The Regatta Diaries: Bay Waveland Yacht Club '05

“As long as there are no body piercings… except ears... and the belly… or the vagina.” Doc was as ready as me to tack over into Bay St. Louis and head over to The Good Life for cocktails. Our second clandestine rendezvous with those GYA honchos wasn’t for several hours, and our rum stocks were low.

So we put in over at Bay Marina, reminiscing along the way about why we have to motor the extra mileage past the docks at BWYC:

You see, Paul Anka had just finished up his set over at Casino Magic back in February of ’99 when he ran into Doc who had just crapped out and was having a libation over at one of the casino’s bars. They knew each other from back in the 80’s when Doc was an Indian gaming consultant and had made a fortune by coming up with the idea to house some of the first Indian casinos in giant canvas tents shaped like teepees.

The three of us started boozing with some fine ladies from Waveland and ended up taking them out for boat drinks over on Cash Bar, which was docked up at BWYC. To make a long story short, not only does BWYC not ‘officially’ allow overnights on your boat, the neighbors also don’t like to hear bongo drums at three in the morning, even if it is Paul Anka playing them.

And thus began Cash Bar’s necessity to travel up the Jourdan River to Bay Marina.

Moving on… We took a Frank’s Cab from the marina over to The Good Life, and were pleasantly surprised to find that it was karaoke night. I don’t know… maybe it’s always karaoke night at the bars in Bay St. Louis, but it sure seems like it’s become a ritual for me to sing Elvis’ ‘Suspicious Minds’ when on the bay. And knowing this fact, I’ve begun carrying my Elvis gold rimmed sunglasses on me whenever traveling in southern Mississippi.

While at the bar, Doc spent about 15 minutes hounding some Ole Miss girl, who was home for the weekend; explaining to her that she needed to start up the newest sorority craze – the Bag a Drunk Old Male Fatty competition. She passed. Slightly dejected, he then went and signed up to sing the B-52’s ‘Rock Lobster’.

One of my frequent crewmembers, Lawrence – a short, Evinrude sales rep who can fly an asymmetrical chute better than anyone I’ve ever seen, yet can’t handle a symmetrical and who speaks with a seriously slow Chalmette or Brooklyn accent – eventually showed up at the bar, “Yeah Bra’ing” his way over to us.

“Yeah Bra.” He said. “Dude. I’ve got a couple of ladies,” pointing behind him, “no, over dere bra. Yeah. Right dere. Those. Come on bra, I got ma Mako dockt up da road.”

Doc informed him that we had a meeting later on that evening, but went ahead and ate two Cialis out of the Tic Tac container that he keeps with him most of the time. He offered us some. I passed, but Lawrence held out his hand, “Cool bra. For the ladies you know.” He ate the pill. “Come on. Ya gotta meet dem guys in da Pass, right bra?” He asked.

We meandered through the crowd towards them. Heck, the ladies were from Delisle and we needed to get across the bay to Pass Christian anyway.

As Lawrence was introducing us, Doc started getting all keyed up. “This babe has frisked me before!” Doc singled out the one named Jackie to me and then turned to face her. “You’ve frisked me before.”

Turns out Doc knew one of the broads from when she was a correctional officer over at a southern Alabama prison and who was now working security at the DuPont plant up in Delisle. He had met her a few years back while visiting his then girlfriend and sometimes crewmember of mine named Trudy, who was in jail, cooling her heals for torching an ex-boyfriend’s C&C 34 that Doc used to race against and, quite frequently, lose to. Yada, yada, yada.

"You don’t have your cuffs on you now? Do you?” She and Doc were becoming fast friends.

The six of us snuck out on the ‘H’ family’s pier to where Lawrence had tied up his Mako and we took off across the dark water. And trust me… there was more saline in the boat than in that bay.

While crossing, Doc began demanding that we skinny dip at one of the channel markers. He actually began disrobing in the bow before we luckily pulled into Pelican Cove Marina on the other side of the bay.

“Say bra. We gonna tie up here and grab a drink at Mallini’s.” Lawrence emphatically motioned for us to be quiet as we were going to be trespassing. He then accidentally gunned the Mako, sideswiping the pier. Doc, who was sitting on the rail in the bow of the fishing boat, half nekid, untying his shoes and fat, fell overboard.

“Come on. Ya’ll shut up bra. Keep it down…” Noticing the splash in the black water, but not Doc falling in, Lawrence added, “Bra, that’s a big fish right there.”

Now that was an ordeal. Trying to land Doc back into the boat, while still trying to make time with a hot broad… trust me… it was tough, but you’d be proud. Unfortunately, as we were beaching him, Doc grabbed a hold of one of Lawrence’s expensive offshore Shimano poles resulting in a lot of loud and angry “yeah bra’ing” until I reminded Lawrence that we were trying to be quiet and stealthy.

Mallini’s turned out to be fairly uneventful save for Doc who was soaking wet and dirty dancing with the former corrections officer who was wearing a white blouse. After a round of shots, I mentioned that we were starting to run late for the summit and needed to motivate. We made our way back over to the Mako, with Lawrence trying to convince me that Annie’s Restaurant was designed by Frank Lloyd Wright. “No bra. It’s true.”

While motoring up Mallini’s Bayou, Doc announced to each of us what our role was to be in this meeting and that we must follow his lead. The women were clueless as to what the heck we were talking about, but were excited to play along. He was adamant to Lawrence and me about the absolute necessity that we convince these people that Spanish was our primary language.

We eventually pulled up to a dock and two of the guys I met while drinking Absinthe in the French Quarter a few weeks before climbed aboard with a container of Goombays. They were nervous regarding the four extra people in attendance, but Doc smoothed that out.

Lawrence or ‘Lorenzo’ as Doc introduced him, turned the boat around and we motored back out into the bay drinking the Goombays.

Eventually, we tied up at a channel marker, whereby the conversation turned to the GYA Black Op.

“You guys are really tight with the Commodore right?” One of the GYA guys asked again. (To protect their identities, we’ll call him ‘Bill’ and the other guy ‘Carson’.)

“Si. Absolutely. Díaz and I go way back.” Doc answered. I nodded. Lawrence was talking to the ladies.

“Good. The political climate will eventually change. Cuba will open up, and we feel that it’s important to make an overture, to establish a conversation now with the Hemingway Yacht Club. Castro won’t last for too much longer. And they…they…” Carson was cut off by Bill.

“We have to plan for the future. The Club Náutico Internacional Hemingway de Cuba must become a member of the Gulf Yachting Association. It is crucial.” Bill continued, “And that’s why we need you.” He took a long pull off his Goombay, looking back and forth from me to Doc.

“Of course. And the ‘unofficial’ regatta you wish us to propose will have its start in Gulfport?” Doc asked.

Bill and Carson both nodded. Bill added, “GYA will not sponsor it now, but it is important to lay this groundwork. And if you chose to do this, of your own accord, the GYA will supply you with…” He looked at Carson.

“Uh… Burgees.” Carson sipped on his Goombay looking at us from over the top of the cup.

Doc dramatically stood up from the rail and removed his shirt and then his shoes. “We are prepared…” He was quickly down to his skivvies, “…to sail to Havana carrying your message of peace, international cooperation and racing. We shall leave April 1^st.” Doc jumped overboard.

I was dumbfounded by this. Doc had not told me anything about this. “Non. No. Yo soy racero in una Dauphin Island Race-o.” I tried to make myself as clear as possible under the circumstances that Cash Bar was committed to DIR in April.

The women and Lawrence were now disrobing and jumping into the bay. Lawrence yelled out, “Havana bra!” as he dived in.

I looked over and in the moonlight I could see Doc’s white rear climbing the channel marker. When he reached the top, he spoke. “It will be our honor, mi socios, to bear this communiqué into the very depths of Mt. Doom. We shall be the Fellowship of the…” He then slipped and fell off the marker into the bay.

The GYA fellows then dived off the boat into the mass frolicking in the dark bay.

I sat quietly for a moment… then put my Elvis sunglasses on and took a huge pull off my Goombay.