Three's Company (#7)

We worship our boat. She’s as seaworthy as they come. Lovingly maintained by El Capitain, She’s both a safe and comfortable haven. But like all of us, she has her quirks and ain’t getting any younger. They (whoever “they” are) say that captain's are married to their vessels and I agree. When the boat’s purring along like a kitten, so is he. (You can even get him to roll over and scratch his stomach unless he’s studying charts or drinking coffee.) But when she’s misbehaving, it’s a rocky marriage. Lately she’s been behaving badly and the Captain’s normal stoicism is being put to the test. Who can blame him? There’s a big blue diesel engine down below (that’s as close to a technical description as I get), a generator (which has been called everything but a generator lately), a string of non-maintenance free batteries, air filters, oil filters, water filters, coffee filters (scratch that, they’re in the galley), miles of snaking hoses and bird nests of wires including “just the right one”. Topside there’s an outboard engine that we’re not currently speaking to, a diving contraption called a “hookah rig” (I’m not going there) and all sorts of dials and gadgets. Our salon looks a lot like an antique shop.
Although nothing was said, it was obvious El C needed more assistance than I could offer (“What’s that switch do?”) so now we have Fred. We ran across Fred three nights ago at a bar on Key Largo, the one with the two live crocodiles that live in the adjacent mangroves. Short and athletic with a handlebar mustache and skin redder than a Navajo, he had a mischievous glint in his eye that only the mother of a pirate could appreciate. I was keeping my distance (I reasoned that anyone who got drunk at a bar continually circled by two man-eating croc’s that totaled over 23 feet with their shoes off had to be crazy) but the Captain chatted him up and discovered he had a good working knowledge of marine mechanics. He’d just been evicted from his girlfriend’s apartment and was “thinking of heading down to Marathon anyway”. I’ve since warmed up to him a bit and call him “Fastbuck Freddie” as he’s ready to bet you on just about anything anytime provided he takes the favorite. I’m already into him for $20 after betting against the U.S. in a soccer match (they looked sluggish). In the future, I’ll try to remember not to make bets during Happy Hour.
There’s a comfortable sleeping couch in the salon but Fred prefers the hammock on the sundeck, even when it rains (“So I can get a feel for what the day’s gonna be like”. Wet, I imagine.) He bursts into the salon most mornings full of piss and vinegar (It’s best to wear foul weather gear in his presence), downs a bucket of coffee and dives into the engine hold requesting the occasional screwdriver, wrench and well-rolled joint. Hours later he reappears soaked to the bone barking, cursing and frothing at the mouth. But his labors, performed under the Captain’s watchful eye, appear fruitful and we’re limping southward with only the occasional fart and belch fouling our wake. So here we are, a floating fraternity now with two dinghies in our wake. (Fred brought his own boat but no beer.) Stealing internet access from unsuspecting seaside mansions, we’re a roving gang of techno-pirates living large in the Florida Keys.