St. Augustine Shrimp Trawler Blues

[oneighty]

Part of my first day stranded in St. Augustine guarding the boat I sit in a bar room spending the last of my coins on beer and cigarettes.

I had come to the bar room building to wash my clothes in the laundromat located next door. The laundromat is packed full of shrimpers just like me; as is the bar room. While sipping slowly on my beer I survey the crowd to see if I can spot a potential lender of money. Alas I do not see anybody I know. It will be a dry day and I will not get my clothes washed either.

Woeful and poor me I sit there cursing my Captain, cursing the ocean, cursing the life I have chosen. And I muse. And I compose a poem in my head to be written down later.

'Ten Days At Sea' I will call it.

To the laundromat I take my clothes
To wash them clean
In those two quarter washing machines.
Ten days on that hard luck boat
My clothes and me we stink like goats.

Others are there just like me.
I take a chair and wait my turn.
I count ten machines against the wall.
Their glassy eyes are dirty clothes
Going round and around in those soapy churns.

Long blond hair blue flashing eyes
Adorn the girl sitting next to me.
Not bashful a bit. Ten days at sea
I smile at her hopefully.
And we drink a Coke from the red machine.

"Hey." She says; "I must go.
"Would you mind please to watch my clothes?"
"Sure." I say happily.
Planning ahead for later this day.
Aw what the heck. Ten days at sea.

Graceful she is as she turns to leave.
Beautiful she is I am hypnotized.
Her long blond hair, blue flashing eyes.
Bone white teeth, red smiling lips.
Her tight blue jeans hugging curving hips.

"Wait." I say; "Which are yours?"
"What machines hold your clothes?"
"Why." She says; "All of them against the wall."
"And here's some dimes to get them dry."
"Okay." I say. Ten days at sea.

She clears the door out onto the street.
And with her goes one just like me,
A shrimper man lonely too.
"Thanks." He says and grinning wide.
Aw! What the heck. Ten days at sea.

So my muse ends at the same time my beer does. Now I am out of quarters nickles dimes and pennies. Out of luck. Back aboard the boat I cook the last egg and eat that with moldy bread. Damn you my Captain just damn you.

About that time cops board the boat. They quickly cross my boat onto the next boat. I hear hollering and yelling. "Get down get down." The cops are yelling. I can see into the cabin and wheel house. Guns are drawn night sticks swinging.

The striker on that boat is clutching the back rest on the Captain's black leather wheel house chair. His face is pale. He is big and strong and appears to be in a drug induced stupor. The cops are beating on his hands with the night sticks "Wap wap wap." "Let go let go." they are yelling.

"Damn that must hurt." I think. But the striker does not flinch. He does not cry out. He does not loosen his grip on the black leather Captain's chair. I cannot help but to admire his dedication to resisting arrest and I hope he is not badly injured. He needs those hands for shrimping.

To be continued. That strikers bad luck leads me to some good luck. Which I greatly deserve on this useless trip.

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[JitterbugPerfume]

1. tell us more oneighty

I love the poem

[oneighty]

2. The striker

eventually succumbs to the beating he is suffering at the hands of the enthusiastic police. He relinquishes his grip on the back rest of the Captain's black leather chair. He is lead away in handcuffs his defiance gone.

I learn later he is arrested for stealing the Loran 'C' and the VHF radio from the shrimp trawler he is striking on. Boy I think and I am talking about selling the whole boat I am on. Likely get the death penalty for that. This is Florida.

Turns out I know the Captain and owner of that trawler from which the striker is taken.

More later. I must freshen my memory Jitterbug. Ah yes. Whiskey. A quart of whiskey. And a ride to the police station.

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