By Morgan Stinemetz
“You may be right. I didn’t see any people making eye contact with me after my fifth trip to the head, so you could have a point. And after that fifth trip I noticed that the other first class passengers were going back to coach to use the head. At least I think that’s what they were doing. There was a curtain between us and the rest of the people on the airplane, so I couldn’t get a good view. I know we got good food, free drinks and beer and better seating. Plus we were in the air before the people in the back,” said the sailor with serious dreams of living big on the Left Coast. “Overall, how do you like the Mark Hopkins?” “It’s very nice,” Bubba stated. “ The view from the bar upstairs, the Top of the Mark, is fantastic. You can see the Golden Gate Bridge from there, plus you can also see lots of downtown. The only thing I can fault them for is that they have all West Coast beers. I can’t get Genesee or Rolling Rock out here. When you think about it, all the beers I grew up drinking—Schlitz, Gunther, National Bohemian, Falstaff, Narragansett, Blatz and others I can no longer recall—are not made anymore.” “There’s probably a reason for that, Bubba,” I declared. “What’s that?” “They weren’t very good in the first place,” I said. “But they were cheap,” Bubba replied. “That makes my point, Skipper,” I stated with finality. “How about the sailing? Are you seeing any of it?”
News & Views for Southern Sailors
“Some,” replied Bubba. “The boats are visible practicing out on the bay. I have binoculars, so I can see them pretty well. They are fast! They are catamarans, though, so they also tip over. I have seen a few capsizes. And I notice that the crews on the cats I saw were wearing crash helmets. An accidental gybe on a cat like these out here would be disastrous. The boats are hugely expensive.” “Bubba, disregarding the America’s Cup sailing for a moment, you might be out on a limb out there,” I stated. “Why?” “The press conglomerate that gave you the assignment is one I have never heard of. What’s the name again?” I asked. “The Pakistani-Russian-Iranian-Chinese-Kenyan-Sudanian international press conglomerate, like I told you earlier in this conversation,” Bubba snapped. “Bubba, you may be in for some real adventures,” I said. “I wish you the best. Do you know what an acronym is?” “Never heard of the word,” Bubba said. “You will,” I said with both agitation and some sorrow. “You will. Bye.” Then I hung up the phone and swallowed, straight, the two ounces of Scotch I had poured into a glass when I started getting the picture that Bubba had not put into sharp focus yet.
SOUTHWINDS August 2013
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