Oddly American

The sky and water are dour grey, but brightened up with swathes of bunting, flags, and sparkling streamers of red, white, and blue. Everywhere Old Glory flies, in various sizes; fluttering in the morning breeze.

We’re moored in Avalon Harbor – with one-million other boats, all compelled to start their generators and launch their noisy puttering dinghies at dawn, when other saner people who are finally-at-the-island-for-the-weekend might want to sleep in. Still it’s relatively peaceful, cocooned in my bunk (I’m sleeping in the ‘garage’ – the quarterberth normally used for stowing tools, extra sails and beer) with the various critters (one dog, two cats) sniffing by to see, I guess, if I happen to have a bag of treats or side of beef in my bunk or can be compelled to get up and find them some.

Avalon is said to have one of the best Fourth of July celebrations, with a fireworks and a huge parade winding through the contorted streets of this hillside city (hard to imagine, as Avalon is about as big as your thumbnail) that includes the entire USC marching band. Insane. I can hardly wait.

For now, we’re gearing up for a long hike/dog walk followed by a ride into the interior with a friend who lives here, but too entertained to leave yet as the Harbor Patrol is moving a boat that didn’t come off its mooring by 9AM as required, while the boat owners dim-wittedly chase in their dinghy. The patrol boat has got the renegade stinkpot side tied, and is squeezing adeptly through the anchorage, where boats are rafted up and crammed in like sardines so close you could leap-frog across the bay. Modern-day cowboys. Which reminds me of the rodeo, and another slice of Americana, and how much I want to try mutton busting: but that’s an a dispatch for another time …