Unfortunately, for the first time on this trip, we had a hungover skipper. Louise finally gave into Yacht week and spent her wee morning hours drinking bourbon from the bottle with a couple of friends on our deck. Our 9 AM start time was just a little late, and although we were the first to awaken of our line of boats, we knew we were still probably a bit late. In addition, we had acquired a stowaway.
One of Mitch’s conquests, the nicest and seemingly most normal of the hot naked San Diego crew, crawled above deck as Louise and I began cleaning. She tossed her dress from the night before, and dived into the water to swim back to her own boat, attached to the second row of boats about 50 yards away. About 15 minutes later, she came swimming back. Her boat, had left her. And she was stranded with no way to get to Hydra except with us.
So off we went. With only a 30 minute sail to Hydra, she seemed less stressed and knew she’d be reunited with her friends soon. Unfortunately, the line to get into port was about 2 hours long. And in addition to our 40 or so yachts lining up to get in, there were large… no gigantic… ferries pulling in and out about every 20 minutes. We were kindly reminded by the coast guard to get the hell out of the way if any of these giant 300 passenger ships came pulling in, but we needed no convincing. They would come careening from across the Med at a speed that would put a cigarette boat to shame and would sliding stop into their 20 ft long parking spot along a sheer cliff inside the tiny football sized port.
Now, as we sit, float, and wait in the choppy waters, which wasn’t as easy as just parking and putting on your flashers but required a constant watchful eye from Louise as we maintained our position in line and avoided crashing into one of the other million dollar yachts floating in the swell. At one point, one of the Yacht week boats, having waited long enough about 4 spots behind us, decided he would ignore the boats all lining up and check out what was going on in front. In typical rush hour traffic ass hole style, he creeps past 4 or 5 boats who look appallingly at him but do nothing to stop him. But Louise was not to be played for a fool, and being slightly hungover had brought out the Swedish bitch in our pint sized skipper.
And the tiny blonde yells the words that will live in skipper history in a voice that could have easily come out of some burly alchoholic/smoker 50 year old fisherman’s mouth.
“We’re all queuing mother fucker! Go back where you came from!”
Instantly, our boat erupts in laughter and we all reach for any recording devices to attempt to catch any other screaming hilarities that have yet to leave her sweet little mouth.
As the scared macho skipper from the other boat retreats, Louise received a booming applause from any boat in a 100 ft. radius and we grab the little girl a beer for her efforts.
There ain’t no skipper like our skipper.
We love you Louise.
