July 23The first thing I did – well, after we motored for four hours under flimsy grey skies, got the boat through the narrow catawampus of cans, and moored, got the dinghy launched (and swiftly winched back up because the plug wasn’t in) and hatches opened, and devoured some Chinese chicken salad and rosé – was to sleep. I dragged my sweatshirt and tired ass to the bow, laid on a bundled spinnaker with my sweatshirt wrapped over my shoulders and eyes, and slept, despite the cold breeze that lifted and fell erratically through the bay. I slept soundly until I heard the call: “All boats in!” from the boy’s camp ashore. “All boats in!” came the reply from port, “All boats in!” from starboard, and then repeated in the strong tenors of young men throughout the cove. Lidos overflowing with youngsters paddled and sailed by in the waning breeze of the late day; I eased upright, rested, and got ready for the evening’s revelries.
Below deck the Makeup Wars had begun. The intermittent splash of showers, the drone of the blow drier, the dance of towel-clad women scurrying back and forth like busses in Times Square, to get ready, bearing Nebuchadnezzars of hairspray, the lacquer and fragrance wafting topside.
“Does anyone want a drink?” Iris sings out. Barb reminds her to fly the cocktail hour flag: a string of panties, off the burgee halyard at the shroud. But the only ones I have worthy of public viewing are on, and I defer: lest they drive the men wild I tease. Instead, we let the lovely fragrance of shampoos and lotions fill the air in the main salon (how appropriate) and as it does I figure I’d better get serious about getting gussied up too, for our annual dinner and dancing outing at the Harbor Reef: a dusty dirty open air saloon on the edge of an island in California.
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