The “Stay Birds” on this island have just endured a
berserk amount of rain; a year’s worth of water in a week. It’s almost more than Manasota can gut and a
good thing the Gulf can’t flood ‘cause it certainly would have with this
recent diluvium. Fortunately, the sand sucked some
down but several fair ponds survive yet—complete with egrets spearing sprat and
frogs.
Speaking of sand spits, we, my French Michelle and
me, are hoping to do some hopping tonight, island hopping, that is. First to Boca and an early soiree with rich friends;
then to Sanibel, and a late soiree with rich enemies. I’ll be sure to explain later . . . I’m
pretty sure I will . . . I might not . . . I probably won’t . . . I know I won’t
. . . I won’t explain a damned thing even if I’m tortured!
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Other than Russian Roulette, I rate Florida parasailing as the riskiest
form of entertainment on, above or below earth. The odds of surviving after being strapped
into a harness and hoisted three hundred feet above the Gulf on a flimsy kite are
maybe just a bit better than placing a loaded pistol to your head and pulling
the trigger. I’m sure the water rec
“industry” has some lovely slick stats to prove that their “sport” is safer than
sitting in grandma’s kitchen eating apple pie, but I ain’t swallowing that
camel.
Every day one will see a parasailor or two just off our beaches. The skies are never full of them, however,
and the percentage of people who actually go aloft is very, very small compared
to those who wisely remain down here on terra sanda. Yet, of that small percentage of those who do
go up there alive, it seems a very, very high percentage of them come back down
to earth dead. We have three or so
outfits here that offer parasailing, among other sports, and judging by the
looks and actions of the “experts”—I see ‘em most every day--I would have a
healthy problem entrusting my forever tomorrows with any of these dudes.
Two teens up at Panama City Beach in the Florida panhandle were up the
other day when their rope snapped during a sudden zephyr. Unlike most parasailing deaths, in which the
surprised victims just fall flat and splatter at a hundred miles an hour, these
two 17-year-old girls from Indiana were swept toward the beach where they were
dashed into a tall condo, then flung into a power line, and finally dumped onto
a parking lot. They are in critical
condition as I type, but they will die.
The rope “snapped!” What kind of
sewing string must these people be using?
There are flexible cords available that could pull the Queen Mary and
yet they cannot attach a line that will safely pull two light-as-feather teens
for fifteen minutes?
Note: If your instinct—that little nagging voice deep inside you—says,
“Nope, this ain’t for me. Hitching up
and entrusting my past, present and future to a boat load of individuals/imbeciles
I know not is not for me!” then HEED THAT VOICE! That voice may not always end with the most
exciting or memorable results but it is your “voice” and it is the most
important safety mechanism you have in life.
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Our little leapin’ lizards livin’ life lazy, just a lolling and a
loafing and a laying round the ranch, just sippin’ life’s wine slowly. Our thousand or so that manage to exist on,
around and sometimes in this Banana Cabana—we just cupped a baby on a
window and put him out; maybe an inch long--do so at a slow pace, little
concerned with we humans. At the library
this morning I noted that the lizards there are also largely lethargic. I suppose the lizards move pretty fast when
they have to—say on a school play ground or at a chicken ranch—but these critters
that share the digs with us are as tame as white rice.
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Forty-eight-year-old Jerry Hayes
got into a physical misunderstanding last Saturday afternoon at a so-called
”Gentleman’s Club” up at Tampa. Since he
was tossed out on his head, I reckon old Jer lost the fight. Drunk, stupid, mean, murderous, and above
all, mad, when Hayes saw Fred Turner coming out of an adjoining adult book
store a short time later he mistook the steamer for his former fight foe and
yelled a curse or two at him (well, he was
drunk and the bar was dark). When Fred fled, Jerry jumped into his truck
and gave chase up Interstate-4 toward Orlando, determined to get some revenge
for the public beat-down. Fred, of
course, didn’t have a clue why a maniac was chasing him.
As the terrified Turner pegged in
911 on his cell, Jerry drew alongside and began pointing a pistol out his
window. The 911 call taker answered—“Okay,
what’s your beef? Talk to me”--heard
gunfire, then her phone went dead. Pun
intended.
After this little rage-rage which
ended in road-rage, Jerry is in the jug now charged with murder in one degree
or another. Meanwhile, forty-seven
forever Fred is winging his way to that big X-rated porn shop in the sky.
Gentleman’s club? . . . Adult book store? . . .
These birds sound like anything but gentlemen
or adults.
