Tales from Stool 17; Finding Port St. Joe: The Nigel Logan Stories (Vol. 1) (Volume 1)

by Kirk Jockell

  Nobody replied, probably out of embarrassment. I did, though, catch the attention of the rescuer. “Thanks, mate,” he said in the Queen’s English. “Be careful. The rocks are slick, yeah? Sharp oyster shells too.”

  “Got it.”

  “Bloody Hell. You’re in flops”

  “I know. Not ideal.”

  He had the fish by the tail and was standing up on the seawall. The shark’s face was down in the warm, stagnant, dark pool of water. “I can’t get her over. She’s too heavy, yeah? She’ll drown soon if we can’t get her back.”

  I said nothing and entered the pool. Two careful steps in and my right foot slipped off its flip flop. An oyster shell or sharp rock dug into the bottom of my right foot. “Son of a bitch!” I said.

  “Be careful,” said the guy holding the tail.

  I clenched my teeth, thinking only of the infection that was most certainly going to set in. I also decided the stability of my bare feet would serve me better, so I reached down and took off my flops. Still aggravated by the lack of assistance from the photo and video paparazzi, I threw each flop like a tomahawk at the crowd. “Here! Somebody make yourself useful and hold these for me.” They ducked and dodged as the projectiles whizzed by their heads.

  I made my way down to the shark slipping here and there. I rubbed its head and dorsal. It turned an eye towards me and seemed to look right through me. “Easy girl. Easy. Everything is going to be alright.” I looked up at the guy with the tail and asked, “How long has she been out of the water?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, “a while. It seems like forever.”

  I continued to pet the fish. “We need to hurry then.”

  “How do you want to do this?” he asked.

  “Straight away,” I said. If you can lift the tail a bit and give me some room to grab under her belly, I’m going to reach around her, right behind her dorsal and pectoral fins, put her in a bear hug and pick her up.”

  I was getting into better position when I heard a voice from the pier. “You better be careful, Nigel Logan. Please.”

  I looked up and found Candice. She wasn’t smiling, her eyes full of concern, framed by a new hair color, strawberry blond. It looked great on her. Seeing her there brought a bit of levity to the situation. She was a welcomed distraction that lightened the mood. I smiled back and added a wink.

  “Who is that?” My new friend asked.

  “A friend.”

  “A smok’n hot friend, yeah?”

  I agreed, but ignored the comment. “Come on let’s get on with this.”

  With my left hand I reached around and grabbed behind the dorsal and took hold underneath the left pectoral fin. The shark started to twist, not in a threatening manner, but to let us know she was ready for all this to be over too. I said, “If you can lift and twist her to the left a bit. I can get underneath her.”

  He didn’t have to. As if she understood what I needed, the shark went nose down in the tidal pool, arched her back up, and tilted to the left. I didn’t hesitate. I saw my opportunity and quickly got my right hand and arm under her torso. I gave her a firm squeeze and lifted. She didn’t protest.

  There was no way I could have stepped up on the seawall. It was too high and she was too heavy, so I took a couple careful steps and lifted her up on top of the wall, right at the feet of the Brit. I looked up at him and we both smiled. I petted the fish one last time then gave her a healthy shove. “Now, get your ass back where you belong,” I said as the fish went over the side.

  At first, it didn’t look good. The great fish quickly rolled onto her back. She stayed there for what seemed an eternity. I crawled up on the seawall for a better view. We watched and waited. I was holding my breath watching. I exhaled in relief when she started to move from side to side and rolled right-side up. We watched as the shark, tired and fatigued, took her time swimming for deeper water.

  A hand patted me on the back. I turned to see a hand held out in my direction. I took it. “Thanks, mate,” said the Brit. “The name is Pete Billingsly.”

  “Pleasure’s mine, Pete. I’m Nigel. Nigel Logan.”

  “I already knew that, yeah? Your girlfriend introduced you earlier, remember.”

  “Well, she really isn’t my girlfriend. Just a real good friend.”

  I looked up to find her. She was waiting at the top of the rocks. She had my flip flops in one hand and a huge smile on her face. She blew me a kiss and motioned with her finger for me to come. I smiled back.

  “That’s more than a real good friend, mate. Don’t feed me your rubbish. She fancies you. That’s clear.”

  Pete tapped me on the arm and pointed down at the pool of blood I was standing in. The bottom of my right foot was leaking a steady stream of red stuff all over the seawall, running into the bay. “You’ve got to get that taken care of, spit spot.”

  I nodded in agreement. I look up and called, “Candice. Go get my truck and bring it around, please. I’m hurt and you’ll need to drive.”

  Pete helped me up and across the rocks to where Candice was waiting. Together they helped me to the truck. I didn’t really need that much attention, but I wasn’t going to complain. With my foot wrapped in a towel, I shook Pete’s hand from out the passenger side window and thanked him. Then I turned towards Candice. “Get me home, please.”

  “You need a doctor. You’re going to the emergency room.”

  “Not yet. I can wait to be seen. Got to clean this thing out now before the crud sets in. Then we’ll go, if it’s necessary. A lot of blood doesn’t necessarily mean a lot of wound.”

  We got back to my place and Candice ran hot water in the tub. I sat on the edge and held my foot as I tried to figure out the best way to get the cut into the stream of water. Turns out there isn’t a good way for a right-handed person to handle a wound on the bottom of their right foot so I stuck my heel into the stream of hot water.

  The second the water hit the cut, I clenched my teeth and sucked all the air out of the room. Shit! That hurts. But I knew the hurting had just begun. It would have to be scrubbed out. I looked at Candice. The anguish on her face spoke volumes. I smiled and said, “It’s going to be alright. Can you see it? Tell me, how bad is it?”

  She leaned over and took my foot, tilted it so she could see. “Pretty bad. A gash. Maybe two inches long.”

  “Shit! Probably from an oyster shell. How deep?”

  “Hard to say.”

  “Squeeze it open and take a peep.”

  She did and gasped.

  “That bad huh?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Well, okay then,” I said. “Let’s get this thing scrubbed and head to the ER.”

  I got into the tub on my knees so Candice could get the cut open and let the stream of hot water enter deep inside. The water flush was painful but necessary. I directed Candice to a soft brush and antibacterial soap. “Open it up and scrub it out good,” I told her. “Go at it angry like. Like it’s your first husband or something.”

  Candice said, “They’re going to do this at the ER anyway. So why not let them do it?”

  “Because the bacteria that harbors in stagnant pools is aggressive. I want a head start on any infection, especially if I end up having to wait two hours in the ER waiting room.”

  She didn’t say another word but went right to it. The brush and the sting of the soap felt like she was raking it out with a wire brush. I growled saying, “It seems... Damn that hurts... Like you might be enjoying this a little too much.”

  She stopped scrubbing and put the cut back into the water to rinse. I gritted my teeth and winced as I listened. “I would enjoy this more if you were Phil.”

  “Phil? Who’s Phil?”

  “Phil Stewart. He was my first husband.”

  “Your first husband?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Phil Stewart? As in the Phil Stewart that works for Mike Bobo on the shrimp boat?”

  “Yep. One and the same. Piece of work. But I
guess you already know that, huh?”

  “Does he know who I am?”

  “Oh, yeah. He knows. You’re not a favorite.”

  That explained a lot. I met Phil the week before when I volunteered to help Mike on his boat. He was short-handed, and while I didn’t know anything about shrimp’n, I’m no stranger to boats. I pick up easily, and a quick-learning hand beats no hand at all.

  From the second I stepped on board, this Phil guy treated me like crap. He didn’t appreciate having an extra body, and he certainly didn’t want me on board. Now, it was starting to make sense.

  “I came by to see you yesterday, to warn you,” Candice said. “I left a note on the door, but I never heard from you.”

  “Warn me about what?”

  “Phil was in the bar a couple nights ago. He had been drinking pretty heavy, which he always does. He was spouting off to his friends about wanting to kick your ass. That the next time he saw you, you had better watch out.”

  “What in the hell is his beef with me, dammit?”

  “Me,” Candice said. “He’s very jealous and can’t stand the idea I could be going out with anyone else.”

  “And this was your first husband? I don’t need this kind of shit, Candice.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. I thought I should tell you. Are you worried?”

  “About Phil? No, not particularly. Should I be?”

  “Well, he can be like a bulldog. Doesn’t want to let go of things. So, I guess what I’m saying is, you can probably expect trouble at some point, especially if he’s been drinking.”

  Wonderful. I sat up and thought about it while my foot continued to throb and said, “Perhaps you should have Phil talk to your last husband.”

  On my first night into town, after a long sail from Key West, I had the pleasure of meeting her third and last husband. I stopped in the bar where Candice works for a bite and some bourbon. They don’t serve real food, so it ended up being more bourbon than biting. I spent the afternoon washing away the long voyage and other memories when this guy named Billy entered the bar. He harassed Candice, who had just become my new best friend and favorite bartender. He became a little too physical for my liking, so I intervened. It didn’t work out too well for him, what I can remember of it.

  Candice said, “I don’t think that would do any good.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because Phil used to beat Billy up pretty regularly. At least while we were married.”

  I laughed at that. What a tough guy.

  Before heading to the hospital I checked my selection of bourbon and pulled out a bottle of Four Roses, their single barrel. I drew myself a generous, neat, four-finger long pour in an old fashioned glass before we walked out the door. Good 100 proof whiskey, I wanted it in my system before they started driving that Novocaine needle in the bottom of my foot.

  We stayed in the parking lot until I could finish my drink. I was already pretty calm about the entire ordeal, but the drink polished off my demeanor to a bright, carefree shine. I wasn’t drunk, much. I existed in a quiet glow. I looked down at my cocktail glass. It was empty. I could have used one more swallow ... Damn.

  I was looking through the windshield at the emergency room entrance when Candice leaned over towards me and gave me a long kiss on my cheek. I turned towards her, and, before I said anything, realized my brain and tongue were not fully in sync. I was more comfortably numb than I thought. “What was that for?” I said with a small smile.

  “It was for me, if I have to be honest,” she said.

  “I love honesty!” I said with a slight slur. “Always be honest ... with me anyways. I’ll always appreciate that.”

  “Have dinner with me tonight?” She said with a slight grin.

  I slowly squinted and closed my right eye. I see better in close quarters with my left. I wanted to see her clearly. “Are you trying to take advantage of me? Catch me in a weak moment?” I asked in a jovial, suspicious tone.

  “Well,” she said with a smile. “Maybe I am.”

  “More honesty! I love it!”

  “Well?”

  “You’re on. It’s the least I can do. I owe you big for coming through and taking care of me one more time.”

  She turned away. The smile on her face retreated to a thin straight line and her eyes were saturated with disappointment. I watched her carefully before asking, “Is there something wrong?”

  “No, I guess not.”

  “Candice,” I said with my right eye still closed. “Don’t give me any of that. What’s wrong? Honesty, remember?”

  She turned back towards me, “Okay, then.” She paused for a moment and said, “I was hoping you might have dinner with me because you’d like to spend time with me, not because of some obligation to repay a debt.”

  That stung. I had hurt her. Dammit. There was no way of trying to dance around what I said. It was already out there. I reached over and took her hand, gently tugged on it until she turned to look at me. “I’m an idiot. I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”

  She said nothing.

  “Candice,” I said, doing my best to sound coherent. “I’ve been drinking, so I think the less I say the better. I already have to pull this size thirteen out of my throat.” That made her smile. I continued, doing my best not to slur my words too much. “Listen ... I do enjoy your company, very much. There’s a lot I am sorting out personally. Please, be patient with me. Okay?”

  She still said nothing, but nodded her head with a grin.

  We got out of the car and headed towards the emergency room door. I reached down and grabbed her hand as we walked. She was strolling. I was limping along on the ball of my right foot. The sliding glass door opened up and a wall of cool air rushed out and hit us in the face when she asked, “A size thirteen, huh? Really?”

  “What?” I said with a slight shiver.

  “Thirteen. Your shoe size. You know what they say about a man and the size of his...”

  “Candice! For crying out loud.”

  She giggled as we walked up to the reception window. The girl helping us behind the window was Karen. It said so, right on her name tag. She looked up and said, “Hey, Candice.” An old schoolmate, perhaps. “Who is this? What can we do for y’all?”

  Again, I spoke carefully. “My name is Nigel Logan. I have a pretty deep oyster shell cut on the bottom of my right foot.”

  Candice leaned over in front of me and told Karen with great emphasis and a wink, “It’s a size thirteen.”

  I stood there, half in shock, half embarrassed. Karen looked me over, smiled and said, “Lucky girl, you.”

  Oh brother!

  The Card

  Red and I were sitting at the Raw Bar when this fella takes a seat next to Red. It was obvious the guy was a newbie so Red gave him the rundown, which was met with the standard reaction of amazement. Really? Get my own beers, keep track of what I eat and drink, then pay before I leave? Really?

  As the guy got up to head to the cooler, I noticed he was wearing a North Sails ball cap and a regatta t-shirt from the 2013 MC Scow Nationals. A fellow racing sailor, I don’t run across too many of those here on the Forgotten Coast. Fishing rules the waters here. There are a few sailboats in Port St. Joe, but the sailing scene is mostly local cruisers and transients passing through to other destinations. There is no active racing being campaigned here.

  The MC Scow is a great one-design racing boat. It is most often singlehanded, although it can be doublehanded as well. It is sixteen-foot long with a very flat hull shape and wide bow, like a big surf board with a single sail, a huge mainsail. In a blow, an MC can be a challenge, but they are fast and exciting. It’s a very popular class.

  Once the stranger settled back at the bar, I leaned forward looking past Red and said, “Love me some MC Scows. How did you do at Nationals?” nodding towards his shirt.

  The stranger said, “Oh, thanks. Been sailing the MC for over ten years now. Love it. Do you sail one too?”

  “I�
�ve borrowed one from time to time. An O.P.B. is my favorite boat to race.”

  Red looked over at me interrupting, “O.P.B.?”

  “I’m sorry, Red. O.P.B., Other People’s Boat.”

  Red mumbled, “Cheap bastard,” and took a sip from his beer.

  I reached across in front of Red and offered my hand to the stranger, “Nigel Logan, here. And this is my very non-sailing buddy, Red.”

  The guy met me halfway and we shook hands. “I’m Bradley, Bradley Cain. Pleased to meet you.” Then he shook Red’s hand.

  “You didn’t answer me,” I said. “How did you do at Nationals?”

  “I didn’t,” replied Cain. “I was on race committee. My club hosted the event and I volunteered to be PRO.” PRO, Primary Race Officer.

  “Ah. That’s too bad,” I said.

  “Not really. It’s an honor to be in charge of a national event that puts over sixty boats on the line. I get as big a kick out of running the show as I do finishing middle of the pack.”

  “I know what you mean,” I said. “I’m a regatta photographer, and as much as I like to sail, I’ll never get tired of grabbing images of boats.” I took a sip of my beer and motioned for another dozen raw oysters before asking, “Where are you from, Bradley?”

  “I live in Flowery Branch, Georgia and sail out of the Lanier Sailing Club, but I’m coming off a regatta in Pensacola and passing through to Lake Eustis. The class has a regional event down there next weekend.”

  I laughed, looking down at my oysters as they were being delivered, and said, “Well, you just answered my next question. I’ll be at Lake Eustis too. I’m shooting the event, so I guess I’ll be seeing you down there.”

  “Perfect!” he said. “Keep an eye out for sail number 2035. Do you have a card?”

  I got out my wallet and pulled out a stack of business cards and started to flip through them. “Hold on now,” I said aloud. “I know I have a few in here somewhere.”