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Contraband was the driver of recreational boat development. I was just sitting at the border this morning waiting for my lovely Maria to pass a bottle of homemade tequila through the fence when I started reflecting……
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The Life and Times of Chili ******
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Perhaps we need to go back to the beginning. Every story has a beginning…….
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Would enjoy hearing that story CG.
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“If the reader prefers, this book may be regarded as fiction. But there is always the chance that such a book of fiction may throw some light on what has been written as fact.”
Ernest Hemingway
A Moveable Feast
Ernest Hemingway
A Moveable Feast
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“I always said Chili, if you thought about anything other than women and boats you would be a remarkable man.”
Jack Wilder. 1981
Chief of Field Operations, Latin America
Central Intelligence Agency
Jack Wilder. 1981
Chief of Field Operations, Latin America
Central Intelligence Agency
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Thank you.....
And now it only remains for me to offer apologies for my blunt way of writing. I can but say in excuse of it that I am more accustomed to handling a rifle than a pen, and cannot make any pretense to the grand literary flights and flourishes which I see in novels -
Alan Quartermain
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It was a warm July night when I cranked the ignition on my 18-foot Supra ski boat. The Ford 351 began to rotate its crankshaft and eight connecting rods, then quickly started with a low rumble. I sat down at the helm and put in my favorite CD, Bob Segar’s “Live Bullet”.
“Sometimes at night, I see their faces
I feel the traces they left on my soul.
Those are the memories that made me a wealthy soul”
I switched the bilge blower off, and gently eased the throttle back…….the smell of marine exhaust filling my senses. Pushing the throttle forward to the neutral position the boat continued to glide backward. Bob Segar’s voice came through the speakers, as the sun was quickly settling low towards Cass Lake. Turning the helm, the bow of the boat gently swung in the direction of Apple Island. I gently pushed the throttle forward, planning a slow cruise over to the island. It had been a good work week out on Lake St Clair and to reward myself I stopped at Romano’s on Orchard Lake Road and picked up a full rack of ribs and some home fries. Other than tubing down the Guadalupe River, I could not think of a more relaxing evening than floating on Orchard Lake as the stars begin to shine, and eating BBQ Ribs. At least at the moment, my hunger drove my thoughts.
I quietly put the anchor down on the North side of Apple Island and watched the endless line of headlights travel up and down Commerce Road. As the anchor set, I glanced over to the bay where the young teenage girl was murdered and said a little prayer. Not out loud, only to myself. I am not sure if a prayer from a guy with my morals is beneficial…. but it was heartfelt nevertheless.
There was no wind that humid night and with the darkness the water surface became an inky black, it seemed clouds were beginning to move in. I turned the key off and as the low muffled rumble of the engine ceased, I decided to break open an ice-cold Strohs, from the brewery on Gratiot. While looking for a koozie in the glove box I come across a silver bottle opener. It didn't seem really very important, I had plenty of bottle openers on the boat. Then I noticed it was engraved “Island Mistress”.
I picked up the bottle opener, and as I held it in my left hand against a scar on my palm, I felt a searing pain in my hand. I studied the bottle opener for several seconds, moving it around in my palm, then laughed to myself. I put the cold Strohs bottle against the scar for comfort, slowly turned around, and sat down on the rear bench seat. Looking around to my right at the island, I took a long cool drink from the bottle looking downward at the scar. Closing my eyes and remembering the blazing heat of the Caribbean and the taste of saltwater on my lips as if it was yesterday.
“Sometimes at night, I see their faces
I feel the traces they left on my soul.
Those are the memories that made me a wealthy soul”
I switched the bilge blower off, and gently eased the throttle back…….the smell of marine exhaust filling my senses. Pushing the throttle forward to the neutral position the boat continued to glide backward. Bob Segar’s voice came through the speakers, as the sun was quickly settling low towards Cass Lake. Turning the helm, the bow of the boat gently swung in the direction of Apple Island. I gently pushed the throttle forward, planning a slow cruise over to the island. It had been a good work week out on Lake St Clair and to reward myself I stopped at Romano’s on Orchard Lake Road and picked up a full rack of ribs and some home fries. Other than tubing down the Guadalupe River, I could not think of a more relaxing evening than floating on Orchard Lake as the stars begin to shine, and eating BBQ Ribs. At least at the moment, my hunger drove my thoughts.
I quietly put the anchor down on the North side of Apple Island and watched the endless line of headlights travel up and down Commerce Road. As the anchor set, I glanced over to the bay where the young teenage girl was murdered and said a little prayer. Not out loud, only to myself. I am not sure if a prayer from a guy with my morals is beneficial…. but it was heartfelt nevertheless.
There was no wind that humid night and with the darkness the water surface became an inky black, it seemed clouds were beginning to move in. I turned the key off and as the low muffled rumble of the engine ceased, I decided to break open an ice-cold Strohs, from the brewery on Gratiot. While looking for a koozie in the glove box I come across a silver bottle opener. It didn't seem really very important, I had plenty of bottle openers on the boat. Then I noticed it was engraved “Island Mistress”.
I picked up the bottle opener, and as I held it in my left hand against a scar on my palm, I felt a searing pain in my hand. I studied the bottle opener for several seconds, moving it around in my palm, then laughed to myself. I put the cold Strohs bottle against the scar for comfort, slowly turned around, and sat down on the rear bench seat. Looking around to my right at the island, I took a long cool drink from the bottle looking downward at the scar. Closing my eyes and remembering the blazing heat of the Caribbean and the taste of saltwater on my lips as if it was yesterday.
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I saw myself back in Costa Rica. I had just set down for an early lunch with a beautiful young lady I had met the month before in Los Suenos. Her name was Sofia, and today she was wearing a lovely tropical yellow floral dress, with her jet-black hair neatly tied in a long ponytail. She was an account executive at a local resort, and I had been looking forward to this moment for the past week. Perhaps not counting the hours, but maybe the minutes until this moment. Her English was very good, and my Spanish was very poor, but they say the spoken word is only 10 percent of communication. I was more than happy to work with the remaining 90 percent, or even 40 percent.
As the waitress left, I turned to look into Sofia’s soft brown eyes when my phone rang…..I did not want to take my eyes off of her, but as the old saying goes, it could be an emergency. Not many people knew I was in Costa Rica. I stole a quick glance and saw it was Chili, I had to answer. Hola, I said, Chili replied, “Amigo, sorry to interrupt the festivities, but I have a situation I need a little assistance with. Now to be candid, there is a 50 percent chance you will earn $50,000, a 30 percent chance you will be jailed in South America, and a 20 percent chance you will be shot dead with a rusty bullet that will be subsequently billed to your estate. Although perhaps I may have the odds transposed.” As the waitress brought our drinks, I quietly asked Chili if I could take some time to think about his offer. “You already did hombre, I am waiting out back in the Jeep, see you in 2 minutes. Oh, and kindly tell Sofia I said hello, she always has the sweetest perfume, don’t you agree?”
What could I do, 50,000 dollars??…….I politely excused myself and offered to pay for her lunch. She smiled and said, “Miguel, you as a Norte Americano would do well to remember my words. Chili is driven by two of the oldest addictions known to man, the lust for gold and the lust for adventure. The same glittering element that drove Biblical figures to distraction and damnation lures him into trouble more often than not.” She got up from the table, kissed me on the cheek, and walked away towards the front of the restaurant. Chili is right I thought, her perfume is sweet. I took a quick drink and headed towards the back door. Perhaps I should have listened to Sofia………….I never forgot the words she spoke on that beautiful tropical day. To be continued.............
As the waitress left, I turned to look into Sofia’s soft brown eyes when my phone rang…..I did not want to take my eyes off of her, but as the old saying goes, it could be an emergency. Not many people knew I was in Costa Rica. I stole a quick glance and saw it was Chili, I had to answer. Hola, I said, Chili replied, “Amigo, sorry to interrupt the festivities, but I have a situation I need a little assistance with. Now to be candid, there is a 50 percent chance you will earn $50,000, a 30 percent chance you will be jailed in South America, and a 20 percent chance you will be shot dead with a rusty bullet that will be subsequently billed to your estate. Although perhaps I may have the odds transposed.” As the waitress brought our drinks, I quietly asked Chili if I could take some time to think about his offer. “You already did hombre, I am waiting out back in the Jeep, see you in 2 minutes. Oh, and kindly tell Sofia I said hello, she always has the sweetest perfume, don’t you agree?”
What could I do, 50,000 dollars??…….I politely excused myself and offered to pay for her lunch. She smiled and said, “Miguel, you as a Norte Americano would do well to remember my words. Chili is driven by two of the oldest addictions known to man, the lust for gold and the lust for adventure. The same glittering element that drove Biblical figures to distraction and damnation lures him into trouble more often than not.” She got up from the table, kissed me on the cheek, and walked away towards the front of the restaurant. Chili is right I thought, her perfume is sweet. I took a quick drink and headed towards the back door. Perhaps I should have listened to Sofia………….I never forgot the words she spoke on that beautiful tropical day. To be continued.............
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Having very much enjoyed that excellent read...the only thing I can say is I bet Carlos Hathcock would have trouble holding his own against you with a rifle.
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Carlos "White Feather" Hathcock was a real hero. Alan Quartermain was a fictional White Hunter from the 1800s. I am just a Vagabond Boat Mechanic.Having very much enjoyed that excellent read...the only thing I can say is I bet Carlos Hathcock would have trouble holding his own against you with a rifle.
Cheers!
Chili
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Yes...Mr Hathcock was a true hero for sure.
And I too...am just a lowly 'Charlie Daniels of the torque wrench' with GREAT skills at tearing things apart.
It's putting them back together correctly that sometimes presents a problem.
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Where you at CG ???
You came back and teased us with that 'partial' masterpiece of a 'possible' autobiography then you just flat disappeared.
FWIW...I'll be headed up to St. Claire Shores area in the near future to look up and conduct some business with that now...X member that belonged on here. Thanks for the info.
If'n you're around that area...maybe we could get together and grab a beer.
You came back and teased us with that 'partial' masterpiece of a 'possible' autobiography then you just flat disappeared.
FWIW...I'll be headed up to St. Claire Shores area in the near future to look up and conduct some business with that now...X member that belonged on here. Thanks for the info.
If'n you're around that area...maybe we could get together and grab a beer.
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NOTICE TO ALL:
X member 'even keel' was banned for intimidating and threatening violence to members as well multiple other site infractions.
Since his ban...He has relogged onto this and other sites under various other names/avatars and has made further threats. His new names/avatars on sites have all been spammed almost immediately and further ones will be spammed also.
He has also unsuccessfully attempted to hack into various members accounts including saugtom's and mine as well. Kinda puzzled cause until today when he tried to hack my acct. I have not had any confilct or issue with this douchebag.
So be forewarned...if any of you get a 'request to change your password' via email from lakesstclair.net that you did not request...its most likely this little boy playing more games from his mommies basement.
If you get these emails...please report them to Administration or a moderator.
X member 'even keel' was banned for intimidating and threatening violence to members as well multiple other site infractions.
Since his ban...He has relogged onto this and other sites under various other names/avatars and has made further threats. His new names/avatars on sites have all been spammed almost immediately and further ones will be spammed also.
He has also unsuccessfully attempted to hack into various members accounts including saugtom's and mine as well. Kinda puzzled cause until today when he tried to hack my acct. I have not had any confilct or issue with this douchebag.
So be forewarned...if any of you get a 'request to change your password' via email from lakesstclair.net that you did not request...its most likely this little boy playing more games from his mommies basement.
If you get these emails...please report them to Administration or a moderator.
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I go on a contract and come back and miss all the fun. X member?
The life and times of Chili ****** is up to 400 pages now. Like Hemingway said, “write drunk and edit sober.”
Have not had much time to edit.
Truth be told I haven’t been up to St Clair Shores before they started putting ethanol in boat gas. But as the old timers know, lake St Clair has a sweet spot in old Chili’s heart.
Your offer to grab a beer is very much appreciated!
Cheers!
Chili
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Sounds like you may need to hire an editor that doesn't drink.
Far as the X member goes...had an disgruntled older X member that rejoined LSCN about 4-5 mos. ago with the sole purpose of doing his best to ruin this site. Wont repeat the name he went by here on the site...we'll just call him Roy.
Roy liked playing a keyboard cowboy and liked cussing, antagonizing, intimidating even threatening other members. He also liked to send password change request of other members accts trying to hack into their accts.
Roy learned the hard way that that kind of child's play will NOT be tolerated on this site. Nor does this fine site nor the fine members that belong here need people like him here.
Hope your 'contract' went well and looking forward to reading many more of your interesting threads/posts
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The Hazards of Destiny
It always starts with a storm, and I should have seen this one coming. Storms come up quickly in this part of the world. Tzahala and I had spent the last four months in the warm, crystal clear tropical waters of Indonesia salvaging brass shell casings from a sunken WWII Japanese ship. While I stood lookout aboard my 60-foot fishing boat named "Madalana," Tzahala dove below in the clear warm sea and brought the brass shell casings up with the assistance of some pretty high-tech airbags. It was a good arrangement and even better at night when we found happiness in each other's arms on the deck of Madalana, sharing cool coconut drinks and warm milk caresses. I had acquired" Madalana" on Killtong Island in the Philippines for the reasonable price of $20,000 and a promise never to return.
Tzahala's father had discovered the sunken wreck many years before, and apparently, the location was not known to anyone else since. While back home in Tel Aviv,prior to his death, he shared the story and location with his daughter Tzahala. It was over dinner in Singapore 6 months earlier; while staying together at The Raffles Hotel, she shared the story and details with me. I suggested to her we could make a small fortune salvaging the brass shell casings and selling them to a Chinese businessman I was acquainted with. I told her I had a friend that used to dive in the navy as a SEAL, and I would offer to Captain the boat and make all the arrangements. For the location of the wreck, I would wire her half of the profits. Tzahala smiled, thought carefully for a moment, and kindly whispered in my ear she would dive for the brass shells herself, not that she didn't trust me, of course. She offered me a 30 percent cut. Forty percent, I replied. She agreed, and the deal was sealed with a kiss. Now I just needed to find a boat and get us into a country that was not issuing tourist visas for cruising yachts. Tzahala's Israeli passport would be problematic also.
Indonesia has a chain of Islands numbering more than 13,000, stretching 3,000 miles from one end to the other. A huge battleground during WWII and before. The islands are littered with wrecks. There are hundreds, perhaps thousands, of undiscovered wrecks waiting for a treasure hunter. The problem, of course, is the legal and political considerations one must overcome, or in my case, avoid. One other area of concern on my mind was the remoteness of the wreck location. Fierce headhunters once roamed the islands near the wreck. Headhunting has been outlawed, but you hear tales occasionally about a head being taken, as they were during WWII and the Indonesian Confrontation in1964.
I had secured a forty-foot barge that was barely floating to Madalana with two 1-inch cables to increase our load capacity. The combination of barge and boat was unsteady and hardly seaworthy when stacked with empty shell casings encrusted with coral but well worth the risk when we pulled into Balikpapan harbor under the cover of darkness. After a few hours of unloading onto a Chinese fishing trawler and after receiving several bags of US Dollars in return, we would depart before first daylight. We had made ten trips from the wreck to Balikpapan during the past few months. Finding a place to hide the cash was becoming more of a problem than bringing up the brass shells. Reminding me of my days crossing the Gulf Stream from the Bimini to Florida at 80 Mph.
It always starts with a storm, and I should have seen this one coming. Storms come up quickly in this part of the world. Tzahala and I had spent the last four months in the warm, crystal clear tropical waters of Indonesia salvaging brass shell casings from a sunken WWII Japanese ship. While I stood lookout aboard my 60-foot fishing boat named "Madalana," Tzahala dove below in the clear warm sea and brought the brass shell casings up with the assistance of some pretty high-tech airbags. It was a good arrangement and even better at night when we found happiness in each other's arms on the deck of Madalana, sharing cool coconut drinks and warm milk caresses. I had acquired" Madalana" on Killtong Island in the Philippines for the reasonable price of $20,000 and a promise never to return.
Tzahala's father had discovered the sunken wreck many years before, and apparently, the location was not known to anyone else since. While back home in Tel Aviv,prior to his death, he shared the story and location with his daughter Tzahala. It was over dinner in Singapore 6 months earlier; while staying together at The Raffles Hotel, she shared the story and details with me. I suggested to her we could make a small fortune salvaging the brass shell casings and selling them to a Chinese businessman I was acquainted with. I told her I had a friend that used to dive in the navy as a SEAL, and I would offer to Captain the boat and make all the arrangements. For the location of the wreck, I would wire her half of the profits. Tzahala smiled, thought carefully for a moment, and kindly whispered in my ear she would dive for the brass shells herself, not that she didn't trust me, of course. She offered me a 30 percent cut. Forty percent, I replied. She agreed, and the deal was sealed with a kiss. Now I just needed to find a boat and get us into a country that was not issuing tourist visas for cruising yachts. Tzahala's Israeli passport would be problematic also.
Indonesia has a chain of Islands numbering more than 13,000, stretching 3,000 miles from one end to the other. A huge battleground during WWII and before. The islands are littered with wrecks. There are hundreds, perhaps thousands, of undiscovered wrecks waiting for a treasure hunter. The problem, of course, is the legal and political considerations one must overcome, or in my case, avoid. One other area of concern on my mind was the remoteness of the wreck location. Fierce headhunters once roamed the islands near the wreck. Headhunting has been outlawed, but you hear tales occasionally about a head being taken, as they were during WWII and the Indonesian Confrontation in1964.
I had secured a forty-foot barge that was barely floating to Madalana with two 1-inch cables to increase our load capacity. The combination of barge and boat was unsteady and hardly seaworthy when stacked with empty shell casings encrusted with coral but well worth the risk when we pulled into Balikpapan harbor under the cover of darkness. After a few hours of unloading onto a Chinese fishing trawler and after receiving several bags of US Dollars in return, we would depart before first daylight. We had made ten trips from the wreck to Balikpapan during the past few months. Finding a place to hide the cash was becoming more of a problem than bringing up the brass shells. Reminding me of my days crossing the Gulf Stream from the Bimini to Florida at 80 Mph.
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This was to be our last trip to Balikpapan; the fishing trawler owned by my friend from Shanghai was leaving in two days, fully loaded with our brass and perhaps a fish or two. As the wind began to rise and storm clouds threatened, I saw Tzahala lashing down the shells on the rear of the barge, her wet curly brown hair pulled back against her smooth tanned shoulders, smiling at me with her beautiful full lips. Love and happiness radiated from her face. It had been a great adventure that made us both wealthy. I turned back to the helm and pushed the start button on the diesel, we had to get underway and get away quickly to avoid the weather. The load would not stay secure in much of a swell....click, push again, click. A sound I know too well but did not appreciate. A sticking starter solenoid. We were going nowhere at the moment unless I got the Korean-made diesel started. I jumped down from the helm and lifted the engine room hatch. The first thing I saw was the water sloshing around the bilge and the engine mounts....Madalena was on her last voyage, and I was hoping it was not to the bottom of the South China Sea.
Then I heard it. There are sounds you hear that you will never forget. Sounds you hear in your nightmares for years to come, sounds you pray you will never hear again. It was Zavala's scream that poured ice water through my veins, I pulled myself as fast as I could out of the engine room and ran back to Madalena's transom, and it was there I saw a sight that burned into my memory forever.
In these waters there lives one of the world's most poisonous snakes, a snake called the Belchers Sea snake, One venomous bite has enough neurotoxin venom to kill 10,000 people, and you will be dead in less than a couple of minutes. Most victims are native fishermen pulling up nets with the snake trapped inside. With only a few minutes to live, a local native told me a lightning-quick machete swing cutting off the bitten arm is the best lifesaver.
As I looked over the transom and to the rear of the barge, I saw Tzahala swinging her left arm wildly, and I immediately recognized the snake attached to her wrist, a Belchers Sea Snake. It must have been in one of the empty brass shell casings brought up from the sea. She looked at me with desperate dark eyes, and I saw her mouth the words "it's OK" as she stumbled backward off the barge and fell into the warm blue tropical sea....... I dove into the clear water, hoping that she would still be alive by the time I reached her.
As my lungs burned and I swam with all my might towards Tzahal, my memory flashed back to that warm Michigan summer day two years earlier.
Then I heard it. There are sounds you hear that you will never forget. Sounds you hear in your nightmares for years to come, sounds you pray you will never hear again. It was Zavala's scream that poured ice water through my veins, I pulled myself as fast as I could out of the engine room and ran back to Madalena's transom, and it was there I saw a sight that burned into my memory forever.
In these waters there lives one of the world's most poisonous snakes, a snake called the Belchers Sea snake, One venomous bite has enough neurotoxin venom to kill 10,000 people, and you will be dead in less than a couple of minutes. Most victims are native fishermen pulling up nets with the snake trapped inside. With only a few minutes to live, a local native told me a lightning-quick machete swing cutting off the bitten arm is the best lifesaver.
As I looked over the transom and to the rear of the barge, I saw Tzahala swinging her left arm wildly, and I immediately recognized the snake attached to her wrist, a Belchers Sea Snake. It must have been in one of the empty brass shell casings brought up from the sea. She looked at me with desperate dark eyes, and I saw her mouth the words "it's OK" as she stumbled backward off the barge and fell into the warm blue tropical sea....... I dove into the clear water, hoping that she would still be alive by the time I reached her.
As my lungs burned and I swam with all my might towards Tzahal, my memory flashed back to that warm Michigan summer day two years earlier.
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It was a typical 4th of July weekend on Lake St Clair, with a brilliant blue sky and 80 degrees. F16 Jets flying low and slow overhead from Selfridge Air Base. I had anchored off Gull island, on the West side, enjoying the view and a little warmer water. Looking at The old channel lights off to my right while I opened my bucket of KFC chicken, I was finally able to take a deep breath and relax. When it comes to chicken, I am a leg man. I had spent the last week feverishly working on clients' boats, the 4th of July on Lake St Clair is Christmas weekend to boaters, and no boat owner wanted to be stuck at the dock. I grew up spending weekends during the '70s on Lake St Clair as a kid, my family owning a 19' Century with a Grey Marine inboard engine. There are some smells you never forget, and the smell of fuel-rich boat exhaust, the Clinton River, and KFC always filled the air on Saturday morning. Boating is in my blood by genetics, my father was the owner and captain of the "El Diablo" a 55' sportfishing boat out of Key West powered by legendary Detroit Diesels. Marlin was his specialty.......along with outrunning Cuban gunboats until a 20MM shell caught up with him on the flybridge in 61. Perhaps a story for another time.
The skies were clear as my 23'Slickcraft gently rocked in the waves, and I settled in for a nap. I dreamed of a delicate yellow butterfly fluttering its wings over a deep crimson poppy in Laos...... resulting in a terrible hurricane in the Caribbean 10 months later.
The storm came up fairly fast, or perhaps I had nodded off for too long. I awoke to the howling burst of wind and a cold slap of wind on my face. The sky had grown black with the thunder clouds, and through the rain, I could barely see the cluster of boats next to me or even the Island shore, for that matter. It was as if I was in my own private world of wind and stinging rain, but I knew I had neighbors. Close neighbors. I saw the hull of a boat next to me swinging through the rain towards me; no, I was blowing towards her......my Danforth anchor had given way.
A quick jump into the coolness of the lake, half-blinded by the wind and rain, pushed my stern away from her. It was the jump that set my fate towards falling in love with Tzahala. I felt the sting of the three-bladed prop cut into my right thigh, and at the same moment, a crack of lightning hit the island. I had forgotten that I raised my drive prior, and now I had two problems. A bleeding left leg and a loose boat. As I got the anchor more securely attached to the sandy lake bottom, the quick squall continued on to the East. Both boats were still close, and as I climbed aboard my boat, I saw the blood flowing down my leg, leaving a bright red trail along the white fiberglass boat hull. I heard her beautiful Israeli accent asking if I needed help. I turned to look at her, and I needed help.......
She was a guest aboard a car dealer's yacht named "Dealers Choice," the boat I almost drifted into. And lucky for me, a nurse. Her name was Tzahala, a name tattooed at that moment with indelible ink into my mind. She worked for an Israeli charity organization and traveled the world with a group of doctors, helping the sick and injured. A noble cause, a beautiful woman with seductive dark eyes and a tan only sailors get after being on soundings for six months. She asked my name, and I replied, "Chili.....Chili ******" I told her I worked for a gourmet food magazine as a writer, traveling the world collecting recipes. She carefully applied a sterile white bandage to my leg, pressed the fabric softly, and apologized for not having a cherry lollipop to give me since I was such a good patient. I thanked her, and as both boats were pulled together, she got up to leave. I promised to send her my favorite recipes for matzah ball soup as a sign of heartfelt gratitude. She stepped onto the other boat and held my hand for a moment too long......as Bob, the owner, said to Tzahala," I see you made friends with Chili; he is my boat mechanic from Miami" Tzahala looked at me with a sad frown..."Boat mechanic???"
Well, it was time to get back to my well-deserved holiday siesta, but I soon awoke to a noise I know too well, the money-making sound of a boat starter relay click......and no engagement. Click again, click again.......I raised my head over the side of my boat to see "Dealers Choice," with the owner at the helm trying to start one of the engines and Tzahala curiously looking in my direction. What could I do......It was my lucky day......
The skies were clear as my 23'Slickcraft gently rocked in the waves, and I settled in for a nap. I dreamed of a delicate yellow butterfly fluttering its wings over a deep crimson poppy in Laos...... resulting in a terrible hurricane in the Caribbean 10 months later.
The storm came up fairly fast, or perhaps I had nodded off for too long. I awoke to the howling burst of wind and a cold slap of wind on my face. The sky had grown black with the thunder clouds, and through the rain, I could barely see the cluster of boats next to me or even the Island shore, for that matter. It was as if I was in my own private world of wind and stinging rain, but I knew I had neighbors. Close neighbors. I saw the hull of a boat next to me swinging through the rain towards me; no, I was blowing towards her......my Danforth anchor had given way.
A quick jump into the coolness of the lake, half-blinded by the wind and rain, pushed my stern away from her. It was the jump that set my fate towards falling in love with Tzahala. I felt the sting of the three-bladed prop cut into my right thigh, and at the same moment, a crack of lightning hit the island. I had forgotten that I raised my drive prior, and now I had two problems. A bleeding left leg and a loose boat. As I got the anchor more securely attached to the sandy lake bottom, the quick squall continued on to the East. Both boats were still close, and as I climbed aboard my boat, I saw the blood flowing down my leg, leaving a bright red trail along the white fiberglass boat hull. I heard her beautiful Israeli accent asking if I needed help. I turned to look at her, and I needed help.......
She was a guest aboard a car dealer's yacht named "Dealers Choice," the boat I almost drifted into. And lucky for me, a nurse. Her name was Tzahala, a name tattooed at that moment with indelible ink into my mind. She worked for an Israeli charity organization and traveled the world with a group of doctors, helping the sick and injured. A noble cause, a beautiful woman with seductive dark eyes and a tan only sailors get after being on soundings for six months. She asked my name, and I replied, "Chili.....Chili ******" I told her I worked for a gourmet food magazine as a writer, traveling the world collecting recipes. She carefully applied a sterile white bandage to my leg, pressed the fabric softly, and apologized for not having a cherry lollipop to give me since I was such a good patient. I thanked her, and as both boats were pulled together, she got up to leave. I promised to send her my favorite recipes for matzah ball soup as a sign of heartfelt gratitude. She stepped onto the other boat and held my hand for a moment too long......as Bob, the owner, said to Tzahala," I see you made friends with Chili; he is my boat mechanic from Miami" Tzahala looked at me with a sad frown..."Boat mechanic???"
Well, it was time to get back to my well-deserved holiday siesta, but I soon awoke to a noise I know too well, the money-making sound of a boat starter relay click......and no engagement. Click again, click again.......I raised my head over the side of my boat to see "Dealers Choice," with the owner at the helm trying to start one of the engines and Tzahala curiously looking in my direction. What could I do......It was my lucky day......
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