As we leisurely made our way northward in preparation for crossing the Gulf Stream we were passed by all manner of boats.
“What’s their hurry” I wondered? Now I know. They were trying to outrun the cops.
We were tucked up nice n’ cozy on the inside of Key Largo. I switched off my light. My cabin didn’t darken. A blinding beam flooded my cabin.
“Ahoy Vessel!” I stuck my sleepy head out of the hatch.
“Where are you coming from?” was hurled at me. “Where are you headed? How many people are on board? What’s your favorite color?”
I did my best to answer. The color one always gets me. I don’t have one.
“Prepare to receive a boarding party” boomed back. Evidently “chartreuse” is a bad answer. I put out plates and napkins but no party ensued. Instead, two well-fed and well-armed customs officers tromped aboard.
“Black” I thought. “I should’ve said black”.
The questions continued. “What’s your home port? Do you have weapons aboard?”
“Yes”. (That went over worse than “chartreuse”.) “Why do you have weapons?” (Same reason as you I imagine.) “We need to see them now!
The questions piled up. “What’s your occupation? What’s your destination?” (Anywhere but here I thought.) “Do you have cash aboard? (Were they hoping to sell us something?) How much? Do you eat sushi? Who likes to wear female undergarments?” and so on.
Forty minutes passed as they checked our guns, re-checked our guns, took our guns, returned our guns and poked around. Not once did they comment favorably on our décor. We were finally told we were “10-8” and they departed.
We’re missing a beer cozy though. The one with the leaping fish on it. I’m not hurling accusations, but am a bit shocked. I’ve discovered a distinct drawback to living on a boat. It’s not the seas. Nor pirates. It’s the long tentacle of the law.
Their excuse for boarding our happy home was that our anchor light had burnt out. Imagine the police pounding on your door in the middle of the night because your porch light was off. Then coming inside and rummaging around. Not cool.
We’ve learned our lesson. No more slow and easy for us. Once we cross the ocean tomorrow we ain’t stopping. Not for anything. We’ll bullet through the Bahamas, zip by the Turks & Caicos and barely slow down at our destination in the Virgin Islands. We’re headed East into oblivion. No doubt with those crazy, cozy-kleptos hot on our heals.
not to side w/ John Law, the heat & THE MAN but..... a working anchor light is considered safety equipment. None the less, a simple "hey your anchor light is broken" would be The American Way.
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