To celebrate Independence Day in this fashion really squeezes the meaning out of the word “freedom.” Sailing from Waukegan Harbor to Monroe, flying renegade pirate colors, and behaving like a pack of rabid booze thirsty whores makes certainly an interesting beginning to the 4th of July Weekend. I’m not sure the Founding Fathers had this in mind. I’m sure they were booze thirsty though. We want freedom! Oh yeah – and some of that “good stuff.” Fuck TEA!
We set sail. The skipper, a true pirate at heart, led us into the unknown abyss of decadence, various bouts with liquor, and complete mayhem. The only thing he lacks is a peg leg and a lipstick red parrot on his shoulder. The whole trip seemed to be guided by that one Kid Rock line “Lit up like the Fourth, I’m a happy drunk.” That should have screamed warning signs. A whole weekend, with Kid Rock as the anthem, on a sail boat nonetheless, with the motley crew – things could get interesting.
I have my doubts. All the other 4th celebrations are usually the same. Beer, barbecue, flags, patriotism (if you can call waving faggoty sparklers patriotism) and umm – fuck the list pretty much ends. I guess we’re celebrating freedom. I guess the rights to behave like the loudest, brawniest, pack of two-bit idiot rednecks on the planet don’t come often. Ahh – the true caricature of America. The real Americans. Look on the horizon - there’s a guy wearing a Budweiser shirt. Welcome to heaven. Like Foxworthy said about rednecks in general that "it's a glorious absence of sophistication." We fit that profile, especially with beer cans flying around everywhere after someone said "gimmeanother!"
“We’re celebrating the 4th with Kid Rock in the background?”
Good idea. Better turn that shit off. I like Kid Rock but in sane amounts.
Transcribing the notes proved much more difficult than I thought. They weren’t notes at all; just feeble attempts at trying to write something; anything for one, and two, being intoxicated to such a point, that writing and holding a pen was among the chief sobriety tests. No one could pass it. I was the only writer on board. You would think I would have this art down pat.
The rocking of the boat, since this was the first time I ventured out sailing, out of the confines of bunkers, table saw, hammers, and typewriters, had to get used to. But after many beers it stopped and stabilized. Now I know why sailors drink so much. Not for the pure sense of getting wasted – it stops the boat from fucking rocking! You learn something new everyday.
Towards the evening we got the perfect glimpse of the skyline. We were sailing towards it for the past 6 fucking hours, so there had to be a pay off somewhere down the line. At this point in time most of the people on the boat were walking around like glazed donuts. Everybody had that spark behind their eyes – that twisted, mischievous look. Like “should I be having this much fun” or is there a law against this type of shit?
Then I found a bottle of tequila below the deck.
And nobody was drinking it except me. Was it some bad tequila? (They informed me later it was five years old. Poor fool, they said.)
Blur. A lot of noise. Was it music? Is that guy pissing off the back of the boat? “Put your shirt back on, man.” I steal the idea from everybody else, and hold on to something, while swaying back and forth, gazing at the fireworks show. I must have had that wide open, jaw dropped thing going on. The gaga moment.
All of a sudden I felt the incredible urge to get back into the boat. Lake Michigan was surprisingly cold – and as soon as my hangover led me to unreasonable quests for the cure, that reason snapped back into place and yelled “Get out of the frigid water asshole.”
The next mornings’ offer plenty of time, as you sit in Monroe Harbor, to reflect on the misfortunes of the night before. Well we sailed. What ensued in between was surly meant to stir something vacant in the soul. Once you get past the screaming about halyards and Gennys – then the sail is set.
America. Land of the Free. And Home of the weird.
PS.
Fucking Popeye was full of shit, man. Spinach doesn’t make you a sailor. It turns your shit green.
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