami so I took a cab to the Harbour Club and asked after Alex at the bar.

Captain Clam

Any other time I’d had cause to make inquiries after my friend Clam, I’d always noticed a degree of disdain accompanying the reply—a wrinkling of the nose as if at an unpleasant odour. But on this particular occasion the bartender was strangely deferential. “Mister Clam? Yes SIR! Pier One, berth A.”

Tied up at Pier One, berth A was this monster of a power boat. She was around eighty feet long and rather handsome for a stink-pot. Ahh, thinks I—Clam’s got himself a captain’s job. But I was proven to be wrong.

I took myself aboard, banged on a door and a few minutes later Clam emerged in a silk, monogrammed dressing gown. “Lawson,” he exclaimed upon seeing me. “Welcome aboard my new vessel. We’ll take her for a spin around the island.” Clam had always held the vague belief that he was the re-incarnation of W.C.Fields. In his everyday speech, he affected the deceased actor’s unique drawl.

Well, in the six months since we’d last seen each other, this seemed like an extraordinary step up the financial ladder for him; from sleeping under a tarpaulin aboard a nineteen-foot runabout to this?. “Your fortunes appear to have improved considerably since I last saw you,” I remarked when we got under way.

“Ah, yes,” he replied with a wide grin. “Let me tell you how I got this little baby…”

I jumped in quickly to cut him off. “I’d rather not know, Alex.” I knew it must have been something shady and, as one never knows when one might be summoned to give evidence in a court of law, I've always considered it better to remain ignorant of certain matters.

Clam's New  Vessel

By the end of our voyage we were getting close to the end of a bottle of rum and Clam invited me to stay on. I had nothing pressing happening at the time, so I did—for two weeks.

But there’s no such thing as smooth sailing where Captain Clam is concerned—a week into my vacation, the vessel was seized by the Bahamian authorities and a watchman put aboard to make sure it didn’t leave the dock.  We were, however, permitted to remain on board until matters were sorted out.

Clam gave me a rather colourful version of the circumstances behind the seizure, painting himself as the wronged party. But then the Captain was prone to telling an occasional fib—even to his friends. I later discovered that he’d put a down payment on the boat and sailed off to the Bahamas, neglecting to complete the transaction.

As it turned out, the night-watchman—an amiable chap who went by the name of Lincoln—was a bit of a lush. No, I lie. He was an out-and-out lush. (and coming from me, this is quite a compliment). Clam and I conducted experiments and discovered that Lincoln would imbibe anything put in front of him.

So, Clam and yours truly plotted to exploit this weakness: We would re-take the vessel on Lincoln's watch. Our plan was to feed him alcohol until he passed out then sneak away around one in the morning. We’d drop him off at one of the out islands then head for the open sea. We even bought a mosquito-proof tent so Lincoln wouldn’t be drained of blood while he awaited rescue.

The morning before the planned recapture of the vessel, I happened to emerge from the breakfast-room at the Harbour Club to find Clam on the public phone. I caught a snatch of his conversation, “…a drunk. Lawson and I are taking the boat tonight...” Clam was incapable of talking softly—half of Nassau could have heard him. I gave him my darkest scowl of disapproval.

When I moved away, I spied Lonnie Pinder lurking in a doorway. Lonnie was a local who kept his boat at the Club and harboured a deep hatred for Clam for some reason. He was grinning wickedly—he'd obviously heard Clam’s every word.

That evening, at the change of the watchman shift, there was no sign of Lincoln. A new, rather serious-looking fellow had taken his place. When Clam offered this new man a drink, he declined. “No thank you Captain,” he said with a smirk that told us everything, “I’m not partial to strong drink.”

Needless to say, Clam lost the vessel.

Edited by Davina