Billy Babel Rings in the New Year

'Twas the week before Christmas when I agreed to bring my much-adored current Billy to a neighborhood gathering of holiday-themed rounds singing. In terms of gifts from the universe, it was maybe the best White Elephant we've yet shared. 

What, one might wonder, could be some pertinent reasons I would be strongly advised to decline an invite to such an occasion? Well, aside from the most obvious facts that a) I am not at all religious, while most Christmas-based songs tend to Keep The Christ In Christmas™, and b) I also mostly dodge my neighbors, c) I am borderline musically-illiterate.  

(Fuck it, I'll just get the clef's notes for this thing.)

Here's the thing: a good hearty wassailing is no doubt a fine activity for a somewhat-marriageable, Dickensian-type lass of yesteryear.* But it is, to put it nicely, an unlikely setting in which to find yours truly and/or any Billy who would willingly spend time with me. 

*(Speaking of lasses of yesteryear, a Young Susie Solo did in fact sit through semesters upon semesters of gradeschool music class (in a private Prep-school that could actually afford instruments and a teacher who was not also responsible for gym class, no less!). But during this era, I was generally relieved to be relegated to the back row finger-cymbals or the plastic recorder. Additionally, Braces-Wearing Tweener Susie took several years' worth of violin lessons, at the bribery of a grandmother who promised a pony in exchange for the achievement of some measure of musical prowess. Unfortunately, these lessons were Suzuki method, meaning that though I learned, through endless complaint-filled diligence, how to play barely-recognizable renditions of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, I managed it by ear rather than via any sort of sheet music reading, which apparently never amounted to enough skill to merit that horse.)

(At least I got those buckteeth fixed.)

A note about the neighbor-dodging: 

I live in a community that wholeheartedly embraces such things as regular potlucks, unscreened talent shows, and carpooling. While these activities are all indicative of good, wholesome neighborhood camaraderie, they also happen to be the sort of fairly socially-awkward events that I generally will go to heroic lengths to avoid getting roped into any more. 

Lest you presume I'm a complete misanthrope, please take into consideration that I did show up to one such potluck early on in my residency. I also coerced The Mover, my then-housemate, into attendance, where we both almost lost our shit halfway through a completely unexpected, horrifically protracted "silent hand-holding circle" sort of hippie cult welcome ritual. The fact that it involved lights-dimming and low candlelight - which might be what sent us over the edge - may have also been our only face-saving grace. Anyway, keep this circle habit in mind.

Look: my neighbors are all very nice folks, with whom - unless you truly enjoy sharing hummus recipes and engaging in group-breathing-exercises to align your chakra at HOA meetings - extended eye-contact is not recommended. 

(Oh and also, in a largely-uncomfortable, semi-recent, and intervention-like parking lot encounter, it was furtively suggested to me by a united contingent of the Garden Meditation Club - yes, that's a thing in our neighborhood - that a certain sort of a cappella song coming from my home, the bedroom window of which happens to overlook the community gardens, apparently brings less joy to nosy frost-season kale-tenders than is experienced by those performing the duet. Fine. We'll have kitchen-sex.)

(Oh hey Susie, can I talk to you about that unsorted trash you threw out last night? Condoms are recyclable, you know.)

But, I have in recent times acquired a new puppy, whose incessant need for outdoor neighborhood walking time has already led to all manner of unintended interactions with other adult humans. To wit: the very sweet lady who coordinates the abovementioned yearly rounds singing soirees approached while I was immobilized by my puppy's choice decision to take a protracted shit upon the pristine white snow of this woman's winter-wonderland flowerbeds, under which duress I agreed to attend. Why? Because I am absolutely terrible at telling people no.

Luckily for me, my current Billy - who for the purpose of this post I'll refer to as Billy Babel - is absolutely terrible at telling me no, so on the spot, I presumed I'd at least have a backup singer. 

Um. I don't sing, stated Billy Babel flatly when I arrived back at our doorstep, bringing the good tidings as well as a bag of dog feces clutched in my hand like an especially pungent offering of frankincense.

But... you *could* sing, right? If you *had* to?, I countered. Billy Babel's expression was a roadmap of the exact strain of dismay visible on the face of a child upon whom it has just dawned for the very first time that it is possible for the ones you love to betray you very, very deeply:

(Oh come on, nobody even said you had to wear a tie, Billy.)

How bad could it possibly be?, I plied, after casually repeating our now-mandatory plans for the evening to reinforce the itinerary. Billy Babel cracked open an IPA and frowned in a sort of festively desperate way. 

But you grew up Catholic!, I persisted. You sang in church, right? You can at least understand a music staff, right?? I NEED YOU. Billy Babel sighed, barely containing his excitement at having been cornered. He downed his beer and reached immediately for the fridge handle in jolly silence.

That's the spirit!, I said merrily, pouring a hefty share of Bota-Box red into a glass. And so together, we began our preparation for the coming eve's caroling adventure.

Now, one might assume, given the audition-and-prerequisite-free, friendly-neighborhood-recreation nature of this gathering, that the songs chosen would be well-known classics accessible to singers of all ages and ability levels. One might also assume, having literally been recruited off the sidewalk whilst holding a warm bag of animal poop such as I had been, that the expected vocal skill of participants would span a wide range, including such well-intentioned but heavily novice merry-makers as Billy Babel and I.

One would be wrong.

(Well this verse seems easy enough...)

When Billy Babel and I semi-inebriatedly showed up in decidedly relaxed attire (read: elastic waistbands), following the smells of cookies and cinnamon-spiced cider at the promised hour, what we heard while pausing to shake off the Jack Frost-y cold and steady our collective drink-buzz in the entryway to the Community Hall was not, as expected, a boisterous cacophony of voices into which ours would easily blend. What we heard was not a babel at all. What we heard was orderly and coordinated and intimidatingly angelic. What we heard emanating from the Community Hall sounded like the goddamn Mormon Tabernacle Choir.

(Shit. And we forgot our neighborhood-issue robes!)

There were printed packets - each up to 20 double-sided pages - of this year's songs, most of which had clearly seen numerous rehearsal usages in the month leading up to this event. There were four-part harmonies. There were multiple-arrangement verses in other languages. There were accent solos flying about. There were our neighborhood's denizens all trimmed in their well-pressed (male) and most-sequined (female) holiday finery, harmonizing their blessedly earnest hearts out in pitch-perfect precision like all the Whos in Whoville. And all the chairs in the Community Hall had been pre-positioned into a large circle (I should have already known my neighbors' love for circles!), meaning there was nowhere for Billy Babel and I to discreetly hide.

Billy Babel tenderly crushed my winter-mittened hand in his as all eyes in the room turned our way, and he shot me the sort of one-millisecond between-lovers glancing look that's capable of canceling Christmas for at least the next three years.

(Noooobody notices our red noses, we're fine.)

And then we took the last two seats available, and our song-maestro announced the next selection would be an easy one for our newcomers to warm up with, whereupon everyone launched with eager precision into a sprightly and complex jingle that caused us to both silently panic and elbow one another frantically with holiday delight. This was not "Frosty the Snowman." This was not "We Wish You a Merry Christmas" or "Jingle Fucking Bells." This was not the humble, homey manger-gathering we'd been expecting.

Oh, just jump in on whichever voice part you normally sing, our song-maestro/captor stage-whispered in our direction with glee.

Yes yes, of course, whichever voice part we would normally sing! She clearly had no idea how meaningless this particular string of words was to both of us. There was no escape, outside of a Christmas miracle, which for Christ's sake did not come. So Billy Babel and I blinked back in yuletide horror at the ring of expectant celebrants, and without any remaining options, we both took deep breaths, and then took the plunge.

(Just... move... lips...)

It became immediately clear, to all in attendance who were not deaf, that this was not going to go well. 

While I alternated skillfully between complete lip-syncing and a timid and off-meter voice that could best be likened to the sweet sounds our puppy makes when she is desperate to get out the door with explosive diarrhea at 3 a.m., Billy Babel masterfully began booming out-of-tune notes in the style and cadence of a singing GoBot with several fuses blown. 

We killed it. 

Eyebrows began to politely arch around the circle, no doubt in amazement at our vocal stylings. The neighbor seated immediately to my left casually placed her finger into her right ear, causing our uplifted voices to slowly snowball into the staccato sounds of a losing battle to fight off hysterical laughter. Billy Babel and I struggled to keep it together, both of us trying and failing to tune each other out for at least a fighting chance of latching onto a neighbor's voice as a guide. But nobody was capable of guiding that sleigh tonight.

(Community Hall closed-circuit camera footage, closed-captioning added.)

After perhaps seven distinctly different verses broken out into at least five groups of rounds-singers, our simple warm-up song of peace and goodwill (or this is what I would guess it addressed, based on my limited familiarity with Latin verbiage) drew to a close. While one would think that the not singing part of any song would have naturally been our one moment to shine like the star of Bethlehem, this proved unexpectedly challenging: all the neighbors were apparently aware of some secret signal indicating when the final round had been sung, of which we had not been informed. Suddenly the entire ring of rosy-cheeked revelers silenced as though an unseen director had done the finger pinch, leaving our two atonal and now-unaccompanied voices to continue heedlessly mangling the opening notes of another round of our part, before falling into a rapid yet still uncoordinated fadeout. Billy Babel's eyes thereafter closed in what I can only presume was a private reverie of sugarplum fairies, while his entire body soundlessly began to shake like a bowlful of jelly for some reason.

(Sit up straight and use your diaphragm to really hit those last notes.)

One hour, or possibly several millenia later, we managed to beg out of the remaining ten or so songs in the packet under the pretense of puppy-kennel-training duty, exclaiming our warmest apologies, ere we skulked out of sight.

Returning to our house, we were enthusiastically greeted by said puppy belting out unbridled songs of great comfort and joy, which we accompanied with our own pent-up laughter until we were both in tears. Even the dog might have laughed a little. 

But you know what? That warmup song really did make our spirits bright - not to mention getting our vocal chords ready to unabashedly sing our own praises (to the top of the roof - to the top of the wall!) later on, just before settling in for a long winter's nap. 

And in the frosty gardens below, untouched snow glistened in the otherwise-silent night.

(...and to all, a good night!)

The Case of Billy Brilliant, Billy Bait-and-Switch, and the Recognition Curve

Short, relevant, scene-setting true story:

Back in the yachting Delirium years, I once came face to face with Owen Wilson on an island in the French West Indies and had a brief, unwittingly conversational exchange.

Owen freaking Wilson - probably one of the most distinctive, unmistakable Hollywood noses faces out there (not to mention his being Punchin' Judy's lifelong fave, hahahHAHAHA, Judy, suck it!). And as I walked away, my crew-mate at the time, who had witnessed the encounter, gave me the wink-wink-nudge-nudge-burst-into-delighted-giggles, and I had to have said crew-mate explain why. And then, after the ensuing barrage of facepalms, I tried with all my might, but really couldn't remember much detail about the guy I had just talked to or how much said guy did or did not look like the vague Bottlerocket-era Owen Wilson of my mind.

My point: I am the poster-child for why eyewitness identification is unreliable evidence in court.

(Oh right! Haha! Hi mom.)

This Billy case occurred maybe just a week after starting work in a new lab.

***

As it happened, one evening shortly after my first day on the clock, I approached a busy crosswalk in downtown Fort Billy, and through the gaps in passing traffic, I happened to spy Billy Brilliant standing across the intersection from me.

Who, you ask, is Billy Brilliant? Oh, right, I forgot:

(Betrothed - the most useless kind of Billy.)

So here's what you readers should understand: I'd just barely met Billy Brilliant, but by the time I spied him in the twilight that evening, I already knew that his smart-ass company was aces. Plus, since he was married and we were coworkers and so all the Potential Awkwards were just right off the table from the get-go, and what with being newish in town still and an irreparably-social creature at heart, I was just genuinely pleased to see someone I actually knew. And he must have seen me looking at him like I knew him, because after a few seconds he caught my eye and grinned just a little bit, chin up in a long-distance, familiar hello.

(You misunderstood my previous enthusiasm, Billy.)

Now, a normal person would feel relief or vindication or happiness or whatever it is normal people feel when they recognize and are recognized by a new acquaintance. But not me. Here is what my brain did as soon as Billy Brilliant's attention focused me: it hit a flying reverse. All of a sudden, my fickle, unreliably prosopagnosia-prone brain had reconsidered and was furiously drafting a dissent to the Solo v. Familiar Face ruling of a moment earlier.

Sure, this dude *looked* like Billy Brilliant (that's the suspect, officer), and he *acted* like he knew who I was (admission of guilt, your honor), and (another piece of circumstantial evidence, ladies and gentlemen of the jury!) he was dressed as if coming from the gym, which was a positive cue because yes, fine, I'd noticed in the course of working shoulder-to-shoulder at a fume extraction hood with Billy Brilliant that yeah, duh obv the man works out. But now, after both of us having performed all the social signals of positive recognition, now my wishy-washy brain decided it wasn't sure. Now my brain motioned for a mistrial.

This was unfortunate, because the moment of sentencing - where we would be within speaking range and one or both of us would have to say something - was nigh!

We both continued walking, closing the gap. Billy Brilliant continued making positive eye contact and flashed a dazzling smile. The gavel was poised.

 (Didn't your mom ever teach you it's not polite to stare BACK?)

PANIC. Nobody wants to suddenly be That Cray Witness who botches the suspect ID and points to the wrong stranger! But if I really didn't know him, then why else would this guy be, as he now was, fully locked in on me? I must know him. Right? The fuck? - do I have Capgras delusion or something?

(You know that moment of decision when you've met someone once, and the next time you speak, you realize you've forgotten their name and you have one of two choices: ask again and risk offense, or pretend and then commit to playing it off evermore, because by the third time you see them, you've already pretended to know, and so now admitting you never did know would be an order of magnitude weirder? I always choose wrong.)

( Heyyyy.... you.)

So I committed. I looked Billy Brilliant in the eyes and strode the final three steps toward him and then, at the last possible second of deliberations - reminiscent of that douchey frat-boy joke where you offer to shake someone's hand but then right as they reach for it you duck your palm and make the gotcha! face - this imposter swerved and shifted eye-contact as though all this body language was just in my head and walked past me and I realized that goddammit, this guy was definitely not my Billy!

 (What nothing I oh, there's that one thing you I mean where, me? No it's, haha.)

11th hour reprieve! We passed by one another like super-awkward chimera, and each completed our walks across the congested thoroughfare. But then.

We both stopped in our tracks. And turned.

 (Mitigating circumstance: under the effect of the Wrong-Guy-icus spell!)

And so, now on first appeal, we waited again through the motions of another orange-flashing Don't Walk cycle, he squinting intently at me, me looking away intently across the shadow-and-blinding-bright procession of low-beams and tail lights and illuminated cab signs and pyramid pizza delivery magnets rushing between us. I briefly considered turning and darting away through traffic to the opposite side of the street. But then, as I was still trapped by my own indecision on the mid-avenue island, the river of wheels came to a halt again.

The crosswalk flashed an "all-clear." Other pedestrians proceeded about their business.

And Billy Brilliant's ringer and I both just.

Fucking.

Stood there.

(Mentally replace, if you will, the crosswalk chirping with that O.K. Corral whistling-song.)

I shit you not - neither of us walked. The tension grew absurd. We both broke smiles.

As the Don't Walk rolled around again, he finally broke and jogged back toward me, and politely asked,

Do I know you?

It was clear to me now that I did not, in fact, know this guy from Adam. But the amnesty period for a confession had passed. Now was not the time for any lame  'you look like someone I know' alibis. Now was the time for pokerface. I raised my eyebrows and shook my head slowly.

No.

I thought I could see a quick deliberation happening in his head. Then, having reached his verdict, he extended his hand and introduced himself. A long handshake, a brief exchange, an offer to join him for a latte, and we turned and walked toward the nearest coffee shop together. Sale made.

Though I initially saw Billy Bait-and-Switch as probably the easiest date I've ever accidentally snagged, when I jokingly told Billy Brilliant about it the next day at work, he rolled his eyes and issued a quick bench trial ruling of his own: Pshhh. Billy Bait-and-Switch was likely the shark all along.

Jesus.

I have to say, for a science-not-pre-law kind of guy, I do admire Billy Brilliant's legal acumen.

Billy Bénédiction Saves the Day

Bénir - French: to bless, to thank the Gods for

Bénir any Billy who wears that fabulous of a tunic.

Once back in the Delirium years, against all common sense, I headed out surfing by myself.

I know, I know I shouldn't do this. Even at the time, I knew I especially probably shouldn't do this at L'endroit Sauvage, which was about a 20-minute fair-weather dinghy ride from where we regularly docked on this particular island in the French West Indies. Getting there involved motoring around the exposed side of the island, out on the windward side of the rock where the shore essentially openly received an Atlantic that had been rolling westward unfettered for an entire oceanic-basin-worth of space. But on the particular day in question I couldn't drum up anyone else available, and it was one of precious few days off between charters, and well, I felt like surfing.

(Them waves aren't chocolate, you know that, right?)

As soon as I got out of the bay, there were swells. I mean, big swells right there at the outskirts of the anchorage, which is still somewhat protected. So here was the scene: me standing at the jerking dinghy console, realizing it's windy as hell – the sort of wind that's blowing up whitecaps right outside the breakwall. The wind-and-water factors combine to make dinghy travel slow at best, un-doable at worst. I don't know about this. But whatever, I feel like surfing.

It takes me a long time to get to L'endroit Sauvage and when I do, there is nobody else there. Being as how this is a pretty popular surfing spot for island locals who know what they're doing, this is A Bad Sign. But it is breaking. Breaking big! In fact, it's big enough, and from a slightly shifted direction, so I can't even anchor the dinghy where I usually would, but have to keep it further down the shore from the point, and further offshore. I idle and consider this for a long time, getting tossed around on the wishbone bow of the pontoons while getting the anchor out and tying the bowline onto the end of the anchor chain.

Two thoughts come to mind: 

a) I neither have a knife,  

b) nor do I have my mask and fins with me in the dinghy. 

(S. Solo Standard Protocol Item 126, Article 34.5: Do not admit, proceed as if nothing wrong.)

Even though I've never had trouble with the bottom here before, every once in a while, there's bound to be a struggle getting the anchor back up, in which case both the above checklist items are standard supplies in case of just-in-case.

Stupid me. Wonder... I wonder... if I should scrap the whole thing?

I notice that I'm already at a certain psychic level of unease – I can feel it uncoiling in my lungs and behind my navel. I know I probably shouldn't ignore it. But goddammit, I feel like surfing!

I know full well that of them all (and there are plenty), maybe my most staggering character flaw is impenetrable stubbornness, and with this in mind I've made a standing deal with myself about all things to do with forces that give absolute-zero shits about me (e.g., the sea and the mountains) – that never, ever will I force what doesn't feel right. So I sit in the cloud-scudded streaks of fleeting sun out there offshore, squinting at the azure surrounding me, trying to think and also, to not think at all in order to let some sort of clarity surface in me, just holding the anchor and chain for a minute.

Two minutes.

Then, the sign:

A turtle surfaces an arm's-length away: a big lazy green olive in the sapphire martini of the water. She cranes her neck to check me out, a fidgeting alien on my floating, wave-crashing white spacecraft – first out of one eye, then a slow head turn to double-check with the other. She is unhurried, unworried, mellow as moss while she comes closer. I keep waiting for her to realize what I am, for her millennia-long memory to remind her she is shy, to snort alarm and dive deep and fast. But she doesn't, so we just watch each other, me fiddling with the anchor flukes, her blowing tiny spumes of salt spray out of silent reptilian nostrils. 

Hi there, turtle.

It calms me down – maybe it's spiritual? – and when she does finally serenely turn and slip away, a tarnished green penny carrying some secret terrapin wish down with her as she slices and wavers out of view, I nod to myself. I have gotten the feeling that it's going to be OK.  

I am listening, Turtle. Gotcha. 

I set the anchor open and chuck it overboard.

It's a long paddle from here, and the chop is big enough that very soon, even sitting up as tall as I can on my shortboard I can't see the dinghy for seconds at a time while it ducks down between swells. It makes me nervous to lose sight of it – not so much for myself, but for the nightmare of the anchor dragging, or the line breaking, and the $30,000+ dinghy with its brand-new outboard blowing into the rocks before I can paddle back to it. It is the rough equivalent of parking a Mercedes without a hand-brake in the San Francisco hills and hoping for the best. 

Shit, it's a long way off.

Maybe this is not too safe. 

But Turtle said it's cool and maybe Turtle is my spirit-animal and hey, I feel like surfing!

L'endroit Sauvage break is windy. Confused. Coming in fast. I pearl and get rolled right off the bat and kick coral on my way around the washing-machine, and then even after I get back out and settled I keep feeling the bottom snagging my leash and I start thinking maybe, just maybe I am being supremely foolish for being out here alone today... 

Am I? 

(All this poor judgment, PLUS I didn't even put sunscreen on my bald spot.)

Once it takes root, the idea grows geometrically. 

Oh my god. 'The fuck am I doing? This is ridiculous. I'm not up to this. I'm too old to be this stupid.  Because of a *turtle?* Really, Susie?! REALLY. Your spirit animal is a jackass.

So I cut my losses and start paddling back and lo and behold, when I catch sight of it, the dinghy is a lot farther down the shore than when I left it. 

Fuck! (Paddlepaddlepaddle...) 

(THANKS Obama.)

By the time I get to it, the anchor has stopped dragging and has caught again, but it's now closer to shore, meaning the waves are stacking up bigger underneath it, and the dinghy is slapping down on them like a kid having a tantrum, angry at the ungiving anchor line. 

Great. What the fuck NOW, Turtle?

I can't pull it up. Every time I get a few feet of line on board, the 1,000-pound dinghy takes a rearward-hop on a wave and burns it back out of my hands. The anchor is not budging. 

Well isn't *this* just perfect? 

(Stuck between the devil and the deep blue sequins, here.)

I pull, tug, wrench, strain, try to time it with the waves, and almost get yanked overboard when the bottom snatches every hard-won inch of line back from me. 

Fuuuuck. 

I try idling forward while pulling, then I try to drive in front of it, try to back around it, pull it the other way, nothing. 

FUCKFUCKFUCK. 

The sun is getting lower. The wave sets are pushing tighter together. The tide is getting higher. Nothing good can possibly come from any of these developments.

I have to swim. I have to try to unhook the anchor off the bottom at the source. Aaaand, I have to do this shit without mask and fins. Jesus. I'm trying to remember how long the new, longer anchor line I just replaced last week at the ship-chandler a couple islands over is. 

Maybe 25 feet? Plus another 5 or so feet of chain? 

I jump back in and tread water, trying to think this out. No mask means I'll have to pull myself down the line, since I won't really be able to see shit. 

Which will make equalizing my ears a bitch. 

No fins means... well, I've had to swim the anchor up before when it's gotten lodged after taking guests snorkeling and whatnot, and with the chain in tow, it's maybe 10 pounds. Maybe 15. Even with fins, it's a good strong kick getting that load back to the surface. And without? I have never tried.

You don't float carrying that much steel.

I breathe deep, trying to get all oxygenated.

OK, go now. Think Turtle.

Pull, pull, pull down the line. Eyes open, everything is murky and stirred up and I can barely see my hands when they're stretched out to full arm's-length. The line is just a dark blurry stripe, and I can't tell with each grab-and-pull if I'm reaching for nylon or chain until I touch it. It seems really goddamn cocksucking sonofabitch motherfucking long. The dinghy on the surface is thrashing at the line like an unruly dog put on a leash for the first time ever. 

Even if I get to the anchor, what then, if it's still under pressure with nobody on-board to drive up on the line? A little help here, Turtle?

Line. Line. Line. Line. Chain. 

Chain! My fingers are on chain! But I am out of air. 

Go up now. 

The line is snapping like a bullwhip. 

Go up now. 

My nose, my bitchy little nose that is used to being masked, is wanting air really badly, rebelliously, starting unbidden to hiccup little leaks of water inward. 

Go up NOW. 

None of my meditative Delirium nights spent lying on-deck looking at the stars and practicing static apnea for three-minute stints of breath-holding – and there have been many, what with the Billyless nature of boat-life – are currently doing me any good in this turbid, aerobic-goal-oriented hell. I have to let go, have to surrender to a flutter of almost-involuntary kicks, and myopically I watch the bright fuzzy surface nearing. It's stranglingly slow. I feel crippled without fins, like my bare feet are some impotent, embryonic mishap. A turtle I am not.

(You're out of your element, Susie.)

Back on the dinghy, I see a lone Billy watching from the beach. He gets on a surfboard, which he has till now wisely shunned, and starts to paddle out. I secretly say a little blessing at this sight.

Maybe he has a mask! Fins! Or a miracle! Quelle bénédiction!

As he nears the dinghy I'm disappointed to see that he does not have a mask or fins, but I pull his board up and he gamely volunteers to try for the bottom himself, while I sumiltaneously drive forward to take the pressure off the line. He dives for it... 

(oh please oh please oh please!) 

...but comes up a minute later out of breath and empty-handed and sputtering, then climbs on board, and we sit, gathering ourselves, thinking. 

Finally he asks, You have a knife?

Well yeah, I *should* have a knife. I *should* have a mask and fins. I *should not* have come out without these things, I fucking knew this before the fact. I should not have come out by my damn self. I should not have come out today at all. And I *certainly* should not have let an effing *turtle* tip my mental balance.

But, out loud, all I have is the admission that No, I don't have a knife.

We sit, surfboards stacked wax-to-wax between us, and watch each other drip-dry in the wind. There is nothing left to do but break something.

So Billy Bénédiction lies belly-down, hanging forward over the bow, and I again drive up on the line. It comes tight and the outboard starts kicking up bubbles because we are not going anywhere. I open the throttle some more and the steering gets squirrelly in a way that you should never feel. And then I open it up some more. 

Are you watching this, you jerk Turtle? 

The bow, my cohort too, gets pulled down low into the waves, getting socked squarely in the chops by them instead of riding over their backs. This is the point-of-no-return: either something gives, or the dinghy will swamp and this ride is over.

Goddammit, you see this bullshit, you stupid Turtle?! Is this funny to you? 

And then there is a shudder, a lurch, the dinghy rears up like a hornet-stung racehorse for a moment before I can cut the engine and Billy Bénédiction yells something, hauling in the line quickly, hand-over-hand, to keep it out of the prop. At the end is chain and the anchor shaft, with all four flukes ripped off: galvanized steel, dismembered and left to drown. But we are free! We both let out a wide-eyed little laugh, looking at the shaft, shaking heads, shrugging. 

You're welcome for my anchor, you awful Turtle! You terrible, mean lying Turtle you!

(Next year for your turtle birthday: mylar balloons. Lots of them.)

I drop Billy Bénédiction back off as near to the beach as the dinghy can safely approach with the current waves, spouting merci beaucoups, and we split, one paddling toward shore and one steering away. 

***

The next morning, when I got back from buying a new anchor and was prepping the deck for our imminent departure on a passage, I found a note with a French island phone number tucked under our dockline, which read:  

America – L'endroit Sauvage – Surfing?

To this day, I occasionally randomly regret that I didn't act quickly enough to put some credits on Delirium's shitty island-cell-phone to give him a thank-you call before we sailed away. 

I never even got his name, but I mean, I owed the guy a drink, at least. 

And maybe some turtle soup.

Billy Bavaria and The Sound of Music

Some years and life-stages after the Delirium epoch became a thing of the past, I still count Billy Billionaire as one of my most favorite humans on the planet. To that end, we've stayed in touch the way you might imagine staying in touch with a wealthy, hedonistic septuagenarian of the Rat-Pack era might entail: Billy Billionaire occasionally transglobally drunk-dials me to belt out some long-distance Sinatra; I occasionally day-call him back and get rather rapidly hung up on, as Billy Billionaire is invariably operating at full steam in some philanthropic or art-collector-world social engagement or courtside-spectating a high-profile sporting event. And every six or so months, I receive an invite and accompanying plane ticket offer to come share martinis with him in Aspen or LA or Hawaii or on a sailboat afloat somewhere in the world.

Being as how upward of 40 years passed between our respective birthdays and we mostly frequent the sort of upscale locales where the high-stakes Hollywood-type long-con is ubiquitous, we also tend to garner a lot of judging looks from bystanders who likely think they are witnessing a May-December gold-digging effort in full swing. The truth, though, is this: my association with Billy Billionaire has platonically outlasted a litany of actual romantic Billys who have come and gone over the years. It has made me both much more aware of, and critically skeptical of the sort of social pressures that dictate who should have what sort of affiliation with whom (here's a spoiler: they're all bullshit). And, my friendship with Billy Billionaire has brought me into the yearly-reunion orbit of several absolutely amazing women, who I completely adore and would nowadays classify as some of the most solid girlfriends out there (unfortunately, way out there, geographically speaking).

And, it's been a fucking fun friendship (I like to think for both of us), so when you boil it down, that's not a bad deal at all.

(To be fair, the glares may have been less about the age difference and more about the bicycle being ridden inebriatedly into the bar, Billy.)

So one time, long ago and far away, Billy Billionaire and I and two of the abovementioned gals - I'll call these lovelies Ms. Boston (the sexy fashion model) and Ms. Backwoods (the Amazonian beauty) - went on a boat trip. Not just any old boat - no, Billy Billionaire had an attack of nostalgia and decided to charter his own good old familiar Sailing Yacht Delirium, which he had sold several years prior.

This is the story.

***

Holy shit, she was in shabby shape.

From the end of the dock, she still showed the lines of the elegant old racehorse she'd once been. But on closer inspection, as we took off our shoes and stepped aboard, it was painfully clear that she was hurting for maintenance. Everywhere, there were over-worn cushions, threadbare seams, unpolished stainless, unshaved teak, unbuffed waterlines, unscrubbed exhaust and docking smudges. It was a little bit like finding a former showring champion put untended out to pasture, bony and ungroomed and long in the tooth. This sort of neglect would never have stood under Billy Billionaire's benevolent reign.

(Well this should be a fantastic ride!)

That was the vessel. Now, if you can take that mental image and lower your expectations just a touch more from there, you have our Friendly Charter Crew.

Exhibit A: the Mate. She is no less than 50 years old, a chain smoker, an obvious and only semi-functional alcoholic, covered in questionable tattoos, and unkempt in even the most generous sense of the word. She has the voice of an angel, if that angel's throat had been stuffed with gravel and sawdust and beef jerky and then baked at high temperatures for several hours, has a laugh that would shut a junkyard dog right up, and exhibits a passion for actually working on-deck that rivals that of a sloth with mono. She is the epitome of a Leather Handbag. She is immediately amusing, but (or possibly because) she is also utterly useless.

Exhibit B: the Chef. He is a strangely-mannered, socially-awkward little Austrian fellow with a shrill voice, an unsettling way of moving about very quickly like one of those spiders that jumps unpredictably everywhere instead of walking with its eight goddamn legs, and body-language that Billy Billionaire quickly pegs spot-on as follows: "I'm pretty sure the small Nazi is going to try to kiss me. Or kill me." The Chef, too, clearly has no ambition to expand his duties beyond the galley, which arrangement all of us actually prefer.

Exhibit C: the Captain. His name is Dusty and he is squishy and easily sunburned and he is just terrified, *terrified* of Delirium. Incompetent is too gentle of a word, so I'll put it this way: Dusty is in so far over his head that it's unclear if this man has ever been at the helm of another vessel in his life, or if perhaps he is just a middle-management financial-sector-type guy who had a mid-life crisis in Fort Lauderdale and hasn't quite figured out how to get himself back out of this particular jam and into something more suitable, such as used-car sales, yet. He has no concept of the physics involved in the docking of a boat, nor those of casting off lines in sequence to leave a dock. He does not seem aware of the series of tasks necessary to raise the sails. He is absurdly afraid to take the boat into anchorages, even though they are well-charted and deep and Billy Billionaire and I have sailed to each of them innumerable times before on this very boat.

He also, of course, does not receive any assistance whatsoever from his two crewmembers - and I know from years of physical experience that Delirium often takes two strong and competent bodies to safely maneuver in good weather. Billy Billionaire, because he is a wonderful reader of people and also a hilarious asshole, picks up Dusty's furtive trepidation toward All Things Sailing before we even leave the dock, and gives us all a wide-eyed "heeere we go!" smile and wink-wink-wink-WINK-WINK. He insists on calling our Captain "The Duster," which Dusty does not like but about which he can't really do anything. Another thing The Duster doesn't like is when I offer to help with docklines, but he doesn't have much choice about this, either, since his other two crew are already nowhere to be found when the time quickly comes to leave port.

Where Delirium's current ownership ever found such a band of incompetent misfits, I honestly have no idea. But fuck it - ahoy! All aboard! Anchors aweigh!

(Unclear if this .gif is of our hapless crew, or of Ms. Boston, Ms. Backwoods, and I at the exact moment our carriage has arrived.)

Several alarming things happen in rapid succession: the boat's entire hydraulic system goes kaput (or, more honestly, was probably already fucked before our charter began) as the mainsail is halfway up the mast, and there is no winch handle aboard with which to manually continue raising it. The engine has already been cut when this happens, and requires a crew member to go belowdecks to be restarted, but The Duster politely declines my offer to perform this task and instead, announces that no big deal, we'll just drop anchor. This is also a catastrophe because the anchor chain will not feed out of its locker at a rate of more that one painstaking goddamn link at a time, because of corrosion and a broken guide-pipe, which means we are drifting, anchor not up but anchor not down, either, blinking at each other and stifling laughter like shitty children in church. Meanwhile The Duster, already bright pink and sweating profusely in what is clearly a years-old Delirium polo shirt that is two sizes too small (a leftover from my era aboard), is toeing the line of panic up at the bow, wrestling with the dangling anchor, which is probably 75 pounds of galvanized steel and which, due to mild waves and aforementioned physics of which The Duster's grasp is woefully deficient, is swinging with a distinctly axe-like chopping motion into the hull.

But The Duster has a Plan-B (or -C or -D or -WhateverLetterWe'reOnAlready). He springs into action and hauls the dinghy up alongside the boat, jumps in, and unties his tethering line, on his way to a heroic anchor-debacle rescue.

Except after he launches himself, the dinghy doesn't start. The Duster levels a stare of dull sorrow at us, his passengers lined up on the edge of Delirium, the distance between us widening lazily as he drifts away, with a look on his face that I can only describe as utterly deflated. You can just tell that nothing this wholly demoralizing ever used to happen in his cubicle-farm job.

(Accounting department Teambuilding Day was always such a hoot, eh Duster?)

Speaking of deflating and the inflatable-pontoon dingh--No. No, you know what? I'm getting distracted here and this story, much as it could continue to grow like some sort of sad, sad superhero among stories were I to set it free, isn't about The Duster. Miraculously, and unbeknownst to him, The Duster had someone else on board who would soon divert the harsh spotlight from even his incompetence.

This story is about our odd little chef.

This story is the story of Billy Bavaria.

***

Things first started to get a little weird when I noticed that Billy Bavaria was sneaking extras onto my plate when he brought the china up to the table for every meal. A little homemade chocolate candy here, a heart-shaped bit of cream-puff there - all things he would set before me, in front of Billy Billionaire, Ms. Boston and Ms. Backwoods, without a word of explanation.

Naturally, because my abiding love for Punchin' Judy has done nothing for my self-esteem if not for digging deep, permanent holes in which body-image-based self-loathing has been the hardiest weed to take root, I at first assumed these little additional tidbits might be Billy Bavaria's way of trying to fatten me up and push me onto the "No Longer Needs Buoyancy Devices" passenger-safety-watch list.

(Someday you will eat those words, Judy. Unless I get to them first.)

But then he began doing things like winking with each delivery, and then intently staring into my eyes for as long as possible while backing away toward the galley, as if maybe he was casting some sort of witchcraft spell that would steal my soul later in the night. This, of course, did not go entirely unnoticed or at all un-latched-onto-and-then-underhandedly-encouraged by the rest of the gang. The most ripe-for-humor wild-card thing about it was, though, that while Billy Bavaria displayed this undue fixation with me, he also seemed to have an insatiable urge for physical contact with Billy Billionaire. None of us knew what to make of it, other than an unending and escalating series of inside jokes. And so that is exactly what we made of it - and how.

Our week on Delirium generally looked like this:

Me, darting back and forth across the length and beam of the boat and up and down the mast as The Duster glumly and relentlessly sets us up for our next narrowly-averted sailing catastrophe. Me, scrambling to keep us from crashing into such wily objects as docks or other boats at anchor or large stationary islands, all the while also doggedly avoiding the accursed experience of eye contact with Billy Bavaria, who would invariably pop his head abovedecks to do the Dahmer-stare at me in action and who would occasionally come up behind me when I was working a line or otherwise occupied with a task from which I couldn't physically depart, to whisper compliments and to mention his desire for a sailing ladyfriend on his own small liveaboard sailboat in the Dutch West Indies. Me, in what retrospectively just had to be the world's most annoying attempt at helpfulness, starting so many conversational sentences with The Duster with the words Y'know, just a suggestion, but when *I* was on Delirium, we used to... 

Meanwhile, the rest of the gang raptly looking on, like front-row ticketholders at some sort of Captain-Ron-Meets-Cirque-du-Soleil show, in emotional states ranging from horrified breath-holding to hysterical under-breath laughing. And throughout, The Leather Handbag could always be seen, a slouching, haggard fixture at the stern of the boat behind a panicked Duster, intently dragging on her fifth cigarette of any given hour and gazing obliviously off toward Give-A-Fuck Island, which was always geographically situated in the exact opposite direction from the action of whatever current crisis The Duster had managed to create in that particular fifteen minute block of time.

(To be fair, thick clouds of smoke *can* be disorienting.)

So over the course of our charter various ports and beaches and coves were visited, several tan lines were created, endlessly-compounding jokes of the sort that left us all chronically breathless sprang to life (to wit: to this day, Billy Billionaire and Ms. Boston and Ms. Backwoods and I all still reflexively refer to this sailing trip as "The Voyage of the Damned"), and innumerable cocktails were consumed. Perhaps needless to say, while The Leather Handbag had shown enough restraint to wait to partake with us until approximately 4 pm on our first day out, after this zen-master-like exertion of willpower, she was quite possibly never truly sober aboard for the remainder of the week. This meant we did a fair amount of our own cocktail-fixing from that point on, but somehow, we persevered. In fact, so inspiring was our perseverance that one evening about halfway through the week Billy Bavaria, who had initially announced that he was something like ten years sober, invited himself to join us for a high-octane nightcap.

(This... is... cool with you guys, right? (*asked Billy Bavaria, never))

Of course shit just rolled downhill from there.

By which I mean, our time as paying guests on Delirium was the most ridiculous, horrendous, shockingly unprofessional shit-show of a charter I can imagine (and that's saying something after years in yachting). Also, it was simply the most delightful charter ever.

***

Suddenly our final evening had arrived. As it's customary for guests to treat their crew to a restaurant dinner ashore at the wrap-up of a charter, Billy Billionaire booked a table for seven at a local joint. We all dressed up and trooped in, and the martinis began to flow. Clearly, tonight was going to be do or die for Billy Bavaria, and so I made very certain not to be stuck sitting anywhere near him. Instead, Billy Billionaire and I escaped to one end of our long, white-linened table, while Billy Bavaria was pinned at the other end, next to Ms. Boston.

Martinis were ordered. Bread was broken. Abs were worked to their limit via laughter. Other patrons were overwhelmed and likely offended. And once the details were all a bit blurred, we trooped back to Delirium, where the party continued in proper Billy Billionaire fashion. At one point, as I began to confusedly put myself to bed in Billy Billionaire's stateroom, I was blessedly intercepted by Ms. Boston, who gracefully escorted me to our shared cabin. Lights out.

(I feel you kid. I feel you.)

In the morning, Billy Billionaire and Ms. Backwoods take off for the airport first thing, leaving Ms. Boston and I to breakfast and pack up for our own respective flights home without them. I wake to Ms. Boston's stirring in the opposite bunk, and her sneaking out the door for coffee. Then, the next thing I know, our cabin door has burst open again and in one blink Billy Bavaria has scuttled across the room, locking the door closed behind himself and landing in a crouch next to my bed.

(Agghgggagguhuhghaaaaahhhh!!)

I have quite possibly never felt more trapped in my life. While I'm struggling to keep what few linens are in use on a boat in the tropics clutched resolute between us like a shield, Billy Bavaria is reaching for my hands, which are also propelling me backwards in the bed toward the aft wall with surprising speed and force, hangover considered. And as he is pawing for my wrists, he is laying out his offer to me:

Susie, you have to come home to my boat with me. I am in love with you. Step aboard, my princess.

Being as how I was at most 35% awake, I honestly can't remember exactly how I responded. But "step aboard, my princess??" I can say my reply entailed some form of a confused and gutteral waiyghhhh, whuughh? and then, in rapid succession, no. Nononono.

Billy Bavaria seems shocked.

You are confused. We are soul mates, Susie. I KNOW we are soul mates! You will live with me.

Again, Nononono. Whuck-No!

Now Billy Bavaria wants answers.

Why would you not start this life with me? Why would you fight destiny? I will fill my whole boat up with fine liquor for you, if that is what it takes. You WILL BE MY BRIDE.

Well now hold a sec, the gentleman *does* make a seductive offer. But still, Nonononono. UhaaanhauhNO.

And finally, because my brain has at last turned over and the engine has caught and is now fully firing and has simultaneously remembered I am not wearing pants and also processed how many boundaries are being flagrantly broken in this room and not by me, GET OUT OF HERE. NOW. GETOUTGETOUTGETOUT. GET! OUT!

(Time to floor it.)

Billy Bavaria stares me down in trembling silence, his face maybe five inches from mine and frozen in an expression that is at once shocked and enraged, then retreats in another fast-motion leap. I scramble out of bed once the door clicks shut to throw the bolt behind him, truly shaken. What. The. FUCK?

When Ms. Boston returns, I tell her a quick summary, after which we both state the obvious out loud, essentially in tandem: We have to get the FUCK off this boat.

***

Imagine the way you might pack if you have been ordered to evacuate your house because of an all-consuming fire sweeping toward your neighborhood. Imagine how you might gather your possessions if you had just heard the alarm begin to sound that indicated the final rover was about to depart from the suddenly catastrophically-crippled space station you used to call home. Imagine how you might throw your life into a bag if you had witnessed the haunting mushroom-cloud flash of nuclear Armageddon, and were subsequently counting down the precious few moments remaining in which to get below-ground. Ms. Boston and I put those scenarios to shame.

But in the midst of this flurry, we began to hear something strange.

Is that... music? I asked Ms. Boston, cocking my head.

Ms. Boston listened and made an involuntary face, much like an infant first tasting a lemon (but sexier, because this is Ms. Boston). If it is, it's nothing I would ever EVER listen to, she said with a look of disgust.

It got louder. It began to drown out our packing. It became an almost unbearable racket. And finally, in part because my goddamn freediving fins were still on the back deck of the boat and had to be fit into my bag, but also because what the eff?, I threw open our cabin door.

I was met with the sight of Billy Bavaria, seated in a chair in Delirium's main salon. He was pointedly facing directly toward our door, blasting James Blunt, mouthing the words, and there were rivers of tears streaming freely down his face. 

You're byooo-tih-fuhhl... (tears and unmistakably homocidal glare during other awful James Blunt "lyrics")  'cause I'll nevehhh bee with youuuhh...

This was just fucking fever-pitch insanity.

(Yes, for GODSAKES, I said James fucking Blunt - the man has LOST IT.)

I accidentally made eye contact one last involuntary time, whilst slamming the door back shut immediately. Fins be damned, nothing is worth that.

***

Later, after Ms. Boston and I had literally fled down the dock - our carelessly-stuffed baggage in tow like that of refugees desperate to make the last boat out of Cuba - to the marina office, a thoroughly defeated Duster shuffled down the dock to join us, carrying a shopping bag of lukewarm canned beer he had salvaged from somewhere in the galley. With his bloodshot eyes averted, he let out the sort of inadvertent sigh that communicates nothing if not an utter and complete Oh FUCK this shit, popped one open and drank half of it in a single long pull, and only then, as if an afterthought, wordlessly offered us each a tepid can. He hadn't even bothered with coozies. Right then it was clear: The Duster, more than anyone I have ever before or since witnessed, had reached the end of his rope. The Duster was done.

This... said The Duster, dropping his head to his hand for several seconds of disheveled, morose silence, ...this is... the worst thing I have *ever* been involved in. I am truly, truly sorry.

I'm not entirely certain, what with the mild PTSD from the morning's earlier events clouding my attention to detail, but I'm pretty sure The Duster and Ms. Boston and I silently warm-brew toasted this proclamation as if it were a solemn oath. 

***

I hope, for The Duster's sake, it remains an unbroken - nay, unbreakable - record.