I’m relieved to report that the beer is now cold. (We threw a bag of ice into the frig. Oh thank heaven for "7-11".) But the volume in the holding tank continues to rise at an alarming rate (mainly due to our "all chicken" diet.) and the water pump still leaks like a sieve. (The Captain hasn’t asked me to tackle it again. In fact, he’s banned me from the engine compartment for life.) However, we’ve become expert at pulling “just the right wire” to kill the engine. Once we figured out how to chill the beer, happiness along w/our laissez-faire attitude returned in spades. When my porthole (or is it starboard?) latch broke I stared at it for 10 minutes until my beer got warm and said “fork it!”. A more permanent repair is on the list.
We’re presently cruising onshore utilizing the InterCoastal Waterway. It literally runs through people’s backyards. We just completed a narrow 30 mile stretch that they must’ve dug one night while the neighbors were asleep. It’s a voyeurs dream. Outside of keeping a sharp eye out for boat parts falling off and fouling our wake, we’re free to check out all the avant-gard architecture and opulent landscaping that Florida has to offer. This includes people. Cocktail hour is especially rewarding. We’ve been known to hoist our beer cozies at the numerous passing soirees we encounter in spite of the blank return looks we get. The Captain claims he saw a couple having sex in a hammock (the guy was on top) while I was below attending to one of my revised First Executive Officer duties that involved the dishes. But I think he was having me on. This is South Florida where folks only have sex in odd numbers like three’s and five’s. 
So far we’ve spent a night anchored off Palm Beach (whose motto, “We don’t cater to the bootless and unhorsed” is boldly inscribed in bronze at the entrance to Worth Avenue) and on the hook in Boca Raton across from a hotel that resembles a big pink ribbed dildo. Compatibility is a concern of mine and while guys don’t discuss these things, I wondered how two old dudes would fare traveling together in such close quarters. Especially since I’m used to doing things ever-so-slightly my way and the Captain has lived solo without even a parrot for company for the past twenty odd years. But surprisingly few issues have developed, except for the coffee. He guzzles about a gallon a day brewed as weak as dishwater. I’m a cup and a half sipper and expect the spoon to stand up at attention. So we’re locked into an odd ritual where he prepares the pot each night before he retires (evidently a "captainly" duty) and I sneak into the galley to add an few extra spoonfuls to the mix. He’ll come out during the night to check on things like we’re not sinking and then dump out what I put in. Then the ritual repeats itself. You can tell in the morning who won. (We both thought we had ship’s mice until we figured this out.) We haven’t resolved the issue and we’re running through our coffee stores like we grew the stuff. I’ve even appealed to his heritage (“You’re Italian for chrissakes!”) in hopes he’d see it my way. But he just takes a sip from his fifth iced coffee of the day and gives me a blank look, just like one of those Palm Beach "Lords of the Manor" fingering a Harvey Wallbanger and eyeing his hammock.
