I grew up a few miles
from a little mining
town in northern
New York State, and
on Friday evenings,
shortly after the paychecks came out,
our family went to town to do our
grocery shopping. We’d park our Chevy
on Main Street to, as mom used to say,
“watch the people go by.”
Don’t laugh—this custom
was the highlight of our
week. Folks came from
miles around to participate
and to spend hours talking
and waving to each other
while they either promenaded
down Main Street
or observed the promenade
from their cars.
Life occasionally offers
us whiffs of continuity, and
just a few weeks ago I got
one. In the marina my boat
Betty Jane calls home, an
annual event transpired
that’s wonderfully similar
to those fondly
remembered Friday
evenings of my youth,
although this year it was
huge by comparison.
And I do mean huge. While my wife
BJ and I sat in Betty’s cockpit eating
shrimp rolls (whipped up by my friend
Lee on the Nordic Tug 37 next door), I
swear, every one of the 10,000 souls who
reportedly attended this year’s Bay
Point Invitational Billfish Tournament
in Panama City, Florida, participated in
the wild-and-crazy “Festival On The
Docks,” eating, drinking, gabbing, and
ogling both boats and boaters while
strolling by.
“It’s a zoo,” hooted Russell (Lee’s
husband) at one point during the melee,
grabbing a bowrail with both hands like
a caged monkey and holding on for dear
life. “Only we’re the animals!”
“Hey mister,” a tank-topped, flipflopped
tourist fired back, pointing at
the salty Nordic. “Is your boat a real
tug or is she a replica?”
I missed Russell’s response because a
highly distracting, statuesque female
swept past, sporting Atlanta couture,
Real Housewives make-up, and a pair of
black stiletto heels. With amazing
assurance, she stepped aboard a
sparkling Viking 68 across the way, and
disappeared inside.
“I gotta hand it to her,” observed my
wife. “She made climbin’ aboard in
those Jimmy Choos look easy.”
“I’ll say,” agreed my buddy Tom. He
was leaning against
Betty’s cabin side,
enjoying a brief respite
from the cockpit of his
Ocean 50, which was
under siege by a lower
Alabama paparazzo
who’d somehow become
convinced Tom was a
movie star.
“George Clooney?” I
asked, helpfully.
“Yeah, right!” he
replied.
BJ and I sacked out at
11 o’clock, although the
festival continued well
beyond that. And
fortunately, the sound of
Betty’s air-conditioning
system and her drawn
curtains nicely dulled
the attendant roar. So in the ensuing
calm, I was able to quietly reflect.
The world’s sure changed a lot since I
was a kid, but it’s stayed the same, too.
Some folks still love to walk and talk.
And plenty of others still love to sit
around and watch ’em go by.
Grand, ain’t it?
This article originally appeared in the October 2009 issue of Power & Motoryacht magazine.
