THE HIDDEN TRACK

The following passages are dedicated to Leopold, to the vernacular, to certain evil women (you know who you are), to certain wonderful people(they know who they are), to soft afternoons and quiet Sunday evenings, to Fall and seeing your breath for the first time since Spring, and to Isabelle Ya Feng ... a soul slipped by like two ships passing in the still, moonlit sea.
-- Abraham Ahmed, the Surfing Beatnik



The Captain and the Art of Pissing...

I sorta laughed to myself as I watched him from across the small faded blue boat, sitting there, pole in hand, mouth static, eyes affixed on the horizon, thoughts on days long past, perhaps?

I looked at my own pole and realized that I had a long road ahead before becoming him. I admired his stoicness and I smiled at his practiced facade of roughness and gruff.



He was old. He was quiet. He was who he was... He was all surfaced.

He wore a pair of old cowboy boots that yearned for saddle soap, polish, and brush. They were cracked and wore medals of soil from locations unknown to me. They were propped, boot over boot, on the side of the boat, resting near the outstretched pole. One boot was neatly sheltered by a pant leg and the other was fully exposed as he, perhaps unknowingly, allowed the opposite leg of his bib overalls ("Overhalls as he referred to them in jest")to gather at the boots top. He would walk into any store this way and feel not the slightest bit of shame for it.

He leaned back in his seat, a bench with a boating pad. His bottom lip jutted forward and he sat with his chin in his chest, eye cast to the horizon of water-side cabins and private docks of folks who earn more per annum than her ever did or ever would.

"Grandpa, I have to take a leak." I said in question form. I look around as if searching for a restroom - the commonplace thing to do when searching for an answer.

No Answer came.

I stood and walked towards the edge of the boat and readied myself on the boat's starboard side, away from the fisherman. Dick in hand eyes, aiming at the water, 'thousand-meter-stare, pissing pose.

"Whoa! What the hell are you doing?" Grandpa yelled interupting my coming urine and frightening me to shyness!

"I'm pissing Grandpa, what's the matter!?" This kindly gent was one of a very few in my family that tolerated cursing. He executing his with a sailor's skill and allowed the shit's and bastard's to cough from his mouth course and throaty.

"Nope. Nope. Shit, you're gonna piss on my boat!" He searched the boat's cluttered equipment for something.

"No I won't Grandpa!" I laughed. "I'm'ana piss in the water... I'm practically hanging off the side!"

"Doesn't matter... You'll drip dammit! I don't want you pissing on my boat!" He said not wanting to discuss any further. He leaned forward and handed me an old Minute-Maid orange juice jug. The upper portion had been cut out to a large hole and the jug's handle remained.

"...Use this."

There was an old piece of twine tied to the handle - the other end secured to one of the lashings on the boat's side. Why? I had no idea. The jug that at one time brought great joy to the buyer as it sat cooled behind glass doors in the grocery store now acted as a urinal for my grandpa so as not to allow any piss to contact any portion of his blue boat.

I stepped down and took it from him... Orange, faded, label wrinkled and torn away in places. I maintain a look of question on my face waiting for him to smile and tell me he was only joking... but he didn't.
He repositioned himself in his seat,
turned away from me,
and continued his fishing.

Still standing on the edge, jug in hand, I looked down and studied the boat's panorama. The floor-boards were covered with mud, sand, and a little garbage. The blue seats with white piping trim were now faded and torn. There were a few beer cans from past excursions crushed and pushed under ledges and benches. The boat was a mess.

Why does it even matter if I pee off the edge of the boat and who cares if I twinkled a little piss on the boat's side, bench, or floor? I mean, this was no yacht with mimosas and sails.

Though fearing my grandpa's legal authority as a captain of this vessel of the high seas I complied. I stood, held the make-shift urinal to my open fly and relieved myself until I was done.

"Now what?"

"You done already?" He said without turning to me. I have always been a short pisser.

"Yes grandpa!" I said laughing "Now what?"

He turned to me, "Now, throw the damn thing in the water."

Simple enough.

I flung the jug into the water and was instantly thrilled at now knowing what the twine was for: To reel it back in without having to reach my hand into the urine infused lake water.

"Rinse it out on the other side of the boat"

I did as he instructed
and I understood why.

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