A Paddle Loss, A Beautiful Beach, A Suspect Meal

Fort Lauderdale – 5 kilometres walked, 13 metres swam, 2 miles paddled

I began my first day of bachelorhood with a paddleboard ride. I unlashed my board from the lifelines on the boat, dropped it in the water, then turned to grab the paddle we normally keep on deck. Gone. I know it did not fall in the water as we keep it well secured on deck, and we haven’t been in any rough waters since I last used it. I called Ana and she didn’t remember seeing it when we were cleaning the boat the day before so we’re not sure exactly when it went missing. It either fell overboard somehow or somebody stole it. It was a good reminder to keep anything we don’t want to lose on the boat locked securely.

 

Fortunately, I was able to use one of the spare oars I had picked up for the dinghy back in Annapolis and it worked fine – just had to do more sitting than standing, but nonetheless had a great arm workout paddling against the tidal current on the way back.

 

I spent the rest of the morning on boat jobs – identifying the cause of a pesky electrical issue with our water pump, searching for a spare starter, stowing away all of the winter clothes and gear we no longer need, greasing throttle cables, and climbing in the cockpit locker to figure out the model number of our tachometer for an LED replacement (and in the process finding a spare boat hook I didn’t know about – that makes four so we should be good for a while).

 

The remainder of yesterday’s guac and tortilla chips made a fine lunch and after that I walked to the beach and found it packed with people on a picture perfect Fort Lauderdale afternoon - 27 degrees, slight breeze, just enough waves to play around in, and few clouds. I walked the sometimes mushy, sometimes firm beach until my calves were screaming for mercy, then dropped my stuff and went for a swim in the bathtub water. I floated on my back looking up at the sky. It didn’t matter what day it was. It didn’t matter what time it was. I was doing exactly what I’ve imagined I’d be doing on a fine day in the south. And I was happy for it. And to make it even better I received a message from Kate and Ben saying they had successfully completed the Gulf Stream crossing and they were safely in Bimini, Bahamas!

 

Hiding in a neglected pocket of my backpack was an ancient Cohiba cigar, pronounced dead  back in Canada due to poor moisture levels and frigid temperatures. Well, I’ll be damned if the ideal tropical weather hadn’t reincarnated that crumbling dog turd and produced a fine smoke. And I smoked it slowly and purposefully as I watched the world happening around me. A lovely couple down the beach to my left, very much in love, holding hands from their chairs, leaning over once in a while to kiss, and laughing often. Another couple down to my right, lying on towels, her leg wrapped over his body, staring into each others’ eyes. Bikini’d hotties, some young, some older, mostly women, but some men too, strutting up and down the beach with triangular fabric patches hiding none of their butts, letting the world have a look and radiating that sensitive rearskin with generous sunshine. Moms and dads and kids played further down the beach, digging holes, forming castles of sand, channeling water through moats, throwing flying discs, body surfing on waves, laughing, running. I noticed no motorized vehicles in the water; just people.

 

The body was starting to ache from inactivity so I gathered my things, had a fresh water rinse at a water station, then walked the beach until the string of hotels and restaurants and condos disappeared and palm trees began. I moved onto the street and walked back, finding a Starbucks where I tested the wifi, got myself a decaffeinated Americano for more than the price of a beer, and seated myself overlooking the ocean, then wrote and posted. Hours passed quickly and I did not leave until the shadows were touching the sea.

Back at the anchorage dinghy dock, near the garbage can, I found a pile of nautical cast-offs, including a broken but usable paddleboard paddle and a spare prop that fits our dinghy engine. I scavenged those items and slinked back to the boat like a guilty hyena with a rabbit carcass in its mouth.

 

Hunger was gnawing at my guts so I scoured the fridge in desperate bachelor mode and found two plastic containers of nourishment – one was yesterday’s paella and the other was older and had potatoes, green beans, and a chunk of strangely white pork. I, as a waster of no good things, took the older one and dumped it into the frying pan, but as it heated it gave off a suspect aroma. It wasn’t quite bad but it was not good either. I thought back to the origins of this meal. It wasn’t with Tony. It wasn’t the day before that, or the day before that. I envisioned all our previous dinner and this one did not register. It was when I pulled up the blog to try and Sherlock the date of the food remains that I felt a ghostly apparition of Ana sitting on my shoulder. It leaned into my ear and whispered, “Just throw it out. I know it will hurt to waste food, but just trust me on this one.”

I tossed it in the garbage, heated up the sweet fresh paella and enjoyed a fabulous dinner, then played uke for a couple hours, watched a bit of tv, and surrendered to the Sandman.