Tweet
Well, howdy campers.
Yeah, another epic from those Expats who live in the Middle East.
It’s March (“bloody Smarch weather”), the temperature’s rising (now 34C heading to its June record of 54C) and time for the annual; oh, save me: “Regatta”.
Sigh.
A bunch of blow-boats tacking around Fahul Island (some 4 km distant) and racing back, against the wind. To the beach where beer, bar-be-que and buxom broads (sorry, needed for the alliteration) frolic in a general joie de vivre of having accomplished that which numerous Iranian illegals do so on a daily basis.
Amidst all this foofoorah, there’s the concurrent “Fahul Island Swim”, where certain masochistic types pony up OR 15 and swim from the island (see previous) to receive accolades and a bowl of real Texas chili (which I, as a native Wisconsinian (by way of Houston) have made (no beans…just wouldn’t be right)).
It’s a general good excuse to get loaded and have a good time doing so.
The proceeds go to Oxfam or the Red Crescent Society; so it’s sort of a charity thing.
Hangovers notwithstanding.
Not like the annual “Calgary Stampede”, eastern version.
Anyways…
Since I’m asinine or daft enough to own a real boat (a hole in the water, ack, err,..a 36’ Grady White with twin 250hp outboards, if you must know), I was elected to take a group of these errant knotheads out to the island, dump them (rather unceremoniously) into the drink and run back to the beach to see if the proper number of Guatemalan insanity peppers were added to the chili.
Then, all was well.
Well, it went off the rails.
“SHARK!”
Repeat ad infinitum.
Now look.
We live in the Middle East.
On the Persian (read: Arabian) Gulf.
The sharks here are like the locals: lazy, indolent and prone to the genuine lack of activity as seen in those who inhabit the milieu of sofas, couches and davenports.
It’s not like they actually drive Hummers and have laser beams strapped to their fricking heads.
As if on cue, panic ensued.
Sailors who could manage a Snark Sunflower in a tsunami managed to up-end and ended up slurping saltwater.
Swimmers panicked.
Non-swimmers (Why, oh why, are you the fuck on a sailboat?) freaked.
Thrash around in the water.
Good idea.
That’ll divert the sharks.
Anyone bleeding? Let’s run up on the coral-infested island to make sure.
The locals and local constabulary were oft wrought. They had no boats (the local Naval group (both boats) were off on some sort of exercise, with the American military, which means they wouldn’t return for at least a fortnight), no idea, and no clue as to what was happening.
“Anyone here own a boat?”
Oh, bloody hell.
Since, in the realm of really distant “customers” (well, they had paid OR 15 for the privilege), I grudgingly acquiesced and noted that the big, white floaty thing out in the bay was, in fact, mine.
”Good Lord, man. Get out there and save those people.”
Being the inveterate misanthrope, I wondered “why”?
Anyways…
I trudged out to the “Eddy Fitz” (I’ll let the reader figure out the name and from where the owner harkens), and fired up fully 500hp of surly outboards.
And to and two, and threw and through, his vorpal blade went snicker-snack.
Yeah, right.
Sharks? Not in these tepid climes.
Bottlenose dolphins.
By the score.
They, like the author, was wondering what the hell was going on.
I dragged 20 or so swimmers out of the briny deep and returned to the beach to find my chili infested with beans of the kidney variety.
Fuck’em.
Next time these bastards decide to drown, I’m not leaving my chili in the hands of someone from Kansas.
Yeah, another epic from those Expats who live in the Middle East.
It’s March (“bloody Smarch weather”), the temperature’s rising (now 34C heading to its June record of 54C) and time for the annual; oh, save me: “Regatta”.
Sigh.
A bunch of blow-boats tacking around Fahul Island (some 4 km distant) and racing back, against the wind. To the beach where beer, bar-be-que and buxom broads (sorry, needed for the alliteration) frolic in a general joie de vivre of having accomplished that which numerous Iranian illegals do so on a daily basis.
Amidst all this foofoorah, there’s the concurrent “Fahul Island Swim”, where certain masochistic types pony up OR 15 and swim from the island (see previous) to receive accolades and a bowl of real Texas chili (which I, as a native Wisconsinian (by way of Houston) have made (no beans…just wouldn’t be right)).
It’s a general good excuse to get loaded and have a good time doing so.
The proceeds go to Oxfam or the Red Crescent Society; so it’s sort of a charity thing.
Hangovers notwithstanding.
Not like the annual “Calgary Stampede”, eastern version.
Anyways…
Since I’m asinine or daft enough to own a real boat (a hole in the water, ack, err,..a 36’ Grady White with twin 250hp outboards, if you must know), I was elected to take a group of these errant knotheads out to the island, dump them (rather unceremoniously) into the drink and run back to the beach to see if the proper number of Guatemalan insanity peppers were added to the chili.
Then, all was well.
Well, it went off the rails.
“SHARK!”
Repeat ad infinitum.
Now look.
We live in the Middle East.
On the Persian (read: Arabian) Gulf.
The sharks here are like the locals: lazy, indolent and prone to the genuine lack of activity as seen in those who inhabit the milieu of sofas, couches and davenports.
It’s not like they actually drive Hummers and have laser beams strapped to their fricking heads.
As if on cue, panic ensued.
Sailors who could manage a Snark Sunflower in a tsunami managed to up-end and ended up slurping saltwater.
Swimmers panicked.
Non-swimmers (Why, oh why, are you the fuck on a sailboat?) freaked.
Thrash around in the water.
Good idea.
That’ll divert the sharks.
Anyone bleeding? Let’s run up on the coral-infested island to make sure.
The locals and local constabulary were oft wrought. They had no boats (the local Naval group (both boats) were off on some sort of exercise, with the American military, which means they wouldn’t return for at least a fortnight), no idea, and no clue as to what was happening.
“Anyone here own a boat?”
Oh, bloody hell.
Since, in the realm of really distant “customers” (well, they had paid OR 15 for the privilege), I grudgingly acquiesced and noted that the big, white floaty thing out in the bay was, in fact, mine.
”Good Lord, man. Get out there and save those people.”
Being the inveterate misanthrope, I wondered “why”?
Anyways…
I trudged out to the “Eddy Fitz” (I’ll let the reader figure out the name and from where the owner harkens), and fired up fully 500hp of surly outboards.
And to and two, and threw and through, his vorpal blade went snicker-snack.
Yeah, right.
Sharks? Not in these tepid climes.
Bottlenose dolphins.
By the score.
They, like the author, was wondering what the hell was going on.
I dragged 20 or so swimmers out of the briny deep and returned to the beach to find my chili infested with beans of the kidney variety.
Fuck’em.
Next time these bastards decide to drown, I’m not leaving my chili in the hands of someone from Kansas.
Comment