Free Just Add Water (1) by Jinx Schwartz

light
up, but I wasn’t overly eager for another flogging before the mast real soon.
    “Where does one
purchase a cat-o’-nine-tails these days?” I asked. “The Haight?”
    “No Captain Bligh crap, Hetta. These
guys don’t yell or anything, and they’re super instructors. I’m getting off in
an hour, why don’t you guys meet me at the yacht club and check it out for
yourselves?”

11
     
    The Jack London Yacht Club,
appropriately located on Jack London Square, was in an old two storey building
overlooking the Oakland Estuary. A sailmaker’s loft at one time, now the
interior was all polished mahogany and funky atmosphere. Jack London would have
considered it a suitable hangout for trashing his liver had it been there when
the great writer was penning and ginning.
    Posters depicting Jack London’s
boats, dog, and book jacket covers were scattered around the room, but my
favorite was a snapshot of the man himself. He was wearing what appeared to be
a leather aviator’s jacket. His hair was windblown around his handsome face,
and he sported a roguish grin that personified his roguish reputation. Beneath
the photo was a poem he wrote summing up his take on life:
     
    I would rather be ashes than dust!

I
would rather that my spark should burn out in a brilliant blaze
    than
it should be stifled by dryrot.

I
would rather be a superb meteor
    every
atom of me in magnificent glow,
    than
a sleepy and permanent planet.
    The
proper function of a man is to live, not to exist.
    I
shall not waste my days in trying to prolong them.
    I
shall use my time.
     
    As
I read the great adventurer’s self-fulfilling words, I couldn’t help but think
I would have liked the bounder. With my penchant for bounders, maybe even loved
him.
    Jan
evidently had similar thoughts. “Gee, Hetta, his philosophic attitude on life
reminds me of yours.”
    I wasn’t all so sure I cared for
the comparison. After all, old Jack, for all his brilliance and wanderlust was,
like his prophetic ode indicated, a literary flash fire who flamed out before
his excesses extinguished his talent. A victim of his own immoderation, he died
at forty and didn’t even leave a beautiful corpse.
    “Not really. I mean, I do admire
his give a damn attitude, but don’t you wonder what he could have accomplished
if he’d lived longer and taken better care of himself?”
    Jan gave me a meaningful look and
said, “Food for thought, Hetta, food for thought.”
    We shook off our moment of thought
and proceeded to the bar, hoping for food. The jukebox played a Jimmy Buffet
number and a man was performing some kind of jig on top of the long, mostly
empty, bar. Ester didn’t seem to notice him.
    Jan and I took barstools as far
away from the skinny sailor’s gyrations as possible while Ester went to the
office for a copy of the rules and sailing schedule for Women on the Estuary.
    “What can I get you ladies?” asked
the Filipino bartender. Paul, according to his nametag.
    “Draft beer for me, unless you have
something to eat besides peanuts,” I said, warily eyeing the dancer grind his
way towards us.
    Paul glanced over his shoulder.
“Don’t mind him. He’s drunk. Kitchen’s closed, but Ester can raid the fridge
for you. Should be something left in there from last night’s buffet. Also, in
case you’re interested, we have splits of champagne on ice. Cheap.”
    I liked this club already. “Great.
Champers for me, then. Uh, does he do this bar dance thing often, Paul?”
    “Oh, yes.”
    Ester returned, waving papers.
“Good news. WOE has a sail next Sunday. If you want some fun in the meantime,
the yacht club is sponsoring a beer can race Wednesday night. Wanna come?”
    “What do we have to do?”
    “Drink beer.”
    “We qualify. Uh, don’t look now,
but Popeye is jigging our way.”
    Ester’s eyes followed my head nod
and she yelled, “Hey, Jacky, show ‘em your twin screws!”
    Jacky smiled, turned, dropped his
pants and gyrated the twin propellers