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TITTIES, TRAVEL AND TIME

 

 
 
Authors note: Although this piece is arranged in a fictional format, every situation in it is a true story that actually happened.

 

*     *     *

Under normal conditions, when departing for a road-trip, the average biker is now on vacation. Like most people, he probably works a lot and doesn’t get to ride as much as he’d like. Now he’s gonna make up for it. So he’ll ride hard, put in many miles a day often traveling through intense heat, rain, cold, sleet, or even snow. Later he will boast of these things but in reality he may not have enjoyed them. The trip may be just alright, good, great, unforgettable, or even the time of his life. Yet, by the time he returns home he will usually be the weary traveler. It’s often a good idea to grant oneself a day’s rest before returning to work.
 
 
For most, this is likely a fitting description of a road-trip. For the drifter, however, things are a little different.
 
 
Lets pretend for a moment that you’re gonna be on the road for three consecutive years; living from only the things packed aboard your motorcycle. Like “Then Came Bronson” you’ll be traveling from adventure to adventure, seldom staying in any one place for more than a few weeks. Panoramic beauty, parties, rallies, new friends and, with luck…women, will be your almost constant companion. True freedom of the road. Unparalleled adventure.
 
 
 
Now, do you think the aforementioned traveling formula is gonna work for this too? Think about it. Then trust me when I tell you from hard won experience—it won’t. No chance. For along with the adventures that are utterly unavoidable over the long haul will also come a new set of problems. And if you do not adapt your methods of travel, you’ll soon be forced to quit the journey altogether. No shit. And although there will be many obstacles, let’s look for a moment at a few of the more glaring.
 
 
 
The first problem you’ll undoubtedly experience is that just rushing from place to place is a real drag. Traveling and never stopping is a lonely business. And although it may be good for a time, over the long haul it will most likely bring to a person the need to set down roots somewhere and make a few friends.
 
 
 
I sometimes wonder if it enters the minds of those who dare to dream, just how often they’ll be arriving in new places. Anyone who’s ever moved to a new town knows what this feels like: you’ve just pulled onto an average city; the streets are filled with traffic. The common man’s time is now occupied with work, home and family. Tomorrow he’ll do it again. You know no one. What’re you gonna do? Sit in a bar and twiddle your thumbs? Solicit friendship on the streets? (although I’ve done just this, sometimes with good results too). Problem is, now your gypsy ass is gonna be in new places all the time. So in fantasy, having the freedom to throw a dart at the map then go wherever it lands may seem wonderful. In reality however, it often sucks.
 
Kind of a drag huh?
 
 
 
Another common side effect of this blasting from place to place is that, especially now that it’s become your normal life, you’ve grown pretty sick of being the weary traveler. You’re tired of frostbite, heatstroke, and being just plain drug out. You now long to veg on a cushy sofa in front of the tube and rest your weary bones. Let others do the adventuring for a while as you watch them on the flat screen while munching chips and swilling beer.
 
See what I’m saying?
 
 
 
So, in many ways you will adapt. Adapt or quit!And if you persist, so many of the things you learn will also be of wonderful use to greatly enhance the travels of you and your friends when (or if) you return to the more conventional life of work and vacation.
 
 
In my own 18 consecutive years of road-life (as of 2011) there’s been a small handful of Motorcycle Drifters I’ve come to know pretty well. All are technically homeless men (and one woman) who own nothing more than the simple things strapped to their bikes. Invariably, I run across them at various motorcycle rallies every year. Some I’ve traveled with through parts of the U.S., or wintered with for short spells in the warmer southern states. A few have been on the road for twenty and even thirty years!
 
It would seem that, to some anyway, such a life can be very addictive.
 
These are guys who’ve adapted to the ways of the highway long ago. And it’s from them—and personal experience—that I’ve come to learn so many things.
 
 
One old Panhead drifter who’s been traveling for much longer than I, keeps a basic agenda and often tells of it when we meet. So I listen. Immediately apparent is that his travels generally include visits with friends (almost everyone loves a guest in his home provided they don’t overstay their welcome). Next, and probably more important, is his list of scheduled events. These may include anything from bike-rallies like Daytona, Laconia and Sturgis, to Drag Races, Nascar events, Bonneville’s land speed record trials, or even something as simple as a Blues Fest or free ride on a gambling boat (he never gambles). And although his plans are always subject to change as events unfold, the general idea is that, unlike an unknown city, those who attend these events are no longer in “Work Mode”. No. They’ve come to let their hair down. Forget their woes. Make new friends. Find romance. And so on. These events also offer a surplus of entertainment other interesting wonders.
 
 
 
 
For the drifter soon finds that if he does no more than travel from place to place, boredom and loneliness will soon drive him to long for home. But if he’s experiencing an interesting barrage of adventures (be they large events or simply settling into the mellow heat of an Oregon mountaintop hot-spring) he’ll never wanna go home. For the major factor that keeps such men shackled to this offbeat lifestyle is that the experiment of settling down invariably brings to them an unaccustomed measure of boredom. For them, the solution would seem to be an equal quantity of adventure. Thing is, most adventure requires other people. So my Panhead buddy—an expert Road Dog—tunes his agenda accordingly.
 
So you’re six months into the three year trip now. With so much time spent out there you’ve become more comfortable on the road than ever before. The road has become your home and you now only feel homeless when staying at someone’s house. For freedom compensates you in ways you never before dreamt possible. It’s strange, but it feels good. You’re coming to love this life more everyday and are therefore also becoming aware of its enemies.
The first of these is travel fatigue.
 
 
 
Although entirely tolerable for short periods, road weariness as a way of life is not working out. The first perpetuator of this is: trying to ride to many miles in a day. The other scooter drifters you’ve met by now all speak of their rides. Of slowing down; a more relaxed form of travel. In the past you’d always thrown up an impenetrable mental barricade against such ideas in favor or what you believed to be the very essence of a good road-trip—high mileage. But now you’ve begun to bring an open mind to the gypsy table and weigh the ideas of which these men speak. After all, you’ve nothing to lose and quite possibly something to gain.
 
You contemplate past road-trips against these new ideas.
 
 
 
At one time you worked very hard to ready yourself for the trip ahead. You earned the bike and did the maintenance, saved the money then arranged the time off from work. Finally came the day to experience true freedom of the road. To live the dream. So it was on that excitable morning that you went to the station, filled the tank, made for the highway, then blasted out the long hours seldom stopping for more than gas and maybe a quick bite. Arriving at your destination quite possibly ahead of schedule you pealed your tired ass from the seat with a subtle sigh of “Thank god that’s over”.
 
This method is no longer working.
 
 
 
Also: by now a good running bike, sunny day, fine highway, pocket full of pennies, and no time limit has become your personal idea of Nirvana. And you’re beginning to dislike anything, especially avoidable things, which fuck with that little niche in heaven. For as any experienced rider knows, there comes a time on any motorcycle when one is no longer enjoying the ride; he’s just trying to keep his ass in the saddle long enough to reach his destination. Doing what you love to do, and not enjoying it.
 
No longer acceptable.
 
And so you wonder…
 
 
 
Then comes the day when you have opportunity to travel with one of the old time drifters for a while. An exciting opportunity. You decide that for the duration you will observe closely, ask few questions, make no suggestions, and simply go with his pace. After all, you have all the time in the world these days.
 
 
 
So the two of you set out. The first thing apparent is his insufferably slow pace. He seldom even hits 70mph. But even 70 can be kind of fast on some of these funky little back roads he’s chosen. But you don’t really care because just traveling with this guy is kinda like a dream. Another irritation is his incessant breaks. They go on for days. You’ll never need a fancy gel-seat here. Sure, there are longish intervals in the saddle, but your gypsy friend also stops for just about anything he deems interesting.
 
 
 
A historic roadside monument gets his attention for a minute.
 
A happenstance country car-show stops you for an hour and a half.
 
In front of a tiny roadside bar sits a handful of older Harleys while as many bikers stand on the little porch nursing their beers. Of course you’re buddy pulls in. These guys are uncommonly friendly and immediately you’re steered to a big pot of homemade chilly. Good stuff too. But you know no one here and before long find yourself a little antsy; a little bored; kinda ready to go. When you express this to your buddy he says, “If you move to fast you’ll outrun your adventure” and “Is there someplace you gotta be right now?” Remembering your resolve to make no waves, you sit back and try to relax—a thing that seems quite natural to your rambling friend. Later it begins to rain and the owner insists you bring the motorcycles inside his bar. Everybody’s got a pretty good buzz by now and some of the chicks begin an impromptu titty show atop the bikes as you sit at a table with some new friends and snap pictures. At closing the owner offers you the backroom to sleep in, or yard to make camp if you prefer.
 
 
 
You’ll never forget this night.
 
Next day, it’s from another tiny back road that you see a big church social going on. Many cars. Scattered across the lawn, a mostly seated crowd attends to their paper plate lunches as they mingle. Although neither of you is religious, your buddy pulls in and parks near the front door. As usual the packed up bikes are an immediate curiosity and a small crowd gathers. A woman soon leads you to the industrial sized buffet. No charge. With plates piled high, you step from the church and make for the lawn to sit among these friendly people. Today you’ll watch you’re language.
 
Another time your buddy pulls onto the dirt drive of what appears to be a huge abandoned barn. He dismounts and, a little nervously, you follow. As you quietly enter, a large owl stares at you from an upper level. In a moment the magnificent bird begins to fly in circles. You guess his wingspan at better than four feet. Sporadically he bounces into the wall as though he’s hurt or disoriented, all the while leading toward the opposite entryway; hoping you’ll follow. When you don’t, he leaves. Your buddy then heads up a wooden stairway and you trail him to a nest of three scruffy little, half grown, owl chicks. You’ve never seen such a thing. Helplessly, they hiss viciously as you snap pictures. In a while you leave as quietly as you came.
 
 
 
You marvel at the things your friend finds interesting. His love of adventures, be they large or small. He seems the ultimate fuck-off-traveler. He’s got some pretty strange ideas about it all that’s for sure. And although you may not share them all, you have to admit your having the ride of your life. For rather than passing quickly over the land, you now feel as though you’re interacting intimately with it and its people—experiencing them and their world. Your world. You think of the high mileage days of other journeys and wonder if maybe you didn’t play a little too much like you worked. You begin to wonder if maybe the ride is less about high mileage and more about maximum pleasure.
 

At night you make camp in the seemingly forgotten and very private spots that your buddy seems to find with relative ease. He says they’re all around, but a person just doesn’t notice till he starts using them. When you protest of the laws against trespassing he reminds you that sleeping on the land is not a real crime. You ain’t gonna do time for it. If the cops do show up (which isn’t likely) they’ll probably just check your paperwork then let you stay or, at worst, ask you to move on. Well, he’s been doing this since you were in high-school and probably knows. Even so, this seems the hardest idea to come to terms with yet. Then he reminds you that the belief that one man must pay another man for the privilege of sleeping on the land he was born to has been mandated only to recent history. “When was the last time you slept without paying another for that privilege,” he asks. You can’t remember. “You’ll get use to it,” he assures.

 
 

At an interstate crossing your friend pulls into a truck-stop then rides to the fuel island to ask a trucker if he has an extra shower ticket. Forty minutes later you’re both clean and in freshly laundered cloths. But it’s late in the day so you hang in the TV-room for a few hours before making camp on the grass behind the trucks. After morning coffee you move on.

 
 

At noon it begins to rain. Your friend pulls into a gas-station/convenience store and parks under the big awning. You follow. Once shut down he grabs a large cup from his saddlebags then ambles inside for a coffee refill (50 cents) and a newspaper. He then relaxes into his bike to read for a while. Nervously you watch the rain fall harder. Finally you ask, but he only states that he’s a fair-weather-rider and ain’t going nowhere in this. An hour passes. Your anxiety grows. Eventually you pull a raincoat from the saddlebag and set out in search of a good camp-spot in case the rain persists into the night.

No luck.

 
Returning your soggy ass to the station you park again beside the other motorcycle and drip on the pavement as your friend offers you his uncommonly relaxed appraisal. He’s still dry. After another sip of coffee he says, “Tomorrow we have to cross Lake Champlain on a car-ferry. It costs four bucks and takes ten minutes. But I’ve been reading this little ferry schedule they give away inside the station and see that there’s another ship that costs five bucks but’ll keep us on the water for almost an hour. What do you think?”
 
 

You’re dumbfounded. All your anxiety amounted to nothing while this simple relaxed acceptance bore fruit. “Sounds good,” you mumble. Although rain has always brought a rather uneasy need to get moving in the past, in future you will remind yourself that what it really means is—relax. It’ll end. Your friend tells you that road life is often built from stretches of down time—or boredom, if one chooses to see it like that—broken up by numerous intervals of often outrageous adventure. “It’s still better than sitting home watching TV,” he says. You decide to start carrying a book.

 

Four hours after you pulled into the gas-station the rain stops. Freshly cleansed air envelops the world as you both set out for a truly enjoyable ride from the Shell station to a nearby $1.50 movie theater. Later you make camp in a thickly wooded lot nearby.

Next morning you board the ship.

 
 

After eight days, the two of you split up. Your friend will ride south for a motorcycle rally and the temporary vendor-job that awaits him there, while you move north for Canada…a new experience.

 

Alone again. And although you can now travel in any fashion you like, the last week has been so marvelously relaxing—you’ve enjoyed it so much—that no longer can you imagine changing back. From the map you choose a little back road. For although you’ve yet to realize it, your friend has just changed the way you will travel forever.

 
 

 

So you’ve been on road for a year and half now. Experience has taught you to avoid the mountains by spring and fall then migrate far south as the winter sets in. By summer you practice exactly the opposite. For undesirable weather conditions now make your ride—your life—exceedingly difficult to enjoy. So, as do the other drifters, you now plan your agenda accordingly.

 
 

You’ve solved so many problems by now. But there’s still one you seem unable to avoid—heat. Sometimes intense heat; for much of the plains and deserts, even in the far north, are virtually blistering for a few months every year. Unavoidable. So you sit on that black highway by afternoon and watch the ripples of heat shimmer from parched pavement as beads of sweat rolls down your chest. For an hour it’s okay. But after five hours of consistent boil you’ve become irritable, bitchy, sunburned, overheated and just plain miserable.

Again, doing what you love to do and not enjoying it.

 
 

In time you’ll learn that if one is experiencing heat stroke, he’s probably doing something wrong. Eventually his methods will need to be adapted. But how? The answer still eludes you. Slowly though, the pieces of this puzzle begin to come:

In Yuma, Arizona you meet a man who suffers from psoriasis. When you ask how he deals with the summer heat, he replies, “I try to stay out of it.” A simple statement, but it starts the gears in your head to turn.

At a funky espresso shop in some other desert town you sit in conversation with an old Shovelhead rider. The present topic is like a ping pong match of the best riding you’ve both experienced:

“Rocky Mountains in the summer,” you say.

“Highway-1 on the cost of Oregon,” he retorts.

“Southern Utah in the springtime; America’s best kept secret” you counter.

“The desert on a summer night,” he replies.

 
 

You’re caught speechless. You think of a late night ride you once made across Nevada and through the city of Los Vegas. Dressed in a T-shirt at midnight you putted through the 90-degree heat along interstate-15. But the sun did not peal the skin from your face, nor did heat shimmer off the pavement. In fact, the weather was unusually pleasant. And the open desert, so radiant in its depiction of endless freedom, seemed to go on forever until it eventually reached a silhouette of small mountain peaks that stood silently against the distant sky. No manmade light existed out there, and you never knew there were so many stars. This surreal scene drew you helplessly into a sensation of complete otherworldliness. Ahead, the bracelet of head and tail lights moved steadily along the interstate. Then, in the distance, Los Vegas appeared looking very much like some great heap of Christmas lights that God had discarded upon the dessert floor. In time you were upon the great city…then out the other side to regain the desert as it had been before.

 
 

Desert riding by summer night is, you had to admit, some of the very best. By afternoon, however, it truly sucks!

You think of an old drifter you met at the Sturgis rally the year before. Although only on the road for five years, Hank lives exclusively from his tent and only those other things strapped to the back of his Road King. He’s 70-years old. An interesting character to say the least. It was an opinion he once expressed that comes to mind. Hank had said, “This is the last lifestyle that’s akin to being a mountain man. Since you can’t adjust conditions to suit yourself, you have to adjust yourself to conditions.”

It makes sense now.

 

You see that in the past you had often likened vacation more to work than you’d realized. For even through the summer heat you’d get up early (whether you wanted to or not), ride hard all day (whether you wanted to or not), then grab a room at 4 or 5 in the evening. Long about the time you stepped out to the restaurant the weather was perfect! It never dawned on you. Now it does.

You begin to experiment.

You ride as late into the night as your newly-relaxed attitude will allow. After bedding down for a few hours, you arise at the crack of dawn then ride till about 1pm. Although the ride’s been wonderful so far, the summer heat’s grown exceedingly oppressive. Finding a truck stop, you roll the bike into the shade then amble inside to sit in the air-conditioning. You watch TV, grab a shower, do a little laundry, socialize with truckers, babble on the phone, and just plain relax. And you watch the sun. At the moment it drops below the horizon you emerge from the building. Feeling even fresher than when you arrived, you hit the highway to enjoy an incredible ride through the warm evening. The solution works perfectly. Later you learn that if a truck-stop’s not available, a matinee will work just as well. On occasion you even hang out at a swimming hole or in the pool behind some unsuspecting hotel.

 
 

Later you learn another solution:

On those rare occasions when you use a hotel, you simply book your room by early afternoon then hang in the AC, groove on the tube, and do some swimming for a while. Then, after setting the alarm for 2:00am, you arise early to utilize the good night and early morning weather. Before long you are again doing what you love to do and enjoying it more than ever! A major breakthrough. You wonder why you were so slow to get this one.

Knowing that the summer nights are a heated wonder you will never again forgo, you stop at a motorcycle shop to buy a high-output dirt-bike headlight bulb (the box states that by law it’s to bright for street use). The thing costs 20-bucks and you install it easily in the parking-lot. There are many accessory lights to choose from as well, but this new bulb grants about as much candle power as a good set of car-lights anyway.

 
 

So you’ve taken your place among the other Scooter Gypsies. For the time you spend on the road is now unlike almost anyone you know except them. And even if you return to some semblance of your former life, never again will you regain the old method of travel. For these new methods bring to you such phenomenal pleasure. And if by chance your vacation time is short, the trip will be kept closer to home to insure no rush or pressure. But all that’s a big if. For this crazy—wonderful—and so-easy life has burrowed its way so far under your skin that stopping may no longer be an option.

But decisions can wait. For the sky is pale blue and warm sunshine dries wet pavement of the rain that fell in the night. The bike runs good and there’s money to last at least a while. Ahead lays South Carolina, the Myrtle Beach rally, and a girl you knew last year. Leaning farther into the bedroll that rests against your sissy-bar, you relax into the green forest scenery of this little Georgia two-lane.

It’s a good day to ride.

 
 
Scooter Tramp Scotty

                                                                                                       

                                                                                   

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The Miracle of Mr. Lucky’s Shorty Mufflers

We have a code around the Bikernet headquarters, but it has a performance additive. We don’t build custom bikes with straight pipes anymore. We have never been big straight pipes fans. They were designed for wide open on the drag strip, and don’t idle for shit because of a lack of backpressure.

Low end tuning with straight pipes is a problem and your engine won’t generally be very happy until it feels some backpressure. Then there are those loud pipe restrictions that bring us outlaws down. I know loud pipes save lives, and I believe that, but straight pipes push the boundaries and rattle the neighbors’ windows.

Years ago cops jumped all over anyone who ran straight pipes, so I always attempted to run something that indicated a muffler, even if it wasn’t. Ed Martin, or Mr. Lucky came up with the perfect solution for brothers who want the man off their backs, and add a modicum of backpressure for a happy V-twin. You can tell when your engine is comfy. It idles like a dream, jumps when your crack the throttle (no popping to stumbling), and hauls ass.

When Mr. Lucky announced these new puppies I immediately had a candidate for a tech article, the new Amazing Shrunken FXR owner, Buster. He was up for it, tired of slipping through town trying to dodge the cops, plus the Rev Tech engine stumbled from time to time, and didn’t idle comfortably.

He rolled into the extreme Interplanetary Bikernet Headquarters and we popped it onto the lift. Since we were working with an FXR configuration, there were additional considerations. We needed the system to be tight and securely mounted to the drive train. Since the engine and trans was rubber mounted and moving around, we needed an exhaust system to float with the driveline.

Ray C. Wheeler, Buster, and I all eyed the system, and where to cut it for the best looks, performance, clearance, and alignment. It’s always more tricky than we anticipated. Ray cut the exhaust, with a Makita cut-off wheel. These mufflers come with two diameters on the ends, for building flexibility. One end is 1 ½ I.D. and the other is 1 ¾ I.D. We wanted to determine which end would give us the best performance. We chose the 1-¾ end to weld to the existing pipe. We disconnected the battery, hooked a welding ground lead to the engine, filed the chrome off the muffler, ground a taper on the edge of the muffler, for solid penetration, and tacked them to the pipes.

Then we tested positioning and mounting. It was a trick to align the mufflers and secure a mounting bar to reach both mufflers. Buster made a short heat shield, but later we discovered that Mr. Lucky makes a couple of perfect heat shields for any application.

After all the components were made, we carefully cleaned my MIG welds, taped off the pipes, and gave them the heat flat-black, barbecue paint treatment. We like using this shit for several reasons. It allows us to test pipes and brackets without expensive coatings or chrome. Later, if Buster wants to add chrome or a ceramic coating he will have faced the road rigors first, and made any necessary adjustment mods before expensive finishes are applied.

I also used the MIG on this application to avoid additional chrome muffler destruction through heat caused by TIG welding. Of course, we could have installed the mufflers by cutting slots in them in installing clamps.

When we were finished, the bike immediately fired to life and you could tell an instantaneous difference in the sound, idle, and the engine comfort level with a healthy portion of back pressure.

These mufflers are also adjustable. They are suppressed with removable baffles and glass packs. If so desired a rider could install a set and remove any restriction, or remove the baffles, take out the glass packs and re-install the baffles. It’s cool to have all this flexibility with one product. In the near future, we will install a set on our XS Yamaha product. It has 1.5-inch header pipes, which is perfect for these mufflers.

I’m sure I’m going to test these puppies with other applications in the future. Here’s the tech info on the Shorty mufflers and the Mr. Lucky Heat Shields. I believe you can order the mufflers in chrome or powdered a brass or copper patina:

Universal Mount Shorty Muffler. Ant. Brass finish-Powder Coated

With one end fitting 1-3/4 exhaust pipes, and the other end fitting 1-1/2″ exhaust pipes, this is truly one versatile muffler! Called a “Shorty Muffler” for a reason it measures only 11-3/4″ in length, which looks ultra sweet on minimalistic retro rides.

The nostalgic Antique Brass finish is protected by a clear Powder Coat for lasting beauty and protection from corrosion. Comes complete with a welded-on stud and flat-strap allowing universal mounting to just about any ride. Sounds good too!

Universal 9″ Perforated Heat Shield. Brass-Clear Powder Coat

This conveniently sized 9″ long heatshield can be placed almost anywhere you want. Protects from burning your boots, pants, and flesh! Cool perforated pattern. Also available in a 6″ length. Finished in nostalgic Antique Brass, protected with a Clear Powder Coating for lasting beauty and resistance to corrosion. Badass lookin’!

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Biker Slips into the Robert Williams Studio

When Robert told Beatnik there was a sculpture of a dog taking a shit to identify his house we were looking for something about 8-feet tall. The defecating dog is a wood sign that stands less than a foot tall, we rode right past it.

Robert and Suzanne Williams gave the Beatnik, and I enough material to last a lifetime. We spoke about art, painting, and techniques (I was way over my head), hot rods, motorcycles, and horseless carriages. Model T turtle decks ’13-27, and Roth’s Outlaw.

This is just the coolest stuff on the planet… Fuck the square art world, and the whore they didn’t ride in on. Naturally, a discussion of our mutual friend David Mann came up, and we even spent some time talking about a TV show on restoring Army tanks that tanked after four episodes. Robert said it was the best gearhead TV show that ever was.

All-in-all we spent over 3 1/2 hours on some pretty intense subjects. When it was time to leave Beatnik, and I staggered out into the Williams’ front yard like a pair of guys that were hiding in the sewer and just had the manhole cover popped-open, and a grenade dropped-in.

In the front yard Robert said he had one more thing he wanted to show us, the roof on his house. It looks exactly like the old wood shake roofs that have been blamed for numerous major fires in California’s history, and now illegal. The roofing material is made from recycled drinking water bottles like the Yuppies made popular. The plastic shakes are extremely expensive, and likely only found a few houses in Beverley Hills, or Bel-Air.

Pay particular attention to the custom deflection shield Robert made to divert rain water from entering his trash cans, and emitting an unpleasant odor. I suspect It would be a hideous smell something like the three manifestations of Satan… Beezlebab, hell incarnate.

— Krylon John

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The Scurvy Dog’s Logs Chapter 1

The Scurvy Dog’s Logs
Part I

Bandit’s Departure

Story, and Photos By Bandit

gangway

It was time to roll. Layla was getting on my case, Sin Wu wasn’t satisfied with just lunch quickies, and Coral, well, I won’t go there. It was time to pack my sea bag and make for the coast. I hadn’t hit an airport since the terrorist attacks and completely agree with what the government is doing to develop proper security measures. I was searched three times and my bags were ineffectively searched. It prompted an idea for a business. It may be that in the future the baggage search business will need to be taken off airport sites. Here’s my idea: What if you had your bags searched, certified and taken to the airport by another company? Then when you get there, you’re body searched and you go. As in the past, the people doing the searching are far too overwhelmed to handle the job effectively. I was also searched before boarding the plane, again ineffectively.

When I arrived in Houston, the cabby didn’t want to admit thathe knew where the port was or how to get there. He nervously drove through the gates and down to the docks. It was dark and the docks were poorly marked, so we had to find markings on some of the ships. Actually, some were such rust buckets that markings and names were difficult to find. We finally reached the scow Leon, which was tied up beside collapsing buildings and next to a dock strewn with busted pallets and battered fork lifts. Some military construction equipment painted a dark green with camouflage treatment sat next to the ship with flat tires.

The cabby nervously waited beside his van as I unloaded my bags. Three short Filipinos in grease-soaked overalls ran down the rattling gang plank to snatch up my bags. I asked the cabby to hang to take me to town for grub, but he refused. As soon as my last bag was gone, he jumped back in his vehicle and split without even charging me. I didn’t even have a knife on me; they were still in my bags.

The gangplank was the first indication of the quality of vessel I was escaping on. It was constructed from aluminum angle iron some 30 years ago. The damn thing was only about a foot and a half wide. As it deteriorated, pieces of mild steel angle iron were bolted across it for strength and to keep crew from slipping. Even wood was screwed to it to fill holes. There were no railings, just rope pulled through rings and old netting that wouldn’t prevent anything from falling into the oily sewage between the ship and the pier.

gangway

The ship is 584 feet long and 85 feet wide. It belongs to the historic Rickmier line out of Hamburg Germany, but doesn’t carry a usual Rickmers name. The more I saw of the ship the more I knew why. Tramp Steamer is an accurate description. The first night aboard someone left the air conditioning on all night and we about froze to death. The next night the crew tried to cook us in our cabins. The officers are polish and the crew Philippino. The Captain speaks broken English and so does the steward. The Phillipinos don’t speak Polish and the Poles don’t speak Phillipino. This particular ships has six cranes and the same number of holds and each hold has several layers. It’s a general cargo ship which means it packs anything and everything all over the world. If they can hoist the motherfucker on board, they’ll take it. If there’s not room in the holds and they can strap it to the deck, they will. This in not generally a container ship, so it usually spends more time in port off-loading and loading more goods.

ship

They were scheduled to depart on Tuesday and I was originaly planning to arrive on Monday and going to have dinner with Billy Tinney, the editor of Tattoo Magazine Monday, who lives in Houston and should be editing a magazine on antique gun sales. It’s better that I arrived on Saturday. Sunday after setting up my cabin I took a bus to downtown through the ghetto to the upscale shopping area to buy some much needed communications equipment and gym equipment for my cabin. Monday afternoon the Captain anxiously announced with five minutes notice that we were pulling out. We yanked for the docks by a tug and headed out the canal past Galveston and the Battleship Texas Memorial and into the Gulf of Mexico.

tug
This report is coming to you off the coast of Florida somewhere between Miami and Orlando. I’ll be pulling into Savannah tomorrow morning for some pecan pie. You are getting this jumbled mess through a world wide iridium satellite phone and modem. These reports will come to you from wherever I am as we truck across the Atlantic to Hamburg and Italy and through the Med to the Suez Canal. Stay tuned.

Now go for a ride and have a beer on me, goddamnit.

–Bandit

The Scurvy Dog’s Logs
Part II

In Baltimore

Story, and Photos By Bandit

 

I don’t where to start or how far to go. Hell, I don’t know what you want to hear. I don’t even know where I am from time to time, but fuck it. I’ll tell you what I know and take it from there. I’m in Baltimore, one of the more beautiful ports around. We rolled up the Chesapeake Bay just like in that old war movie, “Run Silent Run Deep”. It was creepy, as if we were steaming over a flat lake in a dense fog. But as we reached Baltimore, a horseshoe of harbor lights engulfed us until we pulled into the dreaded Lazaretto Warf, Berth A.

 

dock

As the morning dew lifted to a strong smattering of clouds threatening rain, we made arrangements to escape the rust, not one minute too soon. The ship was immediately swarmed with Rickmier agents, attorneys and a knock-out blonde who sold brokered yachts. It seems that when Hold No. 1 caught fire in Japan, fragments caught and burnt the top deck and interior of a 50-foot yacht and small steamer. I could smell litigation as I called a cab from the ship to pick us up on the docks.

Unlike the Savannah cabby system, these operators didn’t know where we were and could care less. Immediately they demanded a local number from me and I had to explain to every operator that I was on a ship and incapable of having a local number. Finally, I had to get my own info and map and try to explain to the operator once more where I needed to be picked up. When we finally hailed a cap, he had no idea where I was going and spoke little English. Finally in the afternoon I was forced to return to the ship.

 

cable

I was somewhat relieved, yet my mission to find a whorehouse and get laid was dismally attended to.

I made it to dinner on the ship and picked at my meal like a disappointed teenager. I went to my room to write when the cell phone rang. Frank Kaisler, the editor of Hot Rod Bikes, grew up in Baltimore and I had given him a call for a connection. He told me to call Larry McCullough of Pro Paint in Baltimore and ask for his girlfriend, Debbie. She was once in the nightclub business on the back streets of the harbor city, less than an hour from Washington, D.C. The rescue call came at just the right moment as the Filipino members of the crew began welding something to the deck above the gang plank. Burning chunks of paint were blistering from overhead and falling on the deck below, creating a curtain of terror in the way of my escape. I ducked the burning shards as a crewmember sprayed my feet with what appeared to be a garden hose.

Larry came to my rescue and swept me away. His dually took us to his shop, Pro Paint, and I was blown right out of my seat.

 

pro guys

I’d never met Larry before. His shop has been open for more than 8 years. He has a very well-organized, professional custom bike shop with a metal fabrication wing and separate facility for mixing, painting and buffing, all under the same roof. I thought I knew every world class builder in the country. Before I get to the girls, let’s get to the news: Ah, but first I must tell you that one of Larry’s creations recently won a Bikernet Bike Show and the owner’s trophy was on the counter. The name of the bike was Dawn.

 

tank

We had dinner with Rob, Debbie, Christine and Sholana, great people, in a joint called Mothers, with fuckin’ wonderful apple pie with handmade ice cream. Better stop that, I’m beginning to sound like Rip’s tales. I had been at sea for 15 days and what I needed the most was the touch of a woman. Larry and Rob, one of the seven shop guys, took me to a seedy little joint called Night Spot and a totally nude bar, and I mean nude. Oh fuck, these girls were sweet, tender and nimble, crawling along the large oval bar top bare naked and moving to your licking pleasure.

Sometimes I hesitate to talk about sex on the site, because of all the weird trappings construed with sexual discussions. I believe that sex is one of the grandest things on earth. Men need sexual stimulation, and it’s not fair that we’ve got to buy diamond rings and make bullshit promises to relieve a natural tendency. It would be like telling a woman she can’t have a period without getting a job. Goddamnit. It’s fucking natural, and someday we should beat the prohibition on the oldest profession on the books so if we need tang, we can get it anytime, anywhere and go about our business without launching new children.

These girls were having as much fun as the guys and I was surprised to see three or four girls in the bar with guys enjoying the pussy-to-pussy closeness. It was a trip watching a naked stripper spread her legs in front of another woman and move her pussy confidently close to another girl’s teased grin.

The guys I was with surprised me with a lap dance from a particularly cute brunette. She was perfectly built and cute as a button as she slipped onto my lap and ground her pussy against my crotch. I wasn’t sure if this was pure torture or at least a mild touch of a woman without…

Just to show you how strange my life can be. I crawled into my bunk at 4:15, yet got my ass up at 7, worked out and had lunch with an 84-year-old retired admiral in a beautifully austere restaurant on the inner harbor. Like Savannah, this harbor is blossoming into a beautiful area of 1,700 brick row homes in some 200 ethnic neighborhoods. I only hope that San Pedro will wake up to the success some of these eastern ports enjoy. Admiral Rindskopf was the youngest skipper of a submarine during World War II, at 26. He was ultimately the captain of another sub, a destroyer and a sub tender before taking his knowledge and experience to Washington until he retired after 35 years. He mentioned that he was working with another officer, Admiral McCain, during the Vietnam War, while his son, Bob McCain, was a prisoner of war in Vietnam. At one point the Vietnamese sent the admiral a deal to release his son. The Vietnamese, much like the Taliban, were not men of their word and he was unable to implement his son’s release.

Let’s see what happens tonight. I’ll still be trapped in the god- foresaken port for a couple of days before heading across the Atlantic, through the English Channel, on our way to Hamburg, Germany, to fill this bastard with cargo for the remaining trip around the world.

 

bathroom

Meanwhile, I haven’t been able to contact the Bikernet headquarters. The women have taken over, and although I have a signed contract from all three women in my life to be able to seek sexual release in various ports and hunt down motorcycle connections, there seems to be a mutiny afoot. Rumor has it that Coral and Sin Wu are trying their damndest to lure Layla into some sexual nirvana.

 

indian

Reports are in that motorcycles have been moved in the headquarters and frilly curtains hung from the purely bachelorized windows.

 

lace

 

gym
(This used to be Bandit’s gym. Don’t tell him we got rid of the bench and other heavy thingies. He can’t see images on his laptop!) ~Sin

 

I hope to have more information by News time next Thursday. Snake and Dr. Nuttboy have escaped the treachery to hide in the mountains until the dust settles.

Goddamnit, go for a ride, Bandit.

The Scurvy Dog’s Logs
Part III

From The Middle Of The Atlantic

Story, and Photos By Bandit

 

It’s wild out here.
We are trying to duck two storms coming from the north. The reports we receive are constantly inaccurate. We are rolling as much and 35 degrees on an empty stomach and we can’t risk the engines in such severe seas so we’re heading south east probably through the Azores. We just passed a container ship from Morocco. The captain pointed out that it was rolling 15 to 17 second increments. We roll twice as fast, which is much more abusive to the vessel.

The rolling severity is due to the edge of the south-bound storm we are racing away from, the fact that our ship is empty and that some container ships have anti-rolling ballast tanks and even wings that reach into the sea 30 meters off each side to slow and minimize the rolls. We have slowed to 15 knots and it feels like 5. If the storm continues to be a threat we will continue south and spend Christmas in the Canary Islands off Morocco, wait out the storm and head north along the coast of Africa, then Portugal.

 

intro

We may be in the Azores by tomorrow (Saturday) night. As I sit at my desk this afternoon the skies are gloomy and the rain is spraying against the porthole. I’m working on Chapter 10 of the number 2 Chance book, and as the sea rolls my jug of water jumps off my desk and my chair is slipping away from the computer. As I reach out to maintain contact with the keyboard and grab the bottle, my notes on my left go flying. I replaced the water-bottle and turned to retrieve the notes and lose the jug again.

One of the storms is 900 miles in diameter. At the center of the storm is 35-foot swells, and at the edge is 24-foot swells. We are currently dealing with 12-foot swells. Unfortunately another storm is grouping and headed directly in our direction directly behind this one and we have another gale still on our tail. We receive reports from Miami on the storm conditions constantly, we also receive course recommendation from home base in Hamburg. Unfortunately, the directives from Hamburg are fast food quality. Yesterday we received notice from the base that the storm was turning and heading directly into the vicious weather north of it. Based on that information the Captain changed the course to head northeast again toward Europe. Later information from Miami indicated that the storm was heading south directly at us. We’ve run into the outer lip of the storm and it’s heading right at us.

Well, the initial report was from yesterday, and it was rough all night so the captain decided to have some drills today and we had to don our lifejacket and head toward the bridge where he explained the various sinking scenarios and what we were to do. He also pointed out the various gear and life boat and raft situations. The seas were too rough to test the life boat conditions but we will once through the English Channel and into the North Sea. Actually the Captain in his joking demeanor told us passengers that we wouldn’t feel calm seas until we reached the gates to the North Sea and out of the Atlantic. We’re just north of the Azores as this lumbering 584 foot vessel is tossing its cooking in the Atlantic at 17.4 knots. We watched a video on the life rafts in containers on these ships. They’re hot, but I wonder what kind of shape they’re in after 10 years of bouncing from one seaport to the next.

I’m still getting reports from the front that we’re all nuts to be out here so here’s a bit of a poetry from the beginning of the 19th century about shipping out:
We went to sea in a sieve we did
In a sieve we went to sea
In spite of all our friends could say
On a cloudy morn on a rainy day
In a sieve we went to sea
And everyone said “you’ll all be drowned”
And we said “We don’t give a fig!”

 

end

Just goes to show we’re just as nuts as a guy who slaps on his vest and rides across the country in the middle of the winter. Damn I miss the babes of Bikernet, though. Have a great Christmas, it’s the only one you get this year.–Bandit

The Scurvy Dog’s Logs
Part IV

Hamburg, Germany

Story, and Photos By Bandit

 

genoa

This will be scattered, but full of the heart, soul and romance of motorcycling. We spend a couple of semi-calm seas rolling toward the English Channel. At the narrowest point it is a mere 10 miles wide, but goddamnit it was good to see the coast even if it was just the glimmer of lights on the coast in the increasing darkness. Two days out of the channel and into the North Sea we got the word that we could roll into Hamburg, but just then we hit a storm. The impact of just a knot or two on the length of time it takes to travel a few hundred miles is severe. Figure it out. Damn I was horny as hell, but reports from around the world told me there was ready love waiting for the taking in the Reeperbahn area of Hamburg as prostitution is legal, clean and ready to rock. I was climbing the steel bulkheads.

After a rough day at sea on Thursday in a force 8 storm the reports from the port was that we couldn’t get in the harbor and might have to anchor at sea. At 11:30 at night in a twisting sea that had us dancing on the bulkheads the captain reported that the crowed port had no craft available to haul a Pilot to the ship and would we consider a helicopter. The Captain laughed and asked them if they were snorting glue. We have six tall cranes on this ship, cables running everywhere, and the chances of catching a harbor guide hanging out of a helicopter with some of the steel cables was 90 to one. There was no way. The anxiety level increased and at 4:00 in the morning I jumped out of the sack. I was cold but I noticed that the rocking had shut down and it felt as if we motored into a dry dock. We were in the Elb river with a pilot who was delivered to the Leon on a high speed 50-ft Hydroplane. He stayed with us until the Hamburg Harbor loomed ahead, then he was removed and we were told again that no pilots were available. Four more ships were lined up behind us. I was surprised that the Rickmers company has been home based in this port since 1834, yet had so small a handle on their own harbor. Another pilot finally boarded for the last multi-harbor maneuvering and docking. The Hamburg port is on the River Elb that consisted originally of several merging rivers into a swampy delta. In the 14th century many of the small towns used an island in the flat delta as their home protected by canals, bridges and guard shacks.

 

canal

Rumor from management at the port was that there would be crews of longshoremen waiting at the Stlanerkai dock to begin to load cargo and we would be gone in two days and a half. As a passenger I wasn’t happy to hear that I only had a couple of days to roam the hinterland and find sexual release. I stood up on the bridge from 4:00 a.m. on watching a gang of ships attempt to find home in the myriad of docks, islands and peninsulas. Hamburg is a maze of fresh water canals, rivers and harbor inlets and the traffic was intense.

I was fortunate enough to have a leg up on this port. Lee Clemens knows a rider who had a shop in the Buxtehude, a suburb of Hamburg. I met George at a couple of events with Lee several years ago and he was willing to take some time out and rescue us from the ship’s docks. I watched as the first lines were tossed to the stevedores on the concreted dock 80 in another grizzly port. I understand the industrial strengths of ports and their service to the industrial side of the world, but each one I’ve had the displeasure of entering is a Siberia of metal, trash and containers. In towns smart city planners arrange industrial areas to be separated from other industrial units with residential and retail. Each port I come across could be a delight to thousands of residents and a pleasure to work in, if proper planning was implemented. It would actually boost morale within the dock worker’s community and afford the people of the community the opportunity to appreciate the work that goes on in port and how world wide shipping works. Instead it’s hidden from society by chain link fences and dirty streets that no one wants to be caught on.

George was ready to pick me up the moment we arrived and after 10 days at sea I was ready to stretch my legs. But I held off for a couple of hours. The crew on the docks was ready and began to load the ship immediately. Right away the deck was crowded with stevedores loading crates of copper tubing the size of houses bound for Hong Kong. We got the word right away that we were still leaving in a couple of days since the gangs on the docks would be working around the clock. We would finish loading in Antwerp, Belgium and head to Italy. When I asked about England I was told that currently the process for shipping included smaller ships that brought materials from the UK and spilled them into the free marketing zone of Hamburg to be off loaded, then loaded again on ships bound for the orient. Seemed costly, knowing that dock space and union workers pay to load and unload cargo was a high cost to shipping. What the hell do I know, except that we will not be going to see the queen? As it turns out we will be here five days since the workers took off at 10:00 p.m. and know one worked again until 6:00 a.m.

George showed me his historic town and the canals that ran through it. It’s tough to imagine that farmers harvested crops of apples and hauled them to the canals where they were loaded on small shallow boats in the 1600s and hauled to the harbor in Hamburg, then loaded on bigger ships bound for ports all over Europe. In parts of Hamburg buildings are built right on the edge of the canals and material was off loaded on one side into a building like hops for making brew. On the other side of the building lifts that reached every floor were loaded with the brew and lowered into waiting boats on the other side of the building.

 

sail canal

George is the owner, with his wife, of five waterbed stores in the Hamburg region. Lee Clemens put it perfectly when he told me, “George Bergman is the Waterbed King in his area.” Well, he is. His stores reek of class and style, and if you live in Germany or one of the surrounding countries and would like to consider a high quality waterbed. He’s your man, his web site is www.wasserbet-city.de. Wasserbett City is the name of his business. He’s still into bikes and rides from time to time while building the business, restoring a home and taking care of his wife Cindy and his young son George, Jr. He has a couple of brothers, John and the other, Robert. I’m 6’5″, George is 6’7″ and his brother John or Jochen Bergmann is 7’0″. These guys are good looking monsters. The other brother rode some, but is currently out of the lifestyle. George has a Fatboy, and John has Heritage, and a Ultra with a sidecar.

So here’s where we touched on a little motorcycling philosophy and the real depth to the desire and need to ride. John explained it perfectly in broken English and I only wish I can paint the picture described in his big blue eyes. I could hear the passion in John’s voice and see the need for it in George’s eyes. John tried to explain something to me that we all feel but usually accept as a life long endeavor which we never talk about. It’s the will to be free and the opportunity to express that freedom. “I have two hearts,” John said, “One is for my family and the other is for my motorcycle and riding. I cannot function without my sense of freedom to ride. If when I was getting ready to marry my wife, she had said you cannot ride since we are having children, it would have been like cutting off my leg or my arm. She has grown to understand and so I still ride, but I have tried to give her the opportunity to understand by taking her and my first son on sidecar trips. She has grown to understand my need for this.”

I listened to his stories as we roamed the ancient street of Hamburg. I learned that 72 percent of the city was bombed out during WWII. Yet the entire time I spent with people in this beautiful city I only heard the word Nazis once. It is something the people of Germany would like to put behind themselves. It’s the 23rd of December today and tomorrow is Christmas Eve and this is a dynamite place to be during the holidays. It gives me a true sense of Christmas with some of the most magnificent churches on the planet and in each plaza is a group of temporary wood cabin like Kiosks, decorated in Christmas motifs, serving wine and rum drinks, selling candies and nuts, ceramic, leather or wood craft Christmas presents. As the evening fell upon us we rolled into Reeperbahn, the nasty section of town.

 

Beautiful prostitutes line the streets. I mean knockouts all hitting on you as you meander through. The publicized highlight is the famous street called Herbert Strasse. The window street where no children or women are allowed. Half naked women sit inside windows and try to get your attention. They even have their own website called Herbertstrasseonline.com. Unfortunately these girls and some of the others are rip offs that I was warned about. The women lure you in with big tits and promises of love for 100 marks, then once inside the story changes trying to milk every nickel out of you and you’re lucky to get a hand job.

We wandered the streets and looked, but didn’t touch. On the other hand, hard working girls are out in the street, or if you have a contact, there are prostitutes who know how the oldest profession is supposed to be handled with warmth, honesty and tenderness, but I’ll get to that later. The rest of the area is packed with peep shows, titty bars, night clubs, Irish pubs, adult stores and bars with girls who will stroke your leg for a high-priced drink.

 

hamdock

We drank traditional brews and shot the shit about riding and our brother Lee Clemens who lost his son in a motorcycle accident this year. Travis, his son, was about to take over a major part of Departure Bike Works, in Richmond Virginia. He had a small son and a troubled wife he was trying to handle when he went down in a freak accident and died. George and I feel strongly about our brother who has endured many changes in his life this year and his trying to sort out his direction within his heart.

 

I took another shot of Irish whiskey just to fight of the verbal cold chill that filled the bar with each of John’s descriptions. We had a helluva time in Hamburg and I’ll spill my guts about the girl I met on Thursday in the news. I’ve got to grab some shuteye. It’s been whiskey, women, pubs and German beer every night until, well, until I find my ass back on the rusting barge.

Merry Christmas everyone. This is going to be a helluva year comin’ up—

Bandit

The Scurvy Dog’s Logs
Part V

From Hamberg, To Antwerp

Story, and Photos By Bandit

 

genoa

Ah Christmas, a time of families and tenderness. Ah bullshit, it’s a time of lean budgets, kids with non-stop dreams of presents to the moon, Christmas lists that are too long and bank accounts too short. I escaped the treachery of Christmas, almost. I hope the rest of you survived.

You have stumbled into the Bikernet Twilight Zone. Just when you think you’ve come across one of the hottest bike sites on the Web, you discover that one of the bastards behind this mess is on a tramp freighter out of Houston ultimately bound for Houston some months later, and you’re forced to hear about it a couple of times a week. Merry Christmas.

So let me tell you about my Christmas Eve and Christmas on the MS Leon, a 20-some year old rusting hulk being stormed with cranes, stevedores, fork lifts and agents while it’s snowing or raining on the rusting decks in below-freezing weather. The design was that we would be in port for two and a half days, load this bastard with 8,000 tons of crap (22,000 ton capacity) and be on our way out the Elbe River by Christmas Eve. Not so, Kimosabe. We discovered rapidly that management and the union contracts are from different planets. What management plans rarely happens. On the other hand, while management and supercargo agents sit on the ship, sip espresso and eat cookies while expressing their dismay at the efficiency of the teams on the dock, there are 50 men standing in the freezing cold as the wind is blowing snow at 30 knots across the main deck of the ship. If they had ice skates, they could be practicing loops on the frozen concrete dock.

 

ship

On Christmas Eve it was explained to us that since many of the longshoremen extend their days off with vacation time, the teams were dwindling. Instead of being able to work around the clock, the units could only work until 10 p.m. and started at 6 a.m. The tapering crew would knock off at 2 p.m. on Christmas Eve and wouldn’t be back until the day after Christmas. We were shut down. What was designed to be a 2.5-day in a costly port became six days. The supercargo agent also informed me that every time cargo is shifted it costs $250. It costs $150 to load a piece of cargo, but once it’s loaded, if it needs to be unloaded, moved and loaded again, that’s another quarter of a C-note. He said that much of the cargo would be removed again in Antwerp, Belgium, then replaced, and the process would be repeated in Genoa, Italy, and perhaps once more in Jakarta. I asked him how the damn company makes a profit and he threw his hands up in the air in mockery. He had no idea.

As he explained the business side of shipping, Clement, our hardworking steward, set the table for a Christmas dinner on Christmas Eve. The captain, officers and crew were requested to come into the officers’ mess and have dinner, which was an assortment of many things, including whole fish and turkey. The captain explained that the real feast would start at noon on Christmas and would continue until midnight with drink and food available all day. I noticed that many of the Filipino crew were uncomfortable eating with the officers and escaped as quickly as possible to the crews’ lounge and a wild karaoke festival.

 

table

Christmas morning we awoke and had a small breakfast as the chef and his crew were working on preparations for the noon Christmas feast. At noon the captain was successful in getting the entire crew around one long table. All the food was displayed buffet style with two turkeys a full pig, vegetables, lots of buttery rice, pasta salad, two types of gravy and two brands of whiskey. The pig was a biker’s run-feast cooked to perfection and the drinking got under way with whiskey, gin, wine and beer and some of the crew had all four.

 

tree

At dinner I returned for some chow and to take score of the survivors and party animals. Since we were requested to mix the seating in a brotherly fashion, I was the only Anglo to sit with the Filipino crew at one end of the table. I spent a great deal of my Vietnam military service in the Philippines and learned to love and respect the people on those paradise islands for their kindness and pleasantness, but as I sat at the end of the table the mood changed. It reminded me of so many experiences in the past from losing a crew member on the heavy cruiser I was stationed on to the meeting of men after a gang battle or to the meeting of a family after a member has been in a motorcycle accident. Suddenly the end of the table became quiet. Two members of the crew got up in unison and disappeared up the inside stairwell. None of the crew would look at me, not out of disrespect, but out of concern for what had occurred. I was not a part of the serious nature of what took place. The concern was deep and fearful and only shared amongst the family of men who were involved.

It seems that one of the men partied too hard and drank too much. He was the one who smiled the most and sang with the best until the torment of the whiskey bottle took over and he became mad and tried to take his fury out on another member of the crew. The man inside his cabin was dismantling his bicycle for the next leg of the journey and was holding a leg of pipe as the madman stormed his quarters. He lashed out and split the angry man’s hand. I had no idea of what happened as I sat amongst the serious crew, but I had been in the midst of life and death battles and recognized the concern in men’s features, the fear in bowed faces and edgy gestures like nail biting andr nervous twitches. They spoke to one another in only Filipino except to use a term that wasn’t in their dictionary from time to time, such as: Self defense and star witness. A crewmember called to the captain finally and the captain did his duty and had the man hospitalized. His hand required surgery. He was paid and his bags were packed and delivered to the hospital. He would return to the Philippines once operated on.

On the day after Christmas it was too miserable to go outside yet the ship was in full loading swing with two cranes working furiously to load crane motors, containers and crates the size of motor homes. Hatches were clanging, containers slapped against one another as the snow blew over the bow. The rumor was that the ship would depart by 8 p.m., but at 5:30 we were told that loading would take one more hour, then an hour of lashing and one more hour to get a harbor pilot on board and have the crew ready the ship to depart. That schedule was pushed an additional hour until it was nearly midnight before we pulled away from the docks and began the 100-kilometer trip out the Elbe river to the coast of Germany, where we would turn port and head west along the coast to Antwerp, Belgium, which might be a degree or two warmer but swamped in the same drizzling rain and snow as Hamburg.

 

water

In studying a Hamburg weather chart, I found that the city faces 10 to 13 days of rain during every month of the year. Of course our visit took place during the 13-day season with an estimated one hour of sun daily during December. The temps average between zip and 4 degrees celsius. Not exactly a tropical paradise but a helluva beautiful city. Euro Dollars are going into effect the first of the year an it’s difficult to exchange money because they’re into the transition. The people of each country will have up to a year to use up their existing cash. A few countries like England, which is in financial hard times, isn’t changing just yet, but I would think it would benefit them to change as soon as possible. I’m sure opinions on that matter vary substantially.

There you have it, Christmas on the battle-worn, rusting Leon heading for a New Year’s celebration in Belgium. My next report will be in the Sunday Post in the Cantina the day before New Year’s Eve. We plan to be in Antwerp until the 4th of January. Let’s see what kind of trouble I can get in there.

Finally, I’ll report that tonight while in the North Sea I will finish my 16th chapter of my second Chance Hogan book. It’s called “Tides” and is based on this worldwide adventure. If I can get the staff to go for it, we will post all of the chapters in the Cantina for new members and members who rejoin for the new year.

May your holidays be safe, secure and packed full of warm sex.

Ride Forever, Bandit.

Check out Chapter 2: http://www.bikernet.com/pages/story_detail.aspx?id=9948

Read More

The Scurvy Dog’s Logs Chapter 3

The Survy Dog Logs
Part XI

Jakarta Hop Up


Story, and Photos By Bandit

Life is so strange. We roll along oblivious to the tremors constantly shaking around the world. We ponder retirement, plan vacations and look to job future and raises, while much of the rest of the world is on the brink of some bizarre an illation. I’m not about to point fingers or get political here. We’ve made plenty of mistakes in parts of the world, and there’s some crazy hatred in other parts. Okay, Okay, I’ll throw an example at you, then we’ll get back to my romantic notions.

We just pulled into Jakarta this afternoon, some four hours behind schedule. Schedules are ridiculous on cargo ships. Nothing follows a timetable. We had diesel injector problems coming into port this morning and slowed the ship to 11.4 knots. Then when we arrived we were told to pull to a particular position that the pilot would be there on arrival. He showed up an hour later. Our estimate for departure was 24 hours, now it’s 18 or less. Believe me we want to get the fuck out of this hell hole.

jakarta

Yesterday morning at four a.m. we left Singapore, a Manhattan Island of high-rise buildings and upscale shopping malls. It was a handful of degrees above the equator and we headed east for a short while then south about 500 miles to the dread Jakarta. The Captain’s wife recommended that he not go ashore. Sin Wu suggested the same. Jakarta has an ugly violent Muslim reputation. The Captain suggested that the radicals trained on small islands off the coast of Java and travel in the town shouldn’t be a problem.

He also pointed out that this small island has a population of 200 million. The US isn’t much larger than that. There are only 250 million in all of Indonesia and 200 are packed on this island about the size of just the Florida peninsula. I was astonished as we began to pull into the harbor which it was as bleak as the reputation. A gray mist hung over the port and blanketed the region with a somber air. The bay around the coast was littered with ships of all sizes and types. Many were rust buckets anchored or seemingly adrift waiting a turn at the harbor. Even two miles off the coast the water was shit-brown and full of crap, trash, oil film and black scraps of tar. As we entered the small concrete block jetty at the mouth of the Tanjung Priok Harbor we watched small ratty boats crowded with people buzz around the harbor. Then there was a smell, and suddenly I wanted to escape to my cabin. I couldn’t trace my fatigue. The air seemed to engulf me like radiation from an atomic warhead. I’m being dramatic, but the stench felt like the grayness of an industrial fire. It was too late to consider going ashore and there was nothing about the port that called to us.

In other words I had the notion that we were entering a vast island of squalor and crime, covered with a small bitter people who despised the west. Okay, that’s over the top and perhaps had something to do with the climate. We could see high-rise buildings in the mist, and from experience I have always found the Asian people as a whole to be warm and friendly. The Captain pointed out that the water could be a mess due to recent flooding from the inland. He also pointed out that when he was on a ship entering the Los Angeles Harbor that the chemical smell was so strong that he couldn’t breathe and his eyes watered. On the other hand the port agent came on board and warned us to keep our doors locked that a recent raid on a ship netted $8,000 from a crew.

I may have over estimated the evil spirit of the people of Jakarta due to the dismal climate, and I’m sure part of my impression was tainted by my recent contrasting experience in Singapore. This city is wild, it’s beautiful, and the people speak English and make every effort to be accommodating. The city is a progressive 3.4 million, 75 percent Chinese (many escaping the communist regime sweeping Hong Kong), 14 percent are Malay and 7 percent are Indian. For some it would be disappointing and intimidating due to the uptown metropolis nature. Get this, on an island that’s 26 miles long and 14 miles wide there are 15,000 air conditioned taxis and 2,800 buses, plus subways and trains. It’s unbelievable, most of the old world is gone replaced by vast slick high-rise buildings, top-of-the-line hotels and restaurants. We arrived during the Chinese New Years celebration and enjoyed the crowded streets and unique booths in one of the few old town regions left.

Prices were more than reasonable, but unless you want to get the hell out of the city and land in another, try to find somewhere else to visit. This is the independent city that fines people for spitting on the ground. There are a number of other laws that dictate consideration for others and a quality of life, although I didn’t get the sense that thousands of cops were roaming the streets in starched uniforms kicking ass. At one point, standing in line at an ATM machine at the base of a modern high-rise, an old Chinese gentleman pushing a cart full of cleaning gear passed and for some reason was deliberately spitting into an area marked off by workman as being wet and slick. He was pissed for some reason, but I didn’t see paten leather adorned guards jump and beat the pour sap into the marble deck. On the other hand in general the people had a desire to follow the rules and respect the cleanliness of their city. So how’s that for dissimilarity with Jakarta?

Alright, so tomorrow we will cut a dusty trail out of here and basically begin our trek north to Vietnam and China before we hit Japan and head home. I’ve threatened to have a box ship back to San Pedro to force the ship into Los Angeles, before it heads through the Panama Canal and the Gulf of Mexico to Houston.

So back to my heartfelt notion of life on an increasingly small planet. Maybe there is a code such as Singapore has that could spread throughout the world. Maybe people can enjoy any religion they wish and leave the past behind, to help children live better lives. Maybe, a world police is a good notion to follow and build the code. Along with the policing needed to destroy terrorism, there must be efforts by governments like ours to help people understand how the rest of the world works hand in hand for business and education.

Okay, so I’m full of shit, but the constant fighting over ancient battles and racial discrimination 100 years old won’t do their kids any good except to pass on the hatred. Let’s see if I don’t get my ass kicked in Hanoi. —Bandit

PS. Three o’clock in the morning the phone rings in my cabin. A voice attempts to tell me I must sign a document. I told them to go to hell. I’ve had enough prank calls on this ship. Another voice takes the phone and tries to explain that they don’t want money that I must sign something. I told them to see me in the morning. That wasn’t possible. They explained that the ship was finished unloading and would be leaving early.

I finally got up and opened the door. I glared at the little sonuvabitch who was holding my passport in one hand and a form in the other. Sleepy, I didn’t read the form, and signed it. He asked me if I would contact the other passengers and since he was with an officer of the ship, I indicated that he could use the services of the officer and I went back to bed. As it turned out they knew that due to a wild thunderstorm that started at midnight, all cargo works had halted and wouldn’t begin again until this morning. What bullshit. The crews’ passports have been returned but not ours.

I spoke to the captain this morning and he pointed to a list of bribes he was forced to endure to see that the ship keeps moving without undo hardship. There was the agent for a cartoon of Marlboro; the customs guys for more Marlboros and a bottle of Whiskey, the Immigration folks for more cigarettes and a bottle of Chevas, and the Security inspector took smokes and a final bottle of booze. When I met with the Captain this morning he laughed and pointed at the empty case of Marlboros. He pointed out that if you don’t play the game they will inspect the levels of paint in the paint locker and fine you, or make you jump through bureaucratic hoops and delay departure. In addition a group came on board and collected the same loot as the others, plus a fee to give the captain a Deratting Certificate to certify that the ship was clear of rats. I reviewed the certificate that indicated that there are no passenger accommodations on this ship and no cargo(?). Oops.

We are scheduled to leave at noon. Wanna bet?

The Survy Dog Logs
Part XII

The Mystical Vietnam – 2/11/2002


Story, and Photos By Bandit

 

 

rocks

I’m going to begin this with a complaint and a recommendation to anyone who plans to travel in the future. I’ll get it off my chest then tell you about the wild experiences we had in Vietnam. First tear up your American Express card and throw it away. Visa and Master cards are useful everywhere unless yours is stolen. We had one stolen. The people at the bank knew this was a 5 month trip around the world and we would be using this card on a regular basis. Generally that means profits for them. Did they bend over backwards to ship us another card? No way. Bottom line no business for them for five months. I’d call that down right stupid.

So we’re relying on American Express and American Express Travelers checks which are useless. You can spend all your precious travel time standing in a bank for an hour only to be turned down when you want to cash a traveler’s check. Again, that’s time that you could be spending money. In addition the American Express card is rarely accepted.

Now, get this. The card is not even accepted at an American Express bank. That’s right. We could not get cash using an American Express card at an American Express Bank. Okay, so the clerks kindly explained that if we wanted to take a cab across town to the only American Express ATM in all of Singapore we could get a small amount of cash. Again shopping/spending time lost. Their profit loss and your time loss.

 

boats use

Enough of that shit. It’s 2000 hours and we just started pulling out of the Hon Gai harbor in Vietnam. Its located almost dead center of the infamous Tonkin Gulf. We were anchored 35 miles from our true destination of Haiphong. I’m going to run down some stories about the area and the people, but first I’m a three time ship- bound Vietnam veteran. I never had a member of this race stick a gun in my face. With that as a background there was some hesitation to arriving to Vietnam. I know that many veterans have returned here to help sort out their own feelings. I wanted to come back for a simple reason. I wanted to see the people and the land I bombed for three years straight. I was curious about this land and the people I had never seen up close. I had a gut feeling that I would like it here and I did.

I’m sure for some WWII and Vietnam veterans there’s a wonderful sense of the untamed and natural beauty of these lands like the Philippines and Vietnam. There’s the notion of grass shacks and people who can live their lives barefoot near pristine beaches without the consumption of asphalt and concrete, bushels of laws and government. I loved the Philippines for those reasons. Tahiti is much the same.

Yesterday we crossed the Tonkin Gulf and met our pilot off the coast of Haiphong past several island separating us from the coast. The jade green seawater in this region is shallow to 6 and 7 meters and we could not enter the area since we draft 9 meters. Take into consideration rocks and tides and we were stuck waiting outside for the pilot.

I stood on the bridge when the pilot was delivered. As usual the time announced from the harbor and the actual time of pilot arrival was an hour different. The captain was frustrated setting dangerously close to the bottom (less than one meter of space between the sea floor and the hull) waiting. The pilot’s boat, a tug like craft motored in our direction at a slow six knots, but finally arrived.

 

along side

This was our first greeting from the Vietnamese and unlike most ports in Europe three gentlemen boarded the Leon when usually it’s just the pilot. The pilot was a small native wearing a navy blue uniform suit, shirt and an odd paisley tie. He was wearing a ball cap with scrambled eggs on the brim and a pilot sticker on the front. With him was an associate who also wore the scrambled eggs on his white brim and some sort of black industrial company nylon parka. It had the name of a company silk-screened on the back. The other gentleman was a tall military man wearing an olive drab dress uniform and pink socks. He was crisply dress except for the socks and wore an officer’s hat that was tall in the front like you would imagine a Russian officer. It had a wide red band and a yellow star in the center. It was an impressive uniform.

It’s a strange sensation to be standing somewhere foreign to you and be confronted by a strong imposing uniform on a man nearly my size. I found myself somewhat apprehensive, flicking my knife in my pocket. I left the bridge and returned to my cabin. An hour later I discovered that we were entering a series of small rock-like islands. I grabbed my camera and dashed back to the bridge. As I started to take some shot of these beautiful rocks jetting from water as smoothed as polished jade the tall young office approached me and said in very broken English. “Free, take pictures, or video camera.” At the moment I didn’t really understand was he was trying to say and continued to be mesmerized by the beauty of the light green sea and the group of islands. Unfortunately a gray mist hung over us the entire time we were in port.

I immediately felt that if I was a kid and had a small boat or even a kayak I would be in seventh heaven.

 

boats alone
What the hell does Seventh Heaven mean, anyway? We were entering a narrow treacherous channel from the Captain’s perspective. He was concerned about anchoring and swinging into one of these jutting islands. He had recently told me that the two previous captains damaged the ship to the tune of millions of dollars. One of them allowed the Stuelcken (jumbo) 250 ton crane to pop a bridge in a foreign port and the last one let the welder weld over a cargo hold without proper security and caught two yachts on fire. I could understand his concern, but this area we were entering was magnificent, smooth as glass. As we neared the town of Hon Gai we came to a junction where the water became shallow again and at the crossroads of several breaks in the rocks we anchored.

Off to the starboard we could see a series of barges, tugs and small boats lined up against one of these islands. As we neared they seemed to be headed in our direction and as we discovered they were. The local Rickmers’ agent had cut a deal with the stevedores. It seems that we were arriving in the late afternoon on the 10th and the 11th was the last day before the Tet festival, which I believe is the lunar New Year. It seems that we celebrate the Sun’s New Year and much of Asia celebrates the Moon’s. I believe it was mentioned that China parties for both.

At the same time that the captain, who intended to become an astronomer, explained the difference in New Year’s celebrations he mention that when he sailed into Casablanca he discovered that the stevedores take Fridays off for the Muslim religion, Saturdays for Jewish and Sundays for Christian. Perhaps we need to add that element to the code of the west.

The Tet Festival begins the 12th of February and runs through the 15th. If we were not unloaded by the middle of the 11th we would be stuck a serious distance from land for three days, perhaps unable to get ashore. I was hoping to take a bus to Hanoi. The Cargo Superintendent told me that the city is large but safe. The agent had cut a deal with the stevedores to work all night and try to get us unloaded before the holiday. We were stuck in-between land and holidays, and we had just arrived were anchoring and testing the waters.

 

crates

Within a half hour we were surrounded with ratty looking boats, large steel barges and in the distance a tug was coming flying its little communist red flag with the yellow star in the center pulling an out-of-commission ferry. As it turns out this ferry, that had seen better days, was the barracks for the stevedores, a bar and party pad complete with whores and music.

Suddenly our little calm hole in the world came alive. The ship was crawling with Vietnamese people while women cooked and set up shop on the tugs that pulled the barges. We could see high rise buildings in the distance on the shore we would never reach, but we were surrounded by grass shacks on the water. Each vessel had a pot of sorts somewhere on the ship that became alive with burning embers for cooking.

The population of guys who came aboard the ship was generally friendly and all were well dressed in a range from stevedores to businessmen to women in sampans selling trinkets. The girls weren’t bad looking and it dawned on me what the officer was saying on the bridge. He was inviting me to take pictures without the influence of government.

I’m not sure if I already told you this story: The captain told me that the US fought so hard against communism unsuccessfully, but in the end, it died its own sorrowful death. Most communist countries have not been able to succeed and now welcome the ways of the west or starve to death. The officer was opening his arms to me and the west, since Vietnam has discovered that without business with the world, it will starve, its people will never have decent educations, or access to a world that is flowering around them. No matter how hard a government wants to put its thumb on its people it cannot completely hide the rest of the world from them. Sure the notion is simplistic, but I thought also fascinating. We didn’t need to fight communism, which in most cases was not true communism but dictatorships. We could just sit back and build what we have while they fell so far behind by preventing freedom that sooner or later they had to throw up their hands and open their door to progress.

 

boats

Okay, so the afternoon turned into evening and maze of activity. Discharging cargo began immediately and continued all night. The party fired up on the Haiphong ferry and the girls were brought aboard the Leon. According to the Romanian sandblaster the whores knew how to take care of a man unlike the stuck-up broads in Hamburg. He told me stories that I won’t repeat, but he had a helluva time. He’s the guy in the shot getting tattooed from the artist in Jakarta, who set up his shop on the main deck and gave him two shoulder tats for $30. The guy wasn’t half bad.

So the evening started calm enough with cute girls slithering around the decks under the guards noses. There were a number of military men on board in their olive drab uniforms. As the night engulfed the ship, the guards were invited to drink on the ferry. Either through the drinking or bribes the ship was left without security and a mafia gang slipped aboard the ship and began to raid it of lashing materials and tools left all around the deck for cargo off-loading and containment. Some of the crew spotted this activity and an alarm was sounded. Many of the crew fought with the gang for their tools, some chickened out, and headed the other direction because the mafia was armed. The bottom line was that we chased them off and told the guard to get back to their posts.

Later in the evening another ship our size pulled into the channel and dropped anchor. It was another Rickmers rust bucket and they were waiting for us to depart before they could commence off-loading. The next morning went as is common in the shipping trade. The morning departure turned into 3:00 p.m. for pilot arrival which generally indicates up-anchor. Three turned to five, and it was 8:00 before the last plates of steel were removed from the hull and loaded on barges.

That’s it. We came close to a boat trip around the bay, but couldn’t put it together because of the erratic departure times. We’re now headed out of the Gulf into the South China Sea for the 1.5 day voyage to Hong Kong. The first of three maybe four visits to China, then Korea. I’m still hoping for a box to be loaded for shipment to San Pedro post haste.

–Sailor Ball

The Survy Dog Logs
Part XIII

Hong Kong Hazards 2/20/2002

In Every Slippery Port There Is An adventure
Story, and Photos By Bandit

 

 

cruise boat
A restored old time harbor cruise boat with a background of Hong Kong Island.

Someone recently asked if I’m having a good time? I thought it was an odd question. Yeah, I’m having the time of my life, but it made me wonder what the hell I was saying might be throwing readers off course. On the other hand, I’m not a paid-to-tell-you-wonderful-shit, travel writer. I enjoy pointing out the madcap foibles at each port and send up flags to be recognized and avoided by travelers. I also find this shipping industry fraught with odd equations to profits, strange traditions and a wild deck of cards to be dealt in each dank harbor. I also have found that each seaside haven is a mess, yet the most precious land in the community. I believe in my heart that something could be done about this errant condition that would help and entertain all involved. Traveling, unless under specific conditions, has its share of dark alleys and risks. If you want to travel in specific tour groups your conditions can be monitored to a certain extent. If you’ve got money to burn you can duck some of the slums, much of the world has to trounce through, to get to the Jade Garden of Luxury.

Traveling on a Tramp freighter has neither of the above accouterments. There are risks and the unknown at each port. In general the shipping folks don’t want to have anything to do with their passengers. In some respects you can’t blame them. They’re not set up for passengers, they don’t have the time or the money to go ashore in most ports, and they have hundreds of strange unknown stevedores, agents, gangs and officials running around each ship, who they can’t communicate with, and constantly break cranes and equipment. I feel for these bastards. They work their asses off and the only fun they look forward to are cheap whores in some ports, maybe a tattoo from a kid with dirty needles and warm beer once in a while. It’s not bad, it’s just a tough existence.

Well Hong Kong was no different, in fact, for the crew it wasn’t much fun, for us another wild encounter. We pulled into the port again in the middle of the night. I discovered that Hong Kong is noted for the Hong Kong Island, but it reality Hong Kong is made up of four different and distinct departments. There’s this small island slightly larger than Singapore with much less build able land due to the steep hills. Next is the Koloon Peninsula which is a sizeable chunk of property across from the island. Then there is the large mainland area that has a border with mainland China. This portion of Hong Kong is called the new territories and is substantially agricultural. Finally there’s a smattering of 235 surrounding islands that make up the rest of the Hong Kong State. Altogether, it’s probably the size of New Jersey surrounding one of the largest ports in the world in Victoria Bay. We rolled in through the East Lamma Channel during the middle of the night as usual so we couldn’t see shit, course it didn’t matter because we were quarantined due to our Vietnam excursion. So we were told to anchor out of the harbor by about a mile. Now, get this. The captain asked the harbor pilot what the requirements we were subject to under the quarantined conditions, since he had never encountered the Vietnam rule. The pilot told him that ships from Vietnam, Russia or Cuba had to endure quarantine regulations. Immediately the captain asked, “Oh, so it’s political?” “No, no,” the pilot said with emphasis. “Well, then what is required?” the captained continued to question. “Is there a health inspection?” “No,” the pilot said, “I will call the officials when you lay anchor. He will come to the ship but not board. You take him your ship’s paper and he will review, then we can move into the harbor.” That was it and a half hour later we pulled anchor and moved a mile closer in the harbor and dropped the sonuvabitch again. We were still five miles off the coast of the Kowloon Peninsula and five from the Hong Kong Island. We were in the middle of no place, the coastline off in the distance. Next we had to find out how the hell to get to shore. The agent showed up and reported that it would cost us 120 bucks (US) to get a lift to shore. That didn’t cut it and our dubious report was that were only scheduled to be in port for 24 hours. That sucked as the barges began to pull along side in the choppy currents and the crew began to prepare for offloading. The next morning after very little sleep I drug my ass to breakfast to check the situation. I was beginning to think that we wouldn’t be able to afford the trip to the coast due to the high costs and the fact that boats weren’t available and we might be leaving in the evening. Doesn’t make too much sense to pay $250 to get into town to have lunch and leave. Ah, but there are always alternatives. The Cargo Superintendent came on board and shrugged his shoulders with a lack of solutions to the problems afoot, but the Chinese Agent, Henry Cheung from the Gulf Agency Company, showed up and volunteered to take us to Kowloon on his dime on the harbor skiff, a 40-ft, high-powered launch.

 

inside boat
Henry became the passenger’s connection with the ship. The deal was that after he dropped us off on the dock we were on our own until the next morning when I would check in and check out the cargo progress report. As it turned out we had all that day and most of the next.

One problem, though. Henry was peeling out as we spoke. I had to hit the showers and head to the gangplank. I spent the night in town without so much as a tooth brush, so some shopping had to take place and as usual, few shops accepted American Express and if you wanted cash from American Express you had to walk miles to the one Amex ATM in downtown Kowloon, only to find out it was out of order. We were told that another Chinese bank would accept it. That alternative was tried and a passenger had her card sucked by the machine, leaving her cardless. She had to spend the afternoon waiting around the office for a temporary card. There was nothing wrong with her balance. She swore that when she returned to the states she would use up her miles and burn the card. Such fools. Instead of assisting cardholders they put as many obstacles in the way of using the card as possible.

The last time I was in Hong Kong was during my stint in the Vietnam War. I sailed into the Hong Kong harbor three times. During the late ’60s the harbor was packed with a myriad of Chinese Junks, but this time as I looked out over the vast harbor, I didn’t see a one. I wasn’t reminded much of the old Hong Kong and wasn’t sure I would be startled by remembering something. The city has grown to a population of 6.9 million. It’s a madhouse metropolis teaming with shopping and high rise buildings. There something odd about it though. From the harbor or any distance the city reflects a massive sizzling beautiful metropolitan area, but when you get close in the daylight and look up, most of the buildings are apartments where people live. They are not luxury apartments but grubby stained buildings with air conditioners hanging out of window and clothes hanging on anything outside to dry.

 

sampan ahead

More importantly, I exposed the fact that it is actually a downright expensive place to live. Apartments range from 20-40 grand a year to rent. That’s for the low rent districts and low on the elevator check list. As you move from floor to floor the rent increases until you’re facing 65-100,000 a year to be less than street people. No wonder the population clamors to gamble and there are only two types of gaming allowed. There is one race track on the island which produces 74 horse races a year and the crowds Annie up 81 Billion a year on the races. The only other legal gambling fare was to roll the dice on the Hong Kong lottery.

Hell, a burial site on the island costs $200,000 since land is so precious. Someone told me that you are buried sitting on a chair to conserve landI can’t confirm that gossip. There are several hospitals in town but only one government joint right across the street from a hilly cemetery. Rumor has it that if you end up in the hospital, it’s likely that the only way out is the rocky road to a plot across the street. Yipes.

I took a ride through a tunnel from Kowloon to the island. The tunnel costs 320 million to build, but it’s only 2 kilometer long and 24 meters below the surface of Victoria Bay. Keep in mind as I babble that the rate of exchange was 7.2 to one US dollar. Okay, so I’m blasting around the island looking at the sites and I cruised over a very tight winding road to the south side of the island to the small Aberdeen Harbor and when we pulled up to the dock leading to the popular floating restaurant in the middle of the bay I was taken back. A lump formed in my throat as I looked out at the odd looking floating Chinese River Boat still swaying in the calm waters 36 years later. It’s now called the Jumbo and is covered in neon and glittering lights like a Las Vegas gambling boat. It’s now owned by a gentleman who owns casinos in Macao and all over Indonesia.

 

city from water

I suddenly remembered the night I drug one of my buddies off the St. Paul and we grabbed a cab for the floating restaurants. We were 19 and 21 years old and concerned that the cabbie was taking us for a treacherous ride until he pulled into this small parking lot on the coast in front of a short pier some 20 feet long surrounded by little 5- foot sampans. We had hit the whores in strange tall buildings that were full of long halls without lights and dank rooms with little or no appliances. I remember the guy who lured us inside, gave us beers and showed us grotesque dirty movies before selling us on young girls. The girls were cute and in some cases not in a brothel ambiance. It was as if someone invited you into their home and offered you a drink, a daughter to fuck and dinner later. It was odd and somewhat uncomfortable. It was like going to see your girlfriend, fucking her in the room next to the dining room packed with relatives. Then dusting yourself off and saying goodbye.

If I’m not mistaken, my buddy, Outlaw (no shit, that was his last name) copped out when he saw the sampans and got back in the cab and headed back to the ship. I remember stepping into a wobbling sampan by myself. An old woman pushed off from the dock. She didn’t say much, just rowed quietly to the glittering floating River Boat type craft in the harbor. Half way out she stopped the dinky vessel and I wondered what the hell I had gotten myself into. It was dark on the water except for the reflection of the lights of the restaurant. She turned and picked up a bundle off the wooden deck that turned out to be a baby and held it up to me. I could see that the infant wrapped in the dirty blanket was sleeping soundly. She showed me the child then held out her hand. I don’t remember anything about the money then, but I handed her a couple of bucks and she grinned a toothless smile, bowed and kept rowing.

 

shabby boat

I still remember that night. There were two restaurants at the time and one of the two allowed you to pick your fish from an adjoining tank and they would cook it up for you. I wasn’t in the mood for that fare and went to the next boat for a real life Chinese dinner which was tremendous and the atmosphere eerie. The two restaurants are now one and they server 3,000 people a night.

It was out of a dream and we jumped aboard a large motorized sampan for a tour of the area which is packed with luxury yachts, the restaurants and rows of boats that people still live on. They were tied next to professional wooden fishing boats. This was the only area left where people can still live on boats and they must buy a license each year to remain there. Between the rotting boats, the cost of the licenses and a thinning ceiling on the number of live-aboards allowed the traditional live aboard situation is quickly diminishing. There were once six million live-aboard boats in the Victoria Channel and now there are only 11,000 and that number is fading fast. It was sad to look at the boats and wonder about their future. I asked the woman in the motorized sampan behind the long wooden rudder, who looked and was dressed like a bank teller, “What happened to Chinese Junks?” When I was a youngster my old man took the family down to Wilmington Harbor to look at some new imported Chinese Junks for sale. They were as cool as pirate ships. Unfortunately my folks were trying to decide whether to buy one of them or a cabin in the hills and decided on the cabin.

She looked at me as if I was a voice from the past bringing up a legend she would just as soon forget. I imagined the harbor in the ’60s with thousands of these sailboats that looked like butterflies on the water flittering from harbor to harbor. Then she looked at me and I detected sadness in her broken English. “All the masts are gone. We have only motors now. Only one left with a sail for charter. The rest are either fishing sampans or live-aboard.” I could tell as she finished explaining that the story would only end when all the old line of wooden hulls were gone, replaced with fiberglass high-dollar yachts. How times change.

 

floating restraunts
One more quick tale of the down and dirty. The north side of the island is packed with squalor and over-built high-rise buildings. On the south side of the island there are steep uncharted hills covered with greenery, a welcome relief from the north side. In the past there has only been one way to commute to the north side and that was over the long narrow, winding road I took to Aberdeen. Not long ago, another costly tunnel was built through the island and immediately larger buildings were being constructed on the south side, bummer. In the past it was mostly wealthy residents from town. We cruised by several homes that are several stories high. They were explained to me to house a separate generation on each level of the home. That was the intention of building these grand palaces, but rumor has it that several housed several wives. The owner could have a home for each wife on a separate floor. For a hundred years that was legal in Hong Kong until October of ’71 when a law was passed banning multiple wives.

 

ditybelow
This is a shot of the north side of the Hong Kong Island from the highest point, Victoria Peak.

I found it interesting that Hong Kong is noted for its jewelry deals and spent some time at the Dynasty Jewelry mart, yet almost none of the raw materials come from China. Diamonds and gold come from South Africa, Opals from Australia and Jade and Rubies come from Burma.

As a closing thought I would like to mention a bit of advice for those who are interested in living in the hills. According to Chinese legend, dragons live in the hills. Chinese lore has dragons built into their yearly schedules as if it was a true animal. For instance last year was the year of the snake and this the year of the horse. Since the dragon is the symbol of China it is to be respected and cared for so people who build homes in the hills make sure that each structure has a center courtyard to nurture dragons and let them breathe.

So if someone was to ask me if I had a good time in Hong Kong I would answer the same as all the ports I’ve entered: Each port has it challenges and adventures. Hell, yes I had a good time. I had a steak at the Morton’s Steak House at the Sheraton over-looking the Victoria Bay and the brightly decorated high-rise buildings for the New Year Holiday. I walked along the edge of the channel surrounded by the Las Vegas like night lights incredible. There was a Ferry Boat ride to the Hong Kong Island and back. Indians attacked me on every corner with brochures about hand tailoring clothing for my lanky self. The city is just as mysterious as during the Vietnam era.-Bandit

The Survy Dog Logs
Part XIV

Shanghai’s Rude Awakening

How To Handle Progress Gracefully
Story, and Photos By Bandit

 

Everyday we receive the briefest of news reports that come via Telex and contain a series of four-line paragraphs about world topics. There are usually 13 segments, and 11 of them contain reports of violence somewhere in the world. I don’t want to walk on anyone’s politics, but doesn’t anyone in this world do something because it’s the right fuckin’ thing to do? The attacks are generally based on religion, politics or greed.

 

sin

I’m rapidly discovering that if any country looks at the realities of their past they can be pissed off enough to go to war with almost anyone. Some of the shit the white race did to China over the years, for instance, would curl your toes. There wouldn’t be opium in China if the British hadn’t brought it to keep the little people in line and make a few bucks on the side. There were several opium wars; in most cases the Chinese people lost and were forced to let Europeans distribute drugs and other profitable substances in ports like Hong Kong and Shanghai.

I don’t want to jump into a bag of generalizations, but you can imagine why the people turned to communism for protection from the white vultures. They thought that communism was the answer when in most cases it became a highly controlled dictatorship that raped the people and the land. It backfired here too, like it did in Russia. The Chinese people endured revolutions and corrupt government. At one point, people with educations were forced into the fields and all books were burned. One of the last emperors ultimately became a gardener. The wife of Chiang Kai Shek sucked as much wealth as she could out of the country and ended up living in Washington, D.C. In the meantime, while the people were trying desperately to find a way, the rest of the free world was progressing. Sooner or later everyone wants an air conditioner. People aren’t blind. They can see when they have nothing and the rest of the world is driving cool cars and listening to rock ‘n’ roll.

 

new years shot

Chinese New Year

So we steamed into Shanghai, (originally two words that mean “on the sea”) which is an example of a new China. Keep in mind that China is about the size of the continental United States yet has 900 million more people. Believe it or not, the birthrate is down. If you think that every family should have a bushel of kids, come to Shanghai and get a lesson in wild population growth and what it does for the quality of life. The reason that I’ve tossed in all this background is that it gives you a basis for what I will try to explain.

The population of Shanghai was 10 million in 1975. It’s the largest industrial city in China. There are 200 agricultural communities surrounding the city to supply food. There are 98 berths for large cargo ships and container vessels. There are 25 more for ships in the 10,000-ton range and 28 more for ships in the range of 4,500 metric tons. It took us 4 1/2 hours to motor up the Beicao Shuidao River from the Yellow Sea, before we grabbed another pilot for an hour and half ride down the Huangpu Jiang River to the port. The river continues past Shanghai, the sprawling city of high rise buildings. At night it’s impressive beyond belief.

 

city at night

I believe from the people I met that the residents of Shanghai are generally happy campers. They dress well, have good attitudes, are making livings like never before and are experiencing much of what the world has to offer. Perhaps they’re like kids in a city of candy stores. My perspective was entirely different. Not bad, but cautious.

Let’s have some fun first. The day we arrived I met with the captain to get some travel guidance. He had been up all night rumbling from one river to the next, one pilot to the next and, once we arrived, from one administration to the next. Our meat locker was immediately sealed. We were not allowed to eat meats from anywhere except the United States. Unfortunately, the Leon stocked up in Europe. It meant business for local merchants since we had to buy additional stores. In addition to the usual forms, we had to put in for a permit for naked light operation so that our fitter could continue to weld on the main deck during the day. Our sandblaster came down with a terrible tooth infection and was hauled off to a dentist who didn’t have modern tools. He finally received some antibiotics and pain killers. At first he told the dentist that the pain was so bad that he couldn’t sleep so the doctor gave him sleeping pills. I was told that the doctor’s drilling machine was powered by pedals. I was also told that some Chinese dentists are taught to do all their work by hand. They can pull a tooth with their muscular fingers. They train by pulling nails out of wood with only two digits. I started brushing my teeth several times a day.

We discovered quickly that it’s no problem to catch a cab. But unless you speak the language, you can’t go anywhere without a card with the address written on it in Chinese symbols. That includes the return cab drive back to the ship. It was critical here due to the hour-long ride to and from the ship. For the three-day stay, we all had to carry cards with our info so we could find our way back. We discovered that the best bet for getting to know an area is to take a cab to a fine hotel. The concierge will always assist (in most cases) with tour packages, or anything else you may need. Generally they speak English. I try to spend a couple of bucks in the hotel of my choice to show my appreciation. If we didn’t spend the night there, we ate dinner or bought souvenirs. In this case, we were recommended to check the brand new Grand Hyatt, located in an 88-story building, the largest building on the Pu Dong side of the river. I fortunately made contact with Butch, the founder of the Red Devils underground Motorcycle Club in Shanghai, who was a true brother and helped with travel pointers and some of the best chow we had. Another recommendation was the Peace Hotel. It’s an older, classic high-rise, built in 1906. It became our home base since the harbor was a good hour away over rough streets in cabs driven like they were in training for New York City status.

 

butch and mom

It was crowded everywhere, but the people were friendly and excited to try their English on us. People of all ages said hello when they saw us. There were a few Anglos about, but very few. I looked like a freak of nature, but the blonde was admired everywhere. Traffic was wall-to-wall mixed with trucks, constant construction equipment, buses, subways, trains and those buses that run on electrical lines. In addition to the four wheelers, the motorcycle traffic is immense, mostly scooters zipping between cars, and on the wrong side of the street, anywhere, to get where they were going. Then there were bicycles all over the goddamn place. Like the scooters, they were nothing fancy, just inexpensive, utilitarian motorcycles and three-speed bicycles by the millions. Most of them had faded paint and were spotted with rust. The streets are jungles of telephone poles, electrical wires, you name it. The face of this city has completely changed in the last 10 years. Wherever possible, someone is mowing down the older two-story homes and building grand high-rise apartments. But old traditions die hard. On a cab drive, we passed a sprawling old stucco housing track with gray plastered walls and pointed tile roofs.

 

pointy roof

The homes looked more like a ghetto of wire, filth and clothes hanging from windows. Next door was a new building but already air conditioners were hanging outside windows along with the laundry. On so many city street corners there were trees surrounded by concrete and asphalt. It’s wintertime so there were no leaves on the trees, which only added to the desolate look. Even in the midst of the city there was laundry hanging on the tree limbs next to a sprawling intersection. Behind the tree would be a vast ghetto of crumbling, two-story buildings built close together. Across the street could be a new high-rise office building as slick as New York. It was a strange juxtaposition. It sounds grim, I know, but the people dressed very well, smiled, got along and were pleasant. There was no vast difference in groups of people. They were all well dressed and on the move. I saw hardly any denims or T-shirts. Guy all wear slacks, pressed shirts and some sort of jacket. So it could have been that what looked like a ghetto to me was just another old apartment complex to them. Perhaps some were just older and more hammered than others.

Again, we were faced with every imaginable type of retail store. I was astonished by the number. On occasion we were told to go to Nanjing Road or Huahai Road for outstanding shopping, but I found shopping on every street in every direction. Butch also explained that the prices in Shanghai were the highest in the country, even higher than Hong Kong. Sharp-looking franchise shopping malls were perched next to rundown streets with stall-type shops faced with roll-up garage doors in front that housed hardware stores or scooter repair businesses. Everything was piled on everything else, and damnit if everything wasn’t packed with people.

To be perfectly honest, this type of lifestyle doesn’t do a damn thing for me. From what I’ve heard, this is happening all over China. Cities are expanding like crazy. In 1978, a law was passed that couples could only have one child. Since then it has been modified to allow couples made up of single children to bear two. I was recently told that if you have enough coin, you can buy a license to have another child.

It’s so odd that if you discuss the history with Europeans you get so many different slants and explanations. You would think that perhaps the citizens of Shanghai would like to put the European influence behind them and build anew. Where the Peace Hotel is, there are a series of high-rise buildings built from the late 1800s to 1927. The architecture of these buildings is common in Europe and the United States. They all were planted on Zhonghan Road, considered the Bund (water front), which borders the river. This is considered by the Chinese to be the street that represents Shanghai.

 

towers

On the other side of the river is Pu Dong or the new neighborhood where the Grand Hyatt is and the Oriental Pearl TV Tower. It is 468 meters high. It is the highest TV tower of its kind in Asia and the third highest in the world. You can blast up into it for a price and see the city from the top. Until recently there was only one way to get across the river to Pu Dong and that was by ferry. Now there are bridges, ferries, tunnels and the Bund Sightseeing underground tunnel. It is the first passenger tunnel in China and takes riders on a psychedelic light show to the TV tower on the other side. The Grand Hyatt turned out to be inserted into the tallest high rise in the country called the Jin Mao building, named after Mao’s wife. It’s the third tallest building in the world.

So on one hand, the Anglos treated the Chinese poorly at times but never as poorly as the Japanese or some of the dictators who ran the country. So for some, the English and Europeans protected them from attacks, freed them from the Japanese during World War II and now they honor that heritage. Who the fuck knows from one moment to the next.

We finally got the hell out of Shanghai and arrived in Qingdao at 4 a.m. the next day. This is the city where the Chinese beer is produced. It is a half million strong and built up from a village in 10 years. We were docked and ready to go ashore at 9 a.m., but were not allowed. We didn’t receive our passports back until 4 p.m. It may have been that we were docked in a military portion of the port since destroyers surrounded us and there were eight submarines moored across the harbor. Originally, in the morning, the captain had told me that we only were off loading 14 items, two with the 250-metric ton Stuelcken crane and 12 out of the forward hold with the 20-ton cranes. As it turned out, the stevedores delayed work until all the paperwork formalities were handled. The captain had 70 forms to produce in the morning. The two large pieces were finally unloaded in the morning, then union lunch break was taken until 1 p.m. Then, after chow, five crates were moved. There was some discussion about the seven final crates. Some shifting was needed to reach some of the crates. Again, the stevedores shut down until they were assured that payment would be received for extra work.

Ultimately the projected three hour off-loading exercise turned into eight hours. The job was completed at 4 p.m. and a pilot was scheduled. He did not arrive and the time was switched to 4:30, then at 4:45, we were told that he would be aboard in five minutes. At 5:30 p.m. we were still waiting. We finally pulled out of the harbor at about 6 p.m. A soldier stood at the bottom of the gang plank all day. At one point there was a watch relief, but they had to exchange coats. There was only one between them.

 

tunnel
Bund Tunnel

We usually steam into port, pass many waiting vessels and go immediately to a dock ready with stevedores. That is handled by the agent who gets to know the authorities, then greases their palms. It also has to do with the captain giving gifts to the administrators who come aboard. He explained that for every $100 spent on gifts and dinner, the ship saves as much as $6,000 for the expenses of anchoring outside the dock for one day waiting for a space. Since we were not allowed ashore, a couple of passengers were hopping mad and complained that we have been denied access to Berlin when we had the time to make the trip. We weren’t allowed off the ship in Newport News, Vietnam or now QingDao. Oops, I forgot to mention lovely Jakarta. I’m beginning to see a tradition of high rise cities that don’t do a damn thing for me. I suppose it’s not the cities but the crowds.

I appreciate the growth and progress for the people who live here, but frankly I want to see the traditions and the landscape. I would like to have dinner with a Chinese family, or get my ass home and ride over a lonely road in the desert, look at the latest American Indian jewelry and have a cold beer. Can’t wait.

Shanghai Sidebar:
Religion still wreaks havoc the world over. I found myself surrounded by relics of Buddhism. Some 60 percent of the Chinese population is Buddhist. The rest of the population is split between Christianity and Muslim. Here are just a couple of items I picked up on my hunt to find nirvana in a world at each others’ throats:

There are four states to Buddha: First is Buddha herself. Second is the many disciples. Laughing Buddha is the esteemed predecessor. He represents all things happy and the bright future. He is already set to fill the main man’s shoes at some point, but there are several others including the Goddess of Mercy who is always there to assist. There is Madison Buddha who represents everything healthy, Ameda Buddha who is the Happy Buddha and represents the future and Canodi Buddha who represents all that is current. There’s a third level, and I confirmed it, but goddamnit I can’t find it in my notes. The last is the people who are monks and nuns. The religion is set up so that anyone can become a Buddha.

A few notions of the Buddhist religion are that fish are highly regarded as the wisest being on earth, because fish never sleep or close their eyes. We should all have jade in our homes because it is full of energy that rubs off on all inhabitants. The years are based on 11 animals and the dragon. The dragon is the symbol of China. For instance, last year was the year of the snake, not a good year. This is the year of the horse, a very good year. I toured the Jade Temple that was built in 1882 and houses several vast jade carvings of Buddha from when she was 35 and before her death. That’s all I know or was taught as hundreds of people surrounded me to bow to their Buddhas with smoking incense clutched in their hands as I looked on and compared their temples to the ornate Christian and Catholic cathedrals in Europe. Similar in some respects and vastly different in others, but always impressive and foreboding.

The Scurvy Dog Logs
Part XV

A Report From China 3/5/2002

A Mixture of Freedom Progress and Coal Dust
Story, and Photos By Bandit

 

Yesterday we pulled out of China for the last time. Next stop Masan, Korea. It’s another country that’s terribly over-populated, but I’ll report from there. Rumor has it that they don’t like Americans and we may be forced to stay on board the ship, but we’ll get to that later.

Two rules of thumb when making a trip like this. Don’t do it in the dead of winter. Not only is it so fucking cold it would freeze the balls off a brass monkey, but the vegetation is bleak and the grass looks as brown as desert sand. I’m sure some of the areas I report on would look much better with a taste of greenery. Second rule, make sure that the cabins on the ship have heaters. I’m discovering that I’m a person who likes the warmth and prefers heat over cold. Goddamnit, I’ll bundle up for anything, but when I return to my cabin I want the comfort of warmth and a woman. Is that too fuckin’ much to ask?

By the 24th of March I will have been bobbing from port to port for four months. I’m still bugging the captain about picking up a crate bound for San Pedro. Here’s the schedule as it stands: We’re a day from Korea. We’ll off load there for three days then steam for 18 hours to Yokohama, Japan for 24 hours of loading cargo bound for the U.S. Then after six hours of sailing to Hitachi for another 24 hours of loading and we’re bound for 17 days in calm seas to the Panama Canal. We’ll burn a day due to dealing with agents and inspectors trying to roll through the locks and into Lake Gatume, and out the locks and into the Caribbean bound for Houston another six days away.

Enough dreaming about being home and in the arms of my babe, let’s get to the China report. At last report, I mentioned the town of Qingdao, then 17 hours after departure we arrive at the peninsula that contains the port of Dalian.

 

square
This is the Zhong Shan Square in Dalian. Check out the buildings in the background.

By now I’m a blur of big cities all trying to over-rate the next one with the highest high-rise building or TV tower. This was the first city that contained no tours and after walking for a bit we discovered there was no need for a tour. It was a mess, but don’t get me wrong. Again the people seem pleased with the progress.

I’m reading a book about the history of Hong Kong as part of my research for my book project. In this book, “Hong Kong Remembers” it is explained that until 1980 there were no labor unions in Hong Kong. The book says that the labor unions in mainland China are run by the government, so not really unions at all. It’s only been in the last twenty years that the working man has enjoyed any rights or benefits. Think about it. If five years ago you still worked in a sweat shop 14 hours a day, 7 days a week without any benefits, you’d be mighty happy now if progress was afoot. So you wouldn’t be too concerned if you still worked in a building without air conditioning and the air quality stunk. The same philosophy applies to living conditions. These people are moving fast and ten years from now, they will be light years ahead of the curve and I’m sure making corrections that we are now facing in some of our over-built cities.

Dalian was again a city of transformation, but not a handsome joint in the winter, although prices were very reasonable and taxis cheap. It is based near the Gulf of Liaudong which was once controlled by the Russians until the Japanese took over in the ’30s. We visited an old street of Russian buildings. The classic ornate structures were being refurbished and turned into shops.

While roaming from shop to shop we met a young man who spoke English very well. He took us to a small restaurant where we ordered two dishes and they delivered enough food for a half dozen people, plus we had hot tea. The bill was slightly over two bucks US. So we went to the ultra luxurious Furama Hotel and had cappuccino and desert for $15.

 

desert
A light desert at the Furama Hotel in Dalian

Once more, Dalian was very European with all the retail outlets we’ve seen in a number of countries, but the side streets are really where it’s at. The ship’s catastrophe afforded us in Dalian was the discovery that a 38 tons of sheet metal was buried deep in the hull under another level of cargo bound for other ports. It was the mistake of our planning superintendent in Europe. It took the stevedores eight hours to shift the cargo to reach the slabs of steel, and another eight hours of delay to unload the cargo, held us up for a day. The word on the ship is that Rickmers is a shifting company, not shipping. In the superintendent’s defense, it was the holiday season and all his comrades took the time off saddling him with over eight ships to manage and all the cargo. No an easy task.

 

cranes
The rusting Leon at the dock between stevedore shifts.

Our next port was again only a handful of hours away. Tianjin is located on the coast of the Gulf of Chihli or Bo Hai. The fog was unbelievable. For two days we couldn’t see a dam thing. Concerned that we were facing yet an additional Chinese port I pointed to a crate 80 feet long and asked the captain about the destination printed on the side which said Xingang. The captain in his usual humorous demeanor laughed, “That’s the port, Tianjin is just nearby.” Actually Tianjin was over an hour away. It’s confusing as hell. The port is called the Port of Tianjin, but is actually in Xingang and the nearest town is Tanggu. Tianjin might as well be on the other side of the world.

 

ship in fog
The Fog created a mysterious haze without color. Only the bleak shapes of ships could be seen.

The first day we took a cab to Tianjin. The roads were rough and all the cabs needed new shocks. The highways were well planned and under each interchange there was a park and some kind of sculptured art. Unfortunately due to the season the grass was far less than brilliant green and the trees stark wooden skeletons. Along the roads were building projects next to hovels surrounded by trash and dirt, next to abandoned industrial buildings, next to flea markets, next to older industrial buildings being torn down, next to strips of retail shops and lastly next to partially constructed industrial projects that looked deserted. There were people everywhere crossing the highway, on foot (brave souls) on bicycles, and motorcycles.

Cabbies peeled along constantly on the horn, driving on the wrong side of the street to pass a slower moving vehicle. I discovered that drivers making lefts and u-turns felt they had as much right-away as the through traffic. Being a biker I have much the same devil-may-care mentality as these drivers. You learn to dodge bullets wherever they come, much like these guys did jetting around and through traffic, bicycles and pedestrians whenever they got a shot. I sat back and enjoyed the ride.

Tianjin was nothing to shout about. The food was great in the Hyatt hotel and the Astor had a Hua Fu dress I was trying to pick up for Sin Wu, but I decided to look further unsuccessfully. The streets again were jammed with bicycles and shops, but the people were comfortable and friendly, although we discovered that few knew English.

 

image 1
This is a common site throughout Chinese cities. A shop like this could be two doors from a new high-rise or a high fashion designer store.

The next day was a surprise. The coal dust whipped through the bumpy streets as it was being delivered to the port by trucks. We decided to hit the local town and we were picked up by a cute little female driver who was to deliver us to Tanggu. She didn’t leave the port through the gate but cut through a field of crushed buildings then across a series of old railroad tracks guarded by a small dilapidated building that was dark and crumbling. Even the post that blocked the road seemed to be on its last leg.

 

image 2
Perfect example of old and new mixed with a constant sprinkling of coal dust.

We were use to seeing destitute buildings parked next to new structures, but this was different. As we crossed the intersection to another gate or toll road we entered a twilight zone of sorts. The toll gate or whatever the hell it was, was state of the art. The pavement was new and wide with several lanes. Each building post and archway was high-tech and of wild design. It was as if the students at a local college were challenged to come up with eye-catching new forms for each structure. Who ever designed this stuff was no slouch. Each building we passed had a distinctly different design. Arches of stainless steel and white tile were cast over the road way as we rolled closer to town.

Each arch and building we came to was more modern, almost space aged. Someone was pouring a mint into the redevelopment and growth of the new Tanggu. It was unfortunate that it was winter and brisk. With some color, the area would have been downright impressive except for one demise. Coal dust was on everything. They needed to go back to the college with a new challenge, get this coal dust to market without killing people and making the city look like shit.

As we entered the downtown area and I was impressed beyond dreams. This portion of the city was a well-planned burgeoning area of high-rise and luxury hotels. Unfortunately, who the hell wants to travel around the globe to explore the new section of downtown Houston again? Tanggu is distant enough from tourism that few speak English and the hotel maps are only written in Chinese symbols. We were told of an area for shopping and grabbed another cab after obtaining little assistance from Hotel Tedu. The shopping area was just like a new mall in the states with marble pathways and department stores. Sure there were differences, but not the type we were looking for.

 

image 4

It wasn’t until the following day that we saw how the people of the city shopped. We went to a flea market of sorts in a down area of town. This time the cabbie escorted us through the crowed street and buffered us from the beggars who were plenty aggressive, pushing and shoving their empty tin cans in our direction. The swapmeet/fleamarket was a kick of wild booths containing anything from old electrical appliances and tools to ancient Chinese coins, brass dragons, knock-off watches, knives, toys, relics, carvings and bicycle parts. I scored a couple of small solid brass dragons for some kids in the states for less than four bucks apiece.

We departed there and went in search of Hua Fu dresses for Sin, after lunch in a revolving restaurant at the Tedu Hotel on the 33th floor over-looking the entire Tanggu fog soaked basin and the port. Wang our waitress was dressed in exactly the gown I was after. She was just as much of a knockout as Sin and I couldn’t keep my eyes off her. The silk dress slid down her body as if it was my touch moving over her shapely hips. Unfortunately she spoke very little English, although I started asking her about the dress. She called for assistance, and no, I wasn’t asked to leave. Another cute Asian woman came to my aid. I drew a sketch of the dress I was after and we started to discuss options. Unfortunately everyone I asked told me to go back to Tianjin, but time wasn’t working in my favor. I was burning daylight.

Our devoted cabbie who was most helpful took me to several locations without a whisper of luck, then we hit on one of the myriad of bridal shops in town and scored some success, but no particular assortment and I had to purchase just the right one for Sin. I was forced to resort to plan B, of which I’m not sure of yet.

As usual, we were informed that departure would take place by noon the next day, but that wasn’t the case. We motored out of the harbor being escorted by two tug boats about 1600. A misty haze hung over the harbor again as we left and pulled out of another bleak harbor covered with coal dust. Even our Leon was coated with the black powder as we pulled away and out past the breakwater and the lighthouse. We passed 29 ships at anchor waiting for dock space, cargo and stevedore agreements to enter the port. Fortunately our Rickmers agents were doing their job again.

 

litehouse
Lighthouse just outside the Xingang Harbor near Tanggu called Tianjin Port.

As we motored out of the harbor, I stood on the bridge with the Captain, 2nd officer and pilot. The pilot was a very well dressed agent. I generally stand off to the side to that I’m out of the way as they deal with ship traffic, navigation, small boats and communications with the port. The Captain usually comes to me with reports of hazards, administration nightmares, customs or immigration tribulations. This time he mentioned to the agent that I was a passenger from America and the agent spoke good English and approached me. Most of the time the agents are very focused on their mission and simply bark orders and leave.

This agent wearing a navy blue double-breasted blazer with gold buttons and a golden patterned tie was impressive and friendly. The agents in each port dress differently. This guy looked like an executive not a seaman. He told me he had been an agent for 20 years and had never seen an American flag ship. He also mentioned that he had never experienced a crew of American seamen or officers. We don’t build ships in the states anymore. We can’t compete with China or Japan. Americans are not hired on the ships because they’re too expensive. In fact, we noticed that few Germans are seaman for the same reason. Pilipino crews mostly man the ships and many have Polish officers.

I wish I had met this agent on the trip into port. I would have known exactly where to go and where to avoid. A critical learning process in every port is becoming acclimated. About the time you know the town or area, it’s time to split.

 

image 3
A scene from a street we stumbled onto since we didn’t have a guide to show us the right way.

It’s too bad that guides are not available to assist. The ports and towns could make a lot more money off passengers if they could obtain the proper information quicker. A couple of passengers wanted to go to Peking, which is now Beijing and beyond to see the great wall, but due to misinformation were never able to get away from the ship or get the information in order to make the trip. As it turned out we would have had plenty of time if the data was available.

Next report from Masan, Korea.

Check out Chapter 4: http://www.bikernet.com/pages/story_detail.aspx?id=9940
Back to Chapter 2: http://www.bikernet.com/pages/story_detail.aspx?id=9948

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The Scurvy Dog’s Logs Chapter 4

The Scurvy Dog Logs
Part XVI

The Foreboding Coast Of Korea

There’s A Grizzly Surprise Around Every Uninhabited Island – 3/11/2002
Story, and Photos By Bandit

As usual, I have so much to report I can’t keep track of it all. First, I want to tell you that I suspected Korea would be as ugly, dirty and evil as Jakarta. It was not just my sordid mind playing tricks on me. Our worldly reporter, Forrest P., confirmed the dangers of going ashore in Korea as, “You’re on your own in Korea.” I was prepared for danger or even confinement aboard the ship for the duration of our stay. As it turned out, the exact opposite was the case.

I must in all good conscience congratulate the people of Masan, Korea, for having the best-kept, most organized and colorful port in the world. This place is dead sharp, from the clean waters and small islands to the beaches, the buildings and roads. Hell, the docks are even landscaped.

The residents aren’t proficient in English, but the new highway signs are posted in Korean and English. However, there are no English street signs in Masan, so getting around the town of 500,000 is a guessing game. Everyone wanted to help though. Even the hotel maps printed in Masan were produced in English and Japanese, yet the cabbies couldn’t read either. It’s a bustling little berg on a gorgeous bay guarded by a series of islands and a substantial Naval installation. At one point a submarine that surfaced surprised us and tailed us for half an hour.

masan
Here’s a shot of the city as we motored into the port.

The fresh fish industry is considerable and around the area were crops of shell fish pods neatly guarded with lines of white floats in bays and inlets. But before we toss the lines to the dock, I must tell you a couple of stories about Constantine, our one-man sandblasting crew. He’s about 5-foot-6, average build, with thick, black hair. He’s the guy who got the tattoos in Jakarta. When we’re in port he can’t sandblast so they have him standing duty at the gang plank ever since we had the robbery in Europe. He also had a hand in preventing the mafia raid in Vietnam.

Recently he was on duty in one of the Chinese ports when he noticed that someone had taken a set of bolt cutters and an axe and slipped them off the ship. One of the stevedore supervisors allowed the tools to be concealed in a cart. Constantine discovered this ploy. He called all the stevedores together and busted them, telling them, “If you fuck me in the ass, I will fuck you to your face.” He questioned the men, got a confession and had the man strip to his skivvies in the freezing cold. Then he asked him to leave the ship. His supervisor came aboard to complain and Constantine told him to take a leap. He would not turn over the man’s helmet or gear.

Constantine is an interesting guy, and a biker of sorts. He has a family in Romania and calls home on the ship’s satellite phone from time to time. His wife put him on the speaker phone recently at a family reunion and Constantine tells her, “I want to fuck you right now.”

“I’ll have to ask my family,” she replied, which the family got a big kick out of.

He once was a train engineer in Romania and made $250 a month. He discovered that he could make substantially more as a seaman and through his underground connections got papers cut and found himself aboard a ship as a sandblaster. The officer asked him if he was in charge and the told the mate, “Sure.”

He was told where to start the operation and he got the crew together and put them to work. It was a week before he had to pick up a nozzle himself. He had never operated a sandblaster and didn’t know the first thing. He just watched the other guys perform the operation. “I had to look like I knew what I was doing,” he said. Somehow he pulled it off.

Since we were just in China, we were placed under Korean quarantine. The captain jokes that since we were in Vietnam we were under quarantine in China, then China to Korea, next will be Japanese quarantine since we were last in port in Korea and in the United States under quarantine since we were just in Japan. One of the passengers caught a cold recently and we blamed all the quarantines on her sniffles.

Each port has its quagmire of administrations, contacts, customs and immigration. In this case, the agent had shore passes neatly printed for us. Since he had to print up shore passes for the entire crew, he had all the passengers printed on the same forms. Unfortunately, there were three women and myself. All of us had shore passes that indicated that we were in fact males and crewmen. We were busted at the gate because we were not on the crew list supplied to security. This was the first port that actually had security with a metal detectors. My Elishewitz locking blade knife was confiscated during a search, but it was returned when I rolled back in to the port. The uniformed guards were extremely helpful and courteous.

The first day in every port is usually spent trying to get a handle on the city. We’re discovering that by the third day you can get a grip on most towns and begin to see the really cool shit. Prior to that you’re hitting the tourist locations and walking in circles asking for directions. This city was clean, with well-maintained roads and more courteous drivers. The cars were generally new and full sized. By the end of the first day we had stumbled through a couple of hotels to quiz the staff on their English and travel information. Most of the locals didn’t think there was much to see in town and others pointed us directly to the shopping areas.

masshop
This was taken in the Changdong shopping area. It is still a traditional area of narrow streets and unique booths. I didn’t take shots of all the ordinary stores and high-rise buildings.

We’ve about had it with shopping, but we hit the area with traditional booths full of food, handmade crafts, pastries, you name it. We hit the major shopping high-rise, called the Dae Woo, which is full of the same shit we saw in Antwerp. We cruised the fish market, which was cool. I wish I knew the fish fare better because they had some strange shell fish, monster crabs, stingrays by the dozen, clams as big as your fist and some of the best oysters I’ve tasted in ages. We tried a small restaurant over looking the harbor where we had to take off our shoes and sit on the floor. Unfortunately, no one knew English. They had no menu and we were at a loss for communication, so we had appetizers and split.

masfishcut
We saw ladies and gentlemen in several places filleting fish in public.

I’ve been looking for a special silk Hau Fu dress for Sin Wu. Damn these dresses make Asian girls look like a million bucks. In our last Chinese port of Tianjin, shops were minimal. Of course as we wandered through narrow, booth-lined streets in downtown Masan, we discovered a section devoted to clothes and fabrics. If I was looking for a traditional Korean outfit or fine fabrics to make one with, I would have stumbled into the mother lode. Unfortunately, traditional Korean clothing looks like the garb of medieval warriors. There’s nothing sexy about it. I kicked myself in the ass again for not jumping on the first slinky silk dress I stumbled upon in Dalian, China.

With our feet securely wet in the new burg, we returned to the ship with big expectations for the following day. I contacted the agent first thing in the morning and began to quiz him about finding us a tour guide/taxi driver and working out an itinerary. A plan was hatched for him to arrive at 9:30, hook us up and we’d be on our way. This agent already had a reputation for strolling onto the ship late. He showed at 10:30, but was very helpful except never informed us of a price.

We were to meet the cab at the gate at 11, but the cab didn’t show. At 11:15 I called the agent on my handy satellite phone and he apologized for the delay. I called at 11:30 and at 11:45 a car screeched to a stop in front of me. A gentleman jumped out and began to apologize. Mr. Yang’s reputation spilled over to his coworkers, who ask for forgiveness for his behavior. The man stood with us until the taxi arrived at noon. Then we began plan negotiations. The driver spoke very little English, but with the assistance of the co-agent we hatched a plan for a road trip into the hills to several ancient locales. Then we worked out a price for half day of $100 U.S. for four people. Altogether the plan changed three times, but was a success. We had a helluva drive out of the city into the valleys and hills surrounding the area. He took us to a restaurant for lunch that was also a sit-on-the-floor affair, where the beef was sliced and cooked at the table by the driver as he showed us how to eat it. It was killer.

masgrave
This purportedly is the grave of Buddha.

We drove comfortably through canyons, passed miles of strawberry crops and went through old villages. All the kids getting out of school were in neat uniforms. We strolled through a couple of temple areas, including the one that contains the skeletal remains of Buddha. We were on time to watch the bell ringing monks drum tapping ceremony at the area of 31 temples. It was all very civilized and we discovered another country attacked by the Japanese. At one point in history they couldn’t leave anyone alone.

masbell
This is a shot of a Korean bell used in religious ceremonies. There’s a monster Korean bell on the hillside of San Pedro overlooking the coast. This reminded me of home.

Since we are on our way to Yokohama, Japan, my eyes began to focus in that direction. The country has less space than California, yet the population is almost equal to that of the entire United States, and it’s made up of mountainous islands. That makes for a much limited living area, so we can expect crowds everywhere.

Good fortune befell our wintered selves. We witnessed the blossoming of cherry and plum trees to brighten the days with brilliant colors and new life. Bottom line, Masan, Korea, is a progressive area of hard working people who seem pleased with their surroundings and should be proud of what they’ve accomplished. The port was the finest we’ve seen yet. I continue to harp on harbors, but for an entire world industry harbors are a harbinger of what may come within the country, and in general they look like shit and represent the owner countries poorly, to say the least. It doesn’t need to be that way.

leon
A shot of the Leon in the Masan port the night we departed for Japan.

Some ship perceptions: There seems to be two elements that impact a vessel’s longevity: rust and vibration. The chief engineer told me that most ships are mechanically sound when they are scraped due to surveyors finding of a lack of structural integrity. Ships are surveyed and reported on at regular intervals. If a ship fails a required inspection, it loses its classification, won’t be allowed in ports and will be restricted from insurance coverage. This ship is over 20 years old and is rough around the edges but mechanically it’s sound. So what would make a ship last longer? First I believe a system for fresh water cleaning could help the steel surface considerably. Generally the crew uses fire hoses fueled with salt water to spray the crap, grime, coal dust and wood chips off the deck. It’s not the chemical agent of salt that destroys metal in less than two years, if a ship is not properly maintained. I was told that the sun’s rays are reflected to 36 times their strength when shot through the crystalline surface of salt. Regular washings with fresh water would eliminate that threat, but what the fuck do I know? I’ll ask an officer and report back.

There is also tremendous vibration, even on the upper decks of the ship, five floors above the engine room. I never noticed this level of vibration on a sailboat under motor power. It must take a tremendous toll on the mechanical stability of the vessel. I asked the chief engineer, who is Polish, if the engine was rubber mounted like the engines on cars. But his answer was in Polish and I couldn’t understand him. I plan to go down to the engine room when we enter a port and observe the driveline under constantly changing demands to see for myself, but on the surface I would think that rubber mounting the engine and driveline would make a helluva difference to the durability of the overall vessel.

mastrike
Here’s a shot of a trike in Korea. Motorcycles are used all over China and Korea for transportation and deliveries. How about a flame job?

One more thought: This trip has been an eye opener from various standpoints. You can imagine that when I hear news from the states and I’m surrounded by Polish officers, I take it with a different, more humble approach. Of course I’m proud to be an American and generally feel that we have the opportunity to set the stage for the entire world in the future. That means we must take pride in how we represent ourselves to the world and respect others. That’s a deep subject and difficult to even consider at the moment.

Give it some thought, but think about the following: I found out recently that the Japanese people have known for over a hundred years that they cannot live on this series of minute islands forever for many reasons. First, they don’t have the resources, and second, they don’t have the land. In the past they tried to expand by attacking China, Korea, Hong Kong, Singapore, all the fuckin’ islands, the Philippines and the United States. Big mistake. That policy turned out the be over ambitious and a miserable failure.

After the war they told their kids to learn English, because they would hope to find homes in the United States. The kids rebuffed their parents and now are kicking their own asses. Again a generation is trying the same philosophy and this time more successfully. There is just not the space in Japan for all the people, or there won’t be shortly.

Additionally, the people in China are studying the English language because the Olympics are headed to Beijing and because they recognize that the world embraces the English language. They too have discovered that communism is a miserable failure and in order to keep up with the world economy, the level of education on the planet and new weapons and products, they need to explore a more open democratic approach.

I have discovered that in every port the common language is English. When a pilot comes on board he always speaks broken English in addition to his traditional language. What’s it all mean? Who the hell knows, but it’s fascinating. I spoke to the Filipino 2nd officer today and he told me that many people in the Philippines believe that with their overcrowding the only way to escape is to build a family in America.

masandover
The world is rapidly becoming the same. There are old styles mixed with the new – McDonald’s, Mobil and Kinko’s everywhere. What used to be separate is mixed.

I would hope with English would come broader education, better business opportunities for the underprivileged countries and peace. But it will take understanding and intelligence from us. It’s no surprise that the kids who come to the United States treat our educational process with so much more respect than our own kids do. They have absolutely nothing like it in most countries or it’s only available to the very rich. We’ll need to work on and prepare for a much smaller world working together as if all countries were simply states in a union world doing business together for a common good.

Am I dreaming or what?

The Scurvy Dog Logs
Part XVII

Last Port, Maybe

Japan – Crowded And Comfortable Mixed With Turmoil Aboard – 3/19/2002
Story, and Photos By Bandit

 

I’m beginning to lose my bearing. We left Masan, Korea, in a daze. Our impressions were mixed, but fortunately everything worked out for the better. Forever, my impression of Korea will be much endeared. Naturally I was looking forward to the last ports in Japan and heading home. The rumors on the ship are never ending. Antonio, the head steward, said that it would take less than 18 hours to get to Yokohama, and the captain informed me that we would be in Yokohama for only 24 hours, then another 24 hours in Hitachi before heading home. I’m beginning to itch for my woman, a double Jack on the rocks and a ride. The final trek across the Pacific is 23 days. OK, so let’s get to the facts.

We arrived in Yokohama at 6 a.m. after two days at sea. If we arrived a minute early at the pilot station we would have been charged night duties, an extra fee for night maneuvering in the port. We were only destined to take on seven large generator components, yet the stevedores labored through very strict union hours. At 5 a.m. they’re gone. It was a plodding nightmare watching the slowness of the operation. We were in port until 6 p.m. the next day. If we had stayed another minute we would have been charged extra for night maneuvering.

 

yokobike
Yokobike: I know, bury me at sea. It’s not a Harley. Actually Japan was the first country where I spotted Harleys.

Yokohama is on the outskirts of Tokyo, a city of 26.5 million inhabitants. According to my feeble atlas, it is the most populated city in the world. I think I mentioned that there is a total of 200 million in Japan on this series of lovely, mountainous islands, so the land for housing is limited. The third mate informed me today that the city of Yokohama is populated with 21 million, but I have my doubts. Holy shit Popeye, no wonder the kids are learning English so they can escape to the mighty United States.

Tokyo Bay is deep and the pilot rode on the ship for several hours before being replaced with another pilot specifically trained for harbor maneuvering. The captain pointed out that they stack up the ships and bring in 45 ships at one time for loading and unloading. They run them out of town in the same formation instead of a constant influx of new ships passing the serviced ones.

 

yokotug
Yoko tug shot: Tug support while maneuvering a 600-foot vessel. The stevedores were waiting on the dock.

It turned out to be a reasonable port to navigate and the cabs were allowed to come directly to the ship. As usual the first day was spent trying to find our asses from a hole in the ground, getting a taxi to take us to a bank so we could grab a handful of yen. After bowing to the pleasant woman who assisted us through the process, we ran outside and paid the cabbie.

The dollar went for 127 yen and although restaurants were a tad on the expensive side, the other shopping and services seemed reasonable. As it turned out, our home base became the Grand Hotel right on the water only a mile from the ship. As usual, the hotel was of immense help even though we weren’t paying guests. We supported their coffers by eating at their restaurants twice. I was in Yokohama during the Vietnam War from time to time, but don’t remember a thing. I might have, if I’d stumbled into the whorehouse district. This city is modern and upscale, reminiscent of San Francisco with narrow streets winding into the cluttered hills.

 

garden statue
Garden statue shot: A Buddhist shrine in the Sankeien Garden. Note that we were here as the plum and cherry trees began to blossom.

We took a short tour with a cab driver who barely spoke any English, but he delivered us to the cemetery where Americans from World War I were buried, to a home overlooking the harbor that was once lived in by the ambassador to the United States. It was an elegant clapboard Midwestern home. I would have liked to tour a traditional Japanese abode. We also roamed through a park that had been carved out of the city over 200 years ago.

 

tall ship
Queens tall ship: This tall ship was on display next to the Maritime Museum, next to the Yokohama train station, across from a series of state-of-the-art high-rise shopping malls.

While the blonde of blondes got her nails done in a high-rise shopping center that was state of the art, I grabbed a massage. The next day we went to a silk museum and studied how silk garments are made. I was forced to sit at an old fabric machine and taught how to make the material at gun point. Then we stumbled into a small Angelo building that serves as the Peace Museum. It was a restored two-story brick structure on the waterfront that was established by a man who fought to keep the development of atom bombs out of Japan after the war. The display inside was devoted to Simon Wiesenthal, a Jewish man who was in a concentration camp during WWII. He managed to get his wife out and she escaped to Romania. He survived the concentration camps, although two-thirds of all the European Jewish population was wiped out. When the war was over he didn’t know if his wife was still alive and she suspected that he was dead. After they were reunited they had a child, who grew up to discover that she had no uncles, aunts, grandparents or other relatives. They were all killed in the Holocaust.

After the war most Jews understandably moved away from Europe, many to Palestine and many to the United States, but Simon stayed to prosecute war criminals. After a decade he finally located Nazi war criminal Adolf Eichmann and brought him to trial. I can’t quote him exactly, but he said that he was terrified of the man who killed millions, like he was some superman, tough guy. As it turned out, he looked like a frightened bookkeeper when put on the stand. During his endeavors to find criminals he discovered that his best snitches were Nazis who turned on one another readily.

There was one more display in the Peace Museum that moved me. As a kid I was told and read the story of Anne Frank, the girl who hid in the walls of a home for years before the Nazis discovered her and put her family in concentration camps. It was unbelievable to see actual pictures of the pretty little Jewish girl and her family. There were also photos of the Nazi officer who arrested them. He became an important figure since the Nazis like to spread the rumor that Anne Frank’s story was a hoax. By putting the officer on trial it was confirmed that what she wrote in her diaries was the truth. Eichmann’s trial accomplished the same for all of those who doubted that millions were killed in concentrations camps.

I wonder how the Japanese people explain why they attacked virtually every country around them at one time or another. Fortunately, as history often proves, greed fails. If Hitler had left Russia alone, they may have been able to own Europe, but no, they wanted to take on the world. If Japan hadn’t attacked Pearl Harbor, they might have ultimately ruled all of the Orient. Life can be a strange place.

 

yokotemple
Yokotemple: The best Chinese shopping in the world is in Yokohama, Japan, in Chinatown. This was the temple that overlooked the crowded narrow streets.

You won’t believe some of what I’m going to tell you. Here we are in this beautiful coastal city, so where did we go? We stumbled into the Chinatown district for dumplings and again in search of a Hua Fu dress for Sin. Ah, but more recently another term has surfaced to describe this garment style that makes a woman look so good. In a book on Hong Kong we discovered the term Cheongsam dress. The jury is still out on that term. Unlike the last city in China, Chinatown in Yokohama was full of dress shops and I was able to score one that will hopefully pack many fantasy- filled nights.

The ship departed Yokohama, a city streaming with Mercedes, Porches and slick shopping areas at 6 p.m. sharp. We headed north out of the bay, around the corner and back into the Hitachi port at 6 the next morning. The same requirements followed us to the Hitachi port except that this is not a city harbor, but owned by the Hitachi Corporation so the stevedores were in no hurry at all.

Long before the war Hitachi was an agricultural and fishing business, but someone discovered copper and they jumped into the mining industry. Each move the business made disturbed the community and had to be adjusted for in the future. Mining ruined the fishing and farming and destroyed the air quality. Ultimately they adjusted and came back around to the beautiful seaside area that it is today. Hitachi was bombed flat during the war. The company expanded into electrical appliances because during the mining days they needed parts to fix their own generators. Electrical motor parts were manufactured in their shop, which became a separate business.

This brings up a couple more economic considerations to mull over. This ship is basically taking generator parts and turbines to the U.S. from the Orient plus a few bars of zinc. When it is finished unloading the parts for various power plants in the U.S., it will return to Europe empty.

During my stay on the ship I picked up a Time magazine that basically painted Japan as a starving country falling apart economically. It sure didn’t look it, but we may be facing a similar plight if we don’t watch it. If you take these ships as an economic monitor you can see what countries are building and where they’re shipping it. If your country isn’t building anything and selling it abroad, it aren’t doin’ business. Nothing is shipped from the U.S. to Europe or Asia, although I’m certain that’s a broad generalization. There are no American Flag cargo ships because it’s too expensive to build ships in the U.S. There are no American crews on these ships because labor is too expensive. As far as I know there aren’t American officers running these ships. What does that tell you? Hell we can’t even build the parts for our own power plants, we have to go outside the U.S. to get parts ’cause they’re too expensive if built at home. Is that good or bad?

If you were to fly into Hitachi you wouldn’t get the impression anywhere in the area that Japan is overcrowded. It’s like Santa Barbara a few years ago. It’s a sprawling coastline with nice homes tucked into the hills.

 

hitsidestreet
Hitside street shot: I don’t know why I took this shot. It’s not representative of the plain small city streets of Hitachi. I suppose it remind me of 20 years ago in Japanese towns of narrow streets.

This was one of the cleanest areas we encountered. The town of Hitachi was easy to get around, but perhaps the trip was getting to one passenger in particular. There are only four on board, three women and my ugly self. I’ve tried to watch out for them in each port, but one in particular didn’t impress me. She seemed selfish and less than honest. From time to time I avoided any involvement with her at all, just keeping my distance. I tested her once in a while to see if I was off base but she always failed any test to demonstrate consideration for the other passengers. But I continued to keep up my roll as the gracious protective man, until we had a run-in during the Hitachi visit.

 

hittinytemple
Hit Tiny Temple: I was moved by this temple taking up an entire precious lot on the walking/shopping street of Hitachi. Perhaps it was a prayer temple for someone who passed on or just a spot in the center of a busy part of town to take a minute out and ponder life from a more spiritual angle.

When we arrived that morning, I met with the captain and got copies of the agent’s card for all the passengers. As usual, I always gave them the option to go their own way. Since I’m the only one with a costly Iridium phone, I called the agent and set up a meeting, met with him and had him write out in Japanese directions for the taxi drivers, directions back to the ship, directions to major hotels and banks. I made copies of these documents and passed them out and made the arrangements for a taxi to pick us up. In the past they enjoyed the fact that I picked up the tab on taxis all day long, kept a record of the charges and then had to work out the fee and try to get repaid. I was tired of this woman telling me she didn’t have the change.

Upon arrival at the hotel, I asked her and her partner to pick up the cab fare this time and she went off like a high school brat not getting her way. She went psycho. Damn, what a piece of shit. I was right from the start. Fortunately there are only a couple of weeks left before I can get the hell off this ship and back to the real world. For you who didn’t know, one of the major reasons for this voyage was companionship and security for my 79-year-old mother (the blonde of blondes), who is damn spry, especially since I’ve forced her into an upper body strengthening routine. Obviously, I was watching out for her constantly. I suspected this fat broad was not a good person, but was unaware of her mental instability. Of course, with a name like Robina, what can you expect? We went our separate ways.

 

hitdrinkfountain
Hit drinking fountain: I couldn’t resist this amusement part drinking fountain.

On the other hand, another female passenger receives breathy calls whenever we’re in port as if that indicates that the source is not a crewman. It happens at every port. So I shouldn’t complain about the homosexual advances I had to deal with from one of the officers when we first left Europe. Talk about adventure. I got a couple of calls in the middle of the night and told the sonuvabitch to approach me in the daylight. He never had the balls. What the fuck was he thinking? There are only 25 crewmembers. It’s not too difficult to pinpoint a problem within the five officers. I never heard another word.

The day we were scheduled to leave, the cargo superintendent was a nervous wreck. Another Rickmers ship was due to arrive and they wanted us out of the way. The Hitachi stevedores had another plan since the weekend was upon us. We only had five 200-ton items to load on board and the port demanded that we utilize their permanent 400-ton crane. The ship’s cranes were forced to stand idle. In addition, special I-beams had to be welded to the twin-decks for cargo lashing. During the last trip the welding was not monitored correctly and cargo caught fire.

 

hittemple
Hit Temple: Strolling through a hillside park in Hitachi, we came across one of many temples.

The captain was called to duty to arrange for fire watches below the twin-deck to be welded. Asbestos tarps and wet tarps were used to protect the crates and plastic sheeting that some of the large industrial sized generators were covered in. The process was slow and lumbering and the harried schedule bounced from noon on Friday to almost 4 p.m. before we pulled out. Shortly before we departed I looked out the brass porthole to the bow of the ship below to discovered a stevedore pissing on the deck. I didn’t think that was cool.

 

hitcrew
Hitcrew shot: Here’s a handful of the hard-working crew struggling with the mammoth mooring lines as we pulled out to sea. A great group of guys who rarely get ashore.

As we dropped off the pilot after motoring out of the easily maneuverable port and passed the jetty, a heightened level of swell stormed the hull and the ship was tossed severely although we were loaded down. The captain indicated that the swells were normal for the northern Pacific in this region, but no preparations were made to sustain the damage from the rolling and shit flew everywhere, including the barbecue, benches and tables on the stern bridge deck. The chief mate’s offices were in shambles by the next morning.

My own cabin was prepped for swells. I had moored the computer Richard Kranzler loaned me for just such an occasion and it didn’t budge, but my stack of documents and research material from the various ports was scattered. No big deal.

 

bibi
Bibi shot: Here’s the sister ship to the Leon, the Bibi, also originally a Mexican cargo ship. It’s the only one that retains its original name — the name of the Mexican owner’s girlfriend.

An hour out we passed the sister ship to the Leon, the Bibi. It is identical and has endured much the same history. The Hitachi port wouldn’t work over the weekend so that meant more coin for the dock space and additional costs for running a ship for two days dead in the water. That’s one of the reasons they try to keep these ships moving and running in and out of ports during working days.

That’s it. It’s been rolling for a couple of days and in a couple of hours we will pass over the date line. It’s Wednesday and tomorrow will also be Wednesday and finally I will be back on track with the coast. This has been quite an adventure, but I miss you guys. I miss my small abode and my babe in San Pedro. I miss wrenching in the garage and building another scooter. I even miss the assholes who owe us money and are making life at the front difficult. I just can’t wait to fire up a scooter on Sunday and roll down to Walker’s Caf? for a beer.

Oh, on a positive note, last night I finished the first draft of the book I wrote based on this trip. Currently I have written over 103 articles and chapters. The book alone is 156,000 words or more, about 500 pages. OK, goddamnit, I’m tooting my horn, but fuck, I’m proud and excited to have written my best book yet. Hell, I’ve read five books during the trip and learned something from each one.

I’m hoping to say that there are only 15 days left. Rumor has it that we picked up some gear for a port in Mexico. The port of Altamira is on the east coast near the cities of Ciudad Madero and Tampico. Yesterday we received the agent’s number in Altamira, but to date it’s not confirmed that we will stop. The cargo is small and it may not be worth the time and expense. Altamira is only 400 miles from Houston and another rumor has it that there is some cargo aboard that has a strict deadline in Houston. One more hectic consideration is being mulled around in the captain’s psyche with his desire to return to Poland. Apparently the Bibi is picking up cargo in Hitachi and following us to Houston and home to Europe. He wants to get there first, get off the ship and go home. If he is not first, he may be loaded again and sent directly back to the Orient and perhaps destined to go home the opposite way west. That doesn’t suit him and I’m all for the most hasty approach to Houston and the airport. Let’s rock and roll. Next stop, Panama Canal.

The Scurvy Dog Logs
Part XVIII

World Report From Panama
19 Days At Sea


Heavy Seas, Time Changes, And Long, Lonely Hours
Story, and Photos By Bandit

 

Today we rumbled through the Panama Canal. Four locks and 52,000 gallons of fresh water slipped us from the west coast back to the east side. We are actually in the same time zone as the East Coast of the U.S. As we follow the coastline up to Alta Mira, Mexico, we’ll stumble back a time zone. Ah, but Mexico is sliding an hour closer to us with Daylight Savings Time, so no more clock changes.

 

great lock shot
Here’s the second set of locks (Pedro Miguel) on the west coast of the Panama Canal, built in 1913 by the same gentleman who engineered the Suez Canal, but he didn’t survive this project.

I’m only one port and six days from home, as kids still say today, “cool.” Let’s roll back to the time that the Leon tossed in the harbor before leaving the Hitachi port and the Captain joked about the ship being loaded and rolling in calm seas. Shortly thereafter, the pilot stepped off the side of the ship onto his high-powered pilot vessel and we pulled passed the jetty into the broad Pacific for our return voyage. I had experienced the mighty Atlantic and now the Pacific lay before us as the unflinching red carpet to our gold coast.

So much of my life has depended on that coast, and still does. It represents all the pleasures a kid has at the beach and the evil powers of nature with winter storms. It characterizes the nature of real estate values and where I can or cannot live. It’s had romantic influences as I brought girls to seaside villages. Now it represents the home of two book projects. This crossing was also a test to compare the various oceans as we returned through the Panama Canal into the Caribbean Sea and the Gulf of Mexico.

 

churned water
The vast wake of the Leon leaves a path of churned water in its wake for miles as it slipped deeper into the Pacific.

The Captain showed me the various routes ships take across the Pacific and pointed out that the shortest route across the Earth at this point was way north into the winter zone from Japan to the Panama Canal for 7,680 miles by grid circle. He showed me on a map that indicated the percentage of bad weather, wind direction, and strength. This route was requested by the home office, but it was his final decision and he chose a route that took us less into harms way of the notoriously rough road through the winter zone and closer to the Hawaiian course of 8,200 miles through the summer zone of less winds and a milder sea. As we pulled out of the harbor, we tasted the strength of the Pacific off the coast of Japan, one of the most susceptible areas to typhoons year round. It was a nasty indication of the 17-day crossing at 16.5 knots as the ship, weighing almost 30,000 tons, began to carve its way– straining, flexing, and vibrating into the Pacific. It was one of the roughest areas we had encountered, and it tossed furniture and equipment asunder.

At one point I asked the Captain if he found the Pacific rougher than the Atlantic and he looked at me like a father looks at a child who asks an exceedingly ignorant question, but he explained. He pulled a number of chart packs from a broad wooden drawer that covered different sections of the globe. Each chart covered a specific month. He pointed out the climate, wind, and current changes for each month of the year. The ever changing condition of all seas, quays, oceans, and Bahias has little to do with the sea itself but with the climate that stirs the oceans from an untouched bowl of Jell-O to a turbulent, all-powerful frothy mass of boiling gales and typhoons.

So we were faced with purportedly 17 days of strong seas that turned into 19 days predominately on the edge of the northern Pacific winter zone. Throughout this report, since there are no blessed ports to escape the swells from, I will touch on various aspects of the voyage and the ship that will warn and inform possible ship travelers of the pitfalls of cargo ship vacations. For example, you can’t be a light sleeper and attempt to snooze on a vibrating mix-master. The constant trembling backs out screws from the paneling and throws them to the deck. It causes wall panels to shake madly in the night and the television that never worked to rattle and strain against its bindings until it breaks free and nearly collides with the deck. You must be constantly aware of your surroundings. By 2000 on the 15th, the rising swells were strong enough to turn over everything in my cabin and roll me out of the sack.

About the time we pulled away from Hitachi, I got an e-mail from Bob Bitchin, the publisher of the sailing magazine Latitudes and Attitudes. He was pulling out of Redondo Beach on his 65-foot ketch headed toward Hawaii. I informed the Captain that we must pour the coals to the old gal and get ‘er up to ramming speed. For the next few days, we tried to make contact to see if we would cross paths.

The following are excerpts from my daily notes on the crossing:
3/20: We are into our second Wednesday on the dateline and back on the same day with the coast. Suddenly, the time on the coast was ahead of the ship’s clock. We’ve been at sea for five days and not even close to passing the Hawaiian Islands 500 miles south of us.

 

compas sunset
An exterior bridge deck compass and another Pacific sunset.

I’m reading a book by Sir Francis Chichester about his single-handed sail around the world in the ’60s. Unbelievable, yet I experience some of the feelings he had. Although he spent some 100 days by himself on a 54-foot yacht just to get from Plymouth, England, to Sydney, Australia. It’s been mildly rough since we left Japan and today it’s raining. I wish we could get past the Hawaiian Islands to 160 degrees latitude and turn this 600-foot monster south, hopefully into a warmer sun-filled climate. I must admit that my contact with home via the Iridium phone has helped a great deal. I can send chapters of my books, articles to magazines, and e-mails to anyone on earth. Since I got all the antenna problems worked out, I’m rarely cut off and e-mails are launched quickly. I spent a lot of money on disconnected calls learning the ropes though.

The only trouble I have now is with water creeping in the porthole where the antenna line runs. I can’t properly run the cable since it’s not a permanent fixture on the boat. I have to watch if sea spray or rain squalls build too much water up in the gully below the window, and I must get to it quick and clean it out with fresh towels.

Chichester speaks a lot of loneliness and depression. I’ve experienced some of the same, although much of the loneliness is only for home and my girl. I have felt deep depression for my fifth wife, Rebecca, and much reflection on my outlaw past. Although, I have never been a violent man, except on rare occasions, I have been a constant outlaw most of my life and most of my undoing has been with women. I love the romantic side yet hated to lose my freedom, and usually fought to restore it ultimately to the chagrin of my last romance. I tried to rationalize that women wanted to control me, so I moved on, trying to find one who would understand a man’s needs and not try to pen him in. In a sense, that concept may be correct, but breaking hearts is unforgivable.

I can only hope that since I just turned 54 that my wayward days are behind me and that I will never break a heart again. The woman who is at the helm of Bikernet has shown me understanding, has stood beside me, knows what sexual buttons to push to keep me dancing on air, and has more tattoos than I have. She can’t be all that bad.

I learned a little Filipino language today. I’ve been working with the main steward and the second and third officers who are Filipino. I started with simple lines like good morning, “Magandang Umaga” and how are you, “Kumusta.” I’m trying them out on the crew, to helpful, jovial response.

3/22: Trying to reach the Lost Soul, Bob’s sailboat. He pulled out of Los Angeles on the 16th, ran into a gale, and was forced south into Mexico where he hid behind a rock until the seas calmed. We tried to establish frequencies that we could talk on but couldn’t hook up. Still trying to get a bearing on him. We figured that on the 24th or 25th, we would be crossing wakes. This is a note I e-mailed to his girl at the office:

Charky: “If you have contact with Bob, tell him I should be home before the 10th. Ask him for his heading, position, and speed. We will cross paths somewhere out there. We are currently about 166 by 33 degrees, heading 090 bearing and doing around 17 Knots. When we reach 160 latitude, we will veer Southeast slightly as we near the coast. We will come within 480 miles of Los Angeles as we turn south, but we’ll pass within 60 miles of Cabo San Lucas. Ask him what radio channel to call on. Thanks.”

Layla, at the office, has brothers who work in the harbor. She’s inquiring as to tugs that could hook up with the ship off the coast of Los Angeles and kidnap me. Unfortunately, 480 miles is too far for a tug. Cabo is a possibility if we can make contact.

We’re in the midst of our longest run without a port. Seventeen days to Panama (before we were aware that the 17 would become 19), so there won’t be any reports from harbors.

I want to touch on a couple of items about the ship. My mother hasn’t had hot water on a regular basis since we arrived and for the last two days no hot water at all. Since I forbid her to even wash her hands in my cabin, she has nearly frozen trying to maintain her beauty while dancing in the freezing shower stall in rough seas. Actually, I worked with the Chief Engineer, the Captain, and ultimately a crewman to resolve her shower dilemma.

I still piss and moan because there is no overall thermostat except in the engine room, which is always warm. The only control I have over heat or cool is to take the vent cover off with my small tool set. I remove its 1″ inch stanchions and bolt it directly to the vent to cut off any air-conditioning circulating in my day room when it’s already in the low 60s. The bedroom suffers a similar malady but the air never blows hard out of that vent.

Both mom and I have had eye problems the last couple of days. I’m not sure if it’s the rust in the air or what. Oh, I should mention that these vents have adjusters on them, but neither of them work. That’s the case on a regular basis around the ship. One of the women went on a sister Rickmers ship, the Tainjin, in China and pointed out that their accommodations were much nicer, but a report on the Tainjin cook didn’t fare as well. And a week later the Captain received a telex demanding our weekly menu. Our chef is Filipino and his menu is generally Oriental in nature.

 

cabin desk shot
Here’s the information center for this trip, or my floating desk with surge protector, computer, in-house phone, radio, tape/CD player, and speaker in my face, which I disconnected.

One passenger felt that Rickmers should make financial adjustments to the price for various ships if the accommodations vary substantially. Seemed reasonable. We all have televisions that don’t work and VCRs, but no movies to watch. Radios don’t work, but I don’t care. We got some movies in Egypt that were held up by customs, but once they arrived I discovered that they had copped most of the pornos, and the rest were Blockbuster throwaways.

Between the book by Chichester and the Captain, I discovered while trying to understand the rudiments of sextant use, that our Captain and crew use the GPS system in conjunction with the sightings. That does not make a lick of sense to me. You would only use a sextant if your GPS and radar were down. What the hell?

 

better sextant
Here’s the third officer Jesse taking a sightings. It’s imperative that the sun is in full view and that the watery horizon is also clear or daytime sightings are difficult.

Basically, you must know the position of the sun on that date and time. You get a measurement from the sun’s position against the horizon through the sextant mirrors, then through calculations get a line of position of the ship. If you take several sightings and with speed, time, and direction calculations, these lines will cross, leaving you with a round notion of your position–terrifying.

3/23: I’ve got pink eye that has come at me twice and is now in both eyes. I awoke in the morning blind with a sticky mud in my eyes. Eye drops helped. Can’t decide if it’s due to eyestrain or the air in my cabin.

Regarding the sextant, many just used it to find latitudes. Stars are also good for night sightings, especially planets, but you must be able to see the horizon. You must also have your speed and the position of the star. The Captain mentioned that some sextants have fake horizons, or under bad conditions some navigators use a bucket of oil on the deck as the horizon. If using the stars, you must plan and know their location in the sky from astrological charts. Then you can have the sextant set when you go on deck so you catch the correct star or planet. If you site five or six and make a mistake on one or two, you still have four showing you accurate positions.

Now, I need to see this happening, if he has the time. I’ve also got the go ahead to hang in the engine room during port maneuvering at some point. I would like to see the effort and manipulation that occurs deep in the rumbling power plant room.

 

good engine shot
This depicts just a portion of the 15,000 horsepower supercharged diesel.

It’s Saturday as we begin the Easter holiday and we have a party planned today to celebrate. Tomorrow is Palm Sunday. I’m getting anxious to return to the States. We may have an alarm today. We usually do on Saturdays. The stop in Mexico has not been confirmed, although the first mate says it’s so. Rumor has it that we have a few crates bound for Alta Mira, Mexico, but there is pressure to get to Houston quick for a deadline. I’ve got a deadline for these mutherfuckers.

 

crewman
Here’s a member of the Filipino crew working with the Romanian sandblaster, who is taking the ship apart with a material that looks like small particles of coal. It’s light and cheap as sand blasting material. The crew is a good, solid, fun-loving team of men that works hard on a very rundown ship. If we had twice the men and equipment, the ship would be in good shape in a couple of months.

3/23: Tomorrow is the distinctive four-month anniversary or about 120 days, which means we have 12-15 days left. Suddenly everything is slowing down. I’m a nail-biting short-timer. For a while, days whizzed past; now they’re slowing, although I still have goals to reach before the end. The report from the Captain at this point is that he will head for Alta Mira, Mexico, the minute we reach the Caribbean from the Panama Canal, if he doesn’t hear differently from Rickmers or Technomar, the partnership owners.

Sir Francis, single-handed over 29,630 miles in 226 days, and he wrote 200,000 words with an average speed of 130 miles a day. It is 26,670 miles around the Earth at the equator or 21,598 sea miles. Word has it that we will cover about 30,000 total miles. Since this is a roller from day to day and still on the cool side as we scoot along the edge of the winter zone, I will describe my daily routine and my cabin. I work out every other day: 150 abs, 60 lower back, two muscle groups with sprung weights and lots of reps, Tae Kwon Do katas (4), bamboo stick moves from Sifu (my Master) (8) then cardio with stairs for 20 minutes. If it’s hot, I move the stair routine outside.

 

image 26
This is my temporary gym equipment for the cruise. I use the spring set for my weight training. Lots of reps and the springs are quickly wearing out after constant use. I have a mat behind the chair for doing sit-ups, stretching, and lower back. I slide the coffee table out of the way for Martial Arts training. The wood sticking out behind the chair is used to shore up the door from slamming into my face while pulling on the straps.

There are three meals a day. The menu is on the greasy, heavy, fat side of living or dying, depending on how important diet is to you. Eggs and sausage or fried steak daily would kill me quick, so I switched to cereals, fresh fruit, and yogurt. Lunch is the big meal daily and dinner is usually just as heavy but not as formal. Sometimes there will be fried chicken, French fries and pizza all at the table at the same time. That occurs about three days a week. We always have salad of lettuce or cabbage, tomatoes, and cucumber unless provisions run low.

It’s funny and disconcerting as we watch the supplies dwindle and tomatoes disappear, then cucumber, and finally lettuce is replaced with cabbage and carrots. Lastly, the carrots are gone.

I’ve tried to drop the carbs as much as possible. I noticed that when I’m fighting the cold, I eat more carbs instinctively. Often, to avoid mashed potatoes or French fries, I grab some meat, chop it up, and make a chicken or steak salad.

Between meals I head up to the bridge and check in, then return back to my cabin to delve into book chapters or writing assignments. When I can’t focus anymore, I read. The writing has kept me driven.

 

cabin day shot
This was my living room for four and a half months. The desk is to the right, not shown. The plant, which I bought in Genoa, Italy, is Velcroed to the coffee table. I picked up the calendar of ’30s cruise liner posters in Hamburg for some color.

On this crossing I set a couple more goals. I wanted to spend sometime in the engine room and crawl into a hold where the cargo is lashed down to get a sense of how it feels down in the very depths of the ship while we’re moving along. I also wanted to learn the basics of how a sextant works. Believe it or not, between two articles a week for Bikernet, two articles an issue for Horse, an article for American Rider, a piece for Cruising Writer, and two books, I’m a busy mofo. Add to that 40 e-mails every other day, and trying to put some thought into Nuttboy’s project bike and raise the coin to get it off the dime–I’m busy.

 

cabin foyer shot
This is the small entry into my living space. The indoor/outdoor carpeting is covered in plastic so I can enter and remove my shoes. The grime on the exterior decks is notorious. The restroom is directly across the way.

The restroom has been a freezing experience and a constantly noisy reminder of ship travel. It has a sucking vent inside that roars constantly. Even with the door shut, you can hear it. There is a small heater in the head mounted to the bulkhead next to the vent. It can only heat the interior of the vent housing, because the vent immediately sucks its warmth through the ceiling and away. With lukewarm water in the freezing bath, winter showers were uncomfortable to say the least.

As you have read, I’m not sitting on my ass twiddling my thumbs daily. The rough draft of one book is finished, with 156,000 words and I’m 27 chapters into my first Chance Hogan series book, although I’m stumbling a bit with it.

3/26: I’m trying to scoot through this month as quickly as possible. I have this sensation that once I hit the first of April, the trip will be downhill from that day forward. We’ll see.

Vibration is a constant issue on the ship. I spent some time in the engine room and it didn’t seem to be too bad. But on E-deck, it’s excessive. All open doors must have paper pads behind them to keep the stops from boring holes in the walls. I have old rags under the television to keep it quiet and from coming apart at the seams. The noise can be as distracting as a screaming child.

 

cheif engineer shot
Here’s the chief engineer in the foreground and the electrician officer in the back. They are sitting in the counsel of the ship in the engine room. This is where the heart of the ship is monitored and the generators are watched through a myriad gauges.

3/27: The Captain and I crawled into two of the holds to the bottom of the ship. When we opened the small 2-by-2-foot hatch, the roar of the exhaust vent was deafening, like pressurized steam bursting from the bowels of the Earth. The wind jetting up through the narrow hatch made it difficult to look into the hold without catching crap in your eyes. We crawled down long, narrow ladders.

It was reasonably quiet in the holds aside from the squeaking cargo and the myriad lashing chains gripping the cargo to the decks, like spider webs on old furniture. There are lights along the surrounding bulkheads, which are primarily blocked by the crates on perimeters of the holds. We were in a hold full of power plant generator housings that formed long, steel caves. It was dark, but with a flashlight we could see the lashings to duck and step over.

At one point, we came to the hull of the ship and I held my hand against it. I could feel the rush of the sea passing. The temperature of the hold was generally a balance of the temperature of the sea and the sky above it. We crept down another ladder until we were standing on the bottom layer of the hold. Beneath us were ballast and fuel tanks.

The Captain told me a stowaway story of a Nigerian driver of a General who was escaping political upheaval. They were 10 days off the coast of Africa when a crew member told the chief officer of a noise in a hold that sounded like someone calling for help. It was disregarded as a rat. The crewman persisted and twice more it was ignored until the Captain found out and sent a group to investigate. The man had stowed some food and was all right, but they gave him a cabin.

When they arrived in Las Palmas, the authorities made arrangements to have the man flown back to Nigeria where he would have been immediately killed. The Captain refused and kept the man aboard until they reached the next port in Antwerp, Belgium, where he argued with the authorities until he was guaranteed that the man would receive asylum. “I will not sign a man’s death warrant,” the Captain said.

 

crewman 2 shot
Another friendly crewman. Keep in mind that currently there are only 25 men running this ship. It is grossly understaffed, but they smile behind union contracts and work tirelessly.

That afternoon was particularly clear and we were beginning to turn south into a warmer climate. I went to the bridge with my camera. I suspected an amazing sunset. The Captain watched its glory enlighten all of mankind and the magnificent beauty of nature once more and I took some shots. As I turned away I looked at the Captain as his eyes brightened and he said, “Green, green, green.”

I’m slow, but finally understood what he said and spun to see a green flash. The green flash is a rare momentary flash of sunlight, a blue/green ray occasionally witnessed as the last bit of the solar disk sinks below the far horizon in a very clear atmosphere. Or it may appear as the first portion of the disk rises in the east. It is not a common phenomenon, since atmospheric conditions must be favorable, and the sun must not be too red. Besides, the observer must be watching carefully, as the duration is only one or two seconds.

 

stern sunset shot and caption
The Rickmers flag on the stack on the day of the sunset where I saw the green flash. The sky must be completely clear to be able to encounter this phenomenon. I have run to the bridge with my camera several times since, trying to capture another one.

The colored ray is caused by atmospheric refraction. As the last of the sun sinks over the horizon, the red components of the white light disappear first, the other colors following in order, with the blue the last. Moreover, the effect is noticed only when but a minute part of the disk is in sight, since otherwise there is as blending of colors. For me, this was perhaps a once in a lifetime illusion.

The Captain and the third mate, Jesse, have been using the sextant for positions and they were coming very close to the GPS position. He explained that the GPS sees the world as elliptic and the sextant sees it as round. He says that you will never get the same position unless by mistake. He also explained that there are still remote islands that were charted using sextants before the GPS system was designed. That’s why navigational safeguards are still necessary, because you can’t rely solely on charts.

3/29: We discovered that according to the date projected to reach the Panama Canal, the crossing will take 19 days. At first I was concerned that it might be 21 days. I rushed to the bridge deck again at sunset to capture another green flash, but no such luck. Then the Captain started talking about the stars.

I don’t know shit, but he showed me where Venus and Jupiter is with Saturn in between. Then he pointed out the brightest star in the sky, which is 10 light years away compared to most that are as far away as 1,200 light years. As the sun disappeared over the horizon, the sky came alive with stars. He gave me a computer program for viewing galaxies, which I needed like a whole in the head. It’s odd to be on this venture and actually feel that every moment of each day is filled with projects. Add on more and I’m toast.

Two more days left in the month of March. That’s key to me, ’cause I should be in Houston before we reach 10 days into April. I think I can handle that.

Had a brief conversation with the Captain tonight under a crystal clear moon in the warm evening. It was so light as the moon slipped into the sky that the silky Pacific looked like dark chrome. He said that as a child, he found a small book in the library about the constellations so he went home and started to study them. He made his first telescope at 13 years of age with help form a local lens manufacturer. As he told me that, I thought about what I was doing about that time. I think I was customizing stolen bicycles and falling in love for the first time.

3/30: We had a barbeque to celebrate the Easter holiday. We’re out of cigarettes and whiskey except for the bottle he breaks out for barbeques. While having a drink with the crew, the Captain pointed out that Panama pilots beat Houston pilots all to hell. “Houston is run by cowboys. Panama has pilots who are all linked via laptops and know where each ship is. Very professional.”

As it turns out, we discovered disconcerting news that instead of passing through the canal on the 3rd, it will be the 4th, then four days to Alta Mira and less than a day there, then 24 hours to the Houston pilot station and six hours to port.

4/1: April Fool’s: Woke up to one of the panels in my cabin rattling like crazy. Antonio didn’t have the slightest idea how to fix it without removing the panes. Vibration is the nemesis of this ship, coupled with corrosion. I fixed it with a 4/4 shored against the bed and a pallet plank.

 

shore bed
Vibration is a constant problem on the ship and must reek havoc time and again with equipment. Here’s my fix for a vibrating panel that was preventing sleep.

Two more days to Panama, then delayed a day before the crossing. At 2300, I watched the moon come up like a sunrise glowing crimson on the water. While it rose and blew out the star-studded night, like blowing out the candles of a cake, one of the crewmen told me about the strange legends from the Philippines.

He told me of a boy who walked in the woods and stepped on something strange in the night. His leg swelled terribly and he went to a doctor who told him that he stepped on a forest dwarf. With just the right potion and blessing, he was healed. It was an eerie night.

We are now off the coast of Costa Rica. By tomorrow we will be on the edge of the Panamanian border. We are now on EST and will come back one time zone once we pass through the canal. It’s warm and I finally got some sun today. Damn, I’ve discovered that I like the heat much better than the cold. When I’m uncomfortably cold, I don’t function well. I spend my time trying to keep warm.

 

panama bay shot
The vast Panama Canal Bahia showing countless ships waiting their turns in the locks.

4/3: We arrived in the Panama Canal Bay six miles from the Mira Flores gates at 0500. There’s a mist on the water and reports from the bridge that Rickmers was unsuccessful at gaining the ship passage through the canal today. Later the Captain spoke to the agent, who was still trying. If not, we enter that canal at 0700 tomorrow. I sure would like to slip through today.

I’m now reading an incredible book about and by Beryl Markham, “West with the Night,” about a woman who grew up on a farm in Africa. Her father cut the farm out of jungle and ultimately had a grist mill and lumber yard. She was a young child until WWI, when she hunted with members of African tribes with a spear, facing death often, strolling past angry lions, and fighting warthogs. One of the natives Arab Maina said to her once, “Courage lives in a man’s stomach, but there are times when it is not at home and then the stomach is sour.” Her dog Buller fought leopards and warthogs almost to his death many times. Each chapter is an eye-opener. I have read almost 10 books during the voyage and each one was inspiring in one form or another to a struggling writer. For guys, if you want to read something that will pull you from macho page to macho page, based during WWII, get “Corps” by W.E.B. Griffin. What a blast to read.

We had a drill in the afternoon and lowered the motorized life boat to the water. I jumped in. It was designed to be a man overboard drill, but by the time we had the boat in the water and under power, the man in the water would have been shark bait. Besides, in the Bahia swells, I don’t believe we had the power to overcome the current. It was an adventure as we bobbed in the wave beneath the ship.

While anchored in Bahia de Panama, I went down to the stern where some of the guys were fishing with lines and little fishing tackle. It was a scene out of a Mark Twain novel. Sergio, who grew up in the Philippines but is part Chinese and is studying to become an officer, wrapped his line around a plastic container like a gallon jug. He could actually cast using the bottle and the line spun off it effortlessly as if he was handling a high-dollar reel and rod set. Didn’t see ’em catch anything.

 

better lock shot
Here’s a shot of the locks as we headed back out the east coast into the Caribbean.

That brings us back to the Panama Canal Passage. But before I go there, I want to mention that I finished the first draft of the book I wrote for the Chance Hogan series based on the trip. After performing page counts on some of the books I read during the voyage, this book will be between 475 and 520 pages. I’m mighty proud of it from several perspectives.

OK, so the Panamanian government now runs the canal and I was fortunate enough to have several conversations with one of the pilots. They guide 40 ships through every 24 hours. The locks are open round the clock, but the pilot explained that business has been down for the last 1.5 years due to what he perceives to be a slump in world economy. He mentioned that each ship displaces 52,000 gallons of fresh water that runs into either the Pacific or the Atlantic. Due to the rainfall in this region, that fresh water loss is not a significant. And if the canal didn’t exist, the water would run into the ocean anyway. They only have water shortages during the El Nino spells every nine years. During that time, they are occasionally forced to tap their spare reservoir designed specifically for this purpose. Lake Gatun was once a small river, but formed a lake with a dam to supply the canal. The canal is 28 miles from lock to lock. The lake is 21 miles long with 7 miles of narrows.

 

sailboats shot
I’m lost, but I believe this is a shot just past the west coast lock in Lake Gatum. There’s very little construction in Lake Gatum except for one large island owned by the Smithsonian Institute. It is the largest research area of its kind in the world.

Of course I had to ask him about the prospects for another canal in a separate country and his response was irrevocably, “Impossible.” As he explained the notion that is a political hot potato in several countries like Mexico, Honduras, and Colombia at one election after another, finances and environmental concerns are most likely prohibitive. As an example, he mentioned that on occasion the Panamanian government researches new reservoir locations without much success because of the environmental uproar it causes. In addition he told me, “We expanded seven miles of the narrows just 150 feet a few years ago. It took us over 1 billion dollars and years to accomplish it. Can you imagine what it would cost to build a new canal with lock and such?”

 

open lock shot
This shot depicts the locks opening as the water lever matches the lock to come. Each lock process takes about a half hour.

This pilot was very protective of his canal and pointed out that there are discussions to add wider locks in the future. When I point out that business is down, he immediately corrected me by saying, “It will take at least 15 years to build more locks.” By then the demand would surely be increased. I plan to find out how much it would cost for the Leon to take the E-ticket ride through the magnificent gravity-operated locks into the beautiful island-filled lake for 28 miles from one ocean to the next, preventing over 11,000 miles and a month of additional passage to reach their destination.

From the way this young, sharp, athletically dressed gentleman described it, there are few places in the world where a canal could be built that could economically function in this capacity. The position in the seas, the narrow land mass, the amount of natural rainfall, and the natural lake make up all the natural ingredients for such a vast endeavor. This is the next to the last report. The last one will contain a brief report on Mexico, which we will reach in two days, and thoughts on what I have learned from this experience. We’ll see what happens next.

-KRB

The Scurvy Dog Logs
Part XIX

Surprise Port Of Long, Flat Beaches All The Way To Tampico, Mexico


World report 4/7-Altamira
Story, and Photos By Bandit

 

 

entering altamira

Did we experience pristine beaches against mild turquoise waters splashing against buxom babes in slim bikinis? Hell no. We motored directly out of the rough swell in the Gulf of Mexico and into the Puerto Del Altamira, so straight we could have been a WWII landing craft storming a Jap-held beachhead.

We arrived early by three hours, only to find out that we would be pulling out in four hours and the town of Tampico was an hour away, “if” we could find a taxi. I was so disillusioned that I had to find a drink to soothe my anxious aching-to-be-home heart. In fact, I was a tad relieved and encouraged that we would be on the move soon. I craved a return to the coast and home like a young sailor in love, after his first stint at sea. Besides I couldn’t find a bar in the harbor.

I paced the bridge as we meandered on calm, nearly clear, turquoise waters into the recently built port. It wasn’t a large, sprawling industrial port, but it already had the feel of pure concrete-based industry, stacked with containers, mounds of coal, and rusting abandoned hulls surrounded by beds of lowland salt reservoirs. The dead reckoning into the port was nearly due West. I liked the sound of that word, West, which means so much to a So Cal biker. I couldn’t wait to find out when we were departing as the ship faced a due south turn into the sole channel, was spun by the blistering tugs, and shoved against the dock.

 

tug altamira

I itched as the officials came on board, but there was no sign of anxious stevedores storming the decks to unload the five chunks of power plant generators. Our crew moseyed around the corroded decks preparing the cranes at a leisurely pace. There was talk of the lottery pool for arrival in Houston and it was as if the crew had created an alliance to support a late arrival, first-line-on-the-dock time. The sun felt good and the nature of the land and the people was laid back–brown skin in a heated desert environment, but I was anxious to roll.

Slowly, as the cracked asphalt streets exuded the southern warmth, longshoremen arrived in no haste, wearing nothing in particular, no uniforms or overalls, just denims, Western shirts, and T-shirts. They all wore Levis of one sort or another. An ambulance pulled onto the dock and a one-man EMT crew set up a stretcher off the back of his white and pumpkin-orange vehicle and waited for someone to be maimed by a crane or whipped by strained lashings. As the afternoon sun faded, two forklifts rumbled onto the dock as generators the size of small apartments were lifted out of hold number five. They were lowered to the dock where waiting lifts moved each element deeper into the port.

The pilot finally strolled on board at 2000 hours (8:00 p.m.) and pulled out of Altamira. Originally, the captain said that it would take 24 hours to reach the Houston pilot station, which is actually in Galveston. The trip up the river gobbles an additional six hours. Later he vacillated on the time to Houston by four hours and leaned closer to 28 hours. Either way, that put us alongside building 16/17 Turn Around Dock, at around 0800 on Wednesday morning.

I wish I could have kicked that bastard up to 30 knots, steamed into Houston in 14 hours, caught a plane, and been in bed with my babe and an icy glass of Jack on the rocks before the sun set on Tuesday. A man can hope. Okay, snivelin’ won’t do me a damn bit of good, so I will humbly bow my head, do my duty, and write the fuckin’ report.

 

rusting hulk

The port of Altamira was not as poorly maintained as some, and not as organized or pristine as Korea or Japan. I’ve pounded this drum until I’m Pacific blue in the face, but here is yet another grand seaside that looks like a 50-year-old industrial complex on the edge of nowhere. I hope, fuck, I pray, that the public wakes up someday and forces ports to share the area with the workers and retail for a rounded environment that would benefit everyone.

As this trip around the world draws to a close, I’ll harp on one more item that has surfaced like a bad apple on so many occasions that it has become predictable and an almost daily expectation. At times it’s as if business is not a people function. Like my boss, Joe Teresi, told me from behind his small but ornately carved Italian desk several times at Easyriders when I brought up the feelings of the employees, “They’re employees and they get a regular paycheck. I have no other responsibility to them.”

I disagreed then, because we were working in an entertainment industry. To him, filling pages was no more than stamping out hubcaps. The bottom line is that all business is for people.

 

generator parts

The shipping industry is losing people left and right. There’s got to be at least a quarter of this crew who is looking for a way out. Like the factory assembly line, and CNC machines that eliminate people from the job equation for higher profits, the shipping industry is forcing people out by reducing the number of crew on ships. The limited crew is forced to stay aboard ship, because there are no watch changes, no back-up. They can’t leave the ship in ports, can’t see their families, satellite phone calls are cost prohibiting, and they don’t make enough to enjoy most ports. It’s tough.

Even the captain performs the tasks of three or four people and rarely leaves the ship. He’s the radio man, the navigator, the accountant, the negotiator, the ambassador, and the captain. On top of that, if anything goes wrong on the ship, he’s responsible. He has no XO, like naval vessels have.

So why enlist to be a merchant marine? Where’s the excitement of being a wandering seaman?

A couple of days ago, the blonde of blondes said to me something about how much she had gained from the voyage on the rusting Leon and it got me thinking about what I had learned. The more I contemplated, the longer the list became. I experienced writing lessons from Michael Crighton, WEB Griffin, Beryl Markum, Francis Chichester, and the list rolled on. I experienced the shipping industry firsthand and economics globally. I learned of my mother’s travels and worldwide reflections. I learned a taste of navigation and weather patterns the world over. I bit into my own sordid past and faced some of my own personal demons. I wrote like a man addicted to salt spray.

As we entered Galveston Bay at 2 a.m. and I stood on the bridge at the final port of entry, I pondered the future as if I had graduated from a lengthy educational process or divorced another wife.

 

ship in harbor-galveston

I was nervous about the future. I wanted the world to be simpler, more romantic. I have tremendous tasks ahead. Yet maybe it will all come together. Who knows? The conflicting question always in my mind is whether to kick ass or be political and understanding. As the Romanian said, “To be a business owner you must grow in that culture.” I guess that it’s a matter of knowing when to be dog-eat-dog and when to be romantic, considerate, and understanding.

Has the world changed–will it ever change? Behind 9/11 and people I know who are members of warring motorcycle clubs, will man ever go beyond his fierce, combative instincts to appreciate and care for the world, or continue to make every effort to kill all that stands in his way?

As we pulled into the river leading inland to Houston and passed the Battleship memorial, I remembered reading about all the countries that Japan attacked and wondered what the hell they were thinking and who allowed them to make such foolish decisions. Yet it was a blessing in disguise that they attacked Pearl Harbor in their unrelenting desire to control the Earth. It was the first card they drew in their final hand. It was an ace of hearts for all of the Asian community, and Japan lost big time only to be forced back to their battered shores to begin life again.

 

sunrise shot

Hitler played similar cards in the same game on the other side of the table. If ego, history, and hate hadn’t pushed him beyond his means to play one more round, Germany could have taken all of Europe and grown to be a powerful nation. Instead, he borrowed on an empty bank and played another round, taking on England, Russia, and finally the mighty U.S. He lost big time.

It was almost 8:35 a.m. when the first nylon line, almost 5 inches in diameter, was thrown ashore in Houston and various agencies clamored aboard. We were docked in exactly the same location as we departed from 139 days prior.

There were guys from immigration, customs, and port agents storming up the wavering gangplank. I felt at home immediately. The customs guys were three black men who were jovial, helpful, and outgoing. I sensed how the U.S. differed from the rest of the world. They performed the same job functions as men in every port, yet with a friendly air that indicated confidence and support. Then Immigration arrived and they were highly curious of our journey because very few ships arrive with passengers in their port, almost none. Again they were friendly, “cowboys” as the Captain described them.

We said our good-byes and left the ship with a taxi contact through Coco, a woman who has worked with the editor of Tattoo magazine, Billy Tinney, for 20 years. A taxi waited on the dock. The chef, and our steward Antonio, helped us with bursting bags off the narrow, always greasy gangplank. Natch, the cab driver was not an American, but a Jamaican who spoke broken English, yet knew his way around, sorta.

 

houston tug last shot

We left the ship, jamming to get home, like a couple of inmates finally freed from a war camp, or a couple of crew members from a naval ship after a lengthy service in the gulf war. We slid down the gangplank without looking back and jumped into the waiting van/taxi. I often regret the good-byes. This was a good crew of people, and I dislike good-byes, and more so after the fact. There’s always something more I would like to add, some experience I would like to share or reflect on to make someone know that my thoughts were of them.

So to the crew and the officers of the Leon, I would like to give my very best for an experience few will enjoy, on a ship that’s not long for the seas. They were men simply doing their jobs, yet they afforded us the experience of a lifetime, insight into their industry, time to write my best works, and their knowledge to share. I will never forget that time, except to remember it as 139 of the most special days of my life.

Back to Chapter 3: http://www.bikernet.com/pages/story_detail.aspx?id=9935

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The Scurvy Dog’s Logs Chapter 2

The Scurvy Dog’s Logs
Part VI

Antwerp, Belgium

Story, and Photos By Bandit

genoa

I’m still sitting on the rusting bucket of moneymaking (I think, not sure) bolts in 4 degrees celsius in Antwerp, Belgium. Did I have any notion that I would ever be on a world run in Belgium? Fuck no, but I’m here and enjoying it. Sorta. As usual there are crimes and mayhem involved in every sordid tale I weave. This one started calm enough like Christmas, then all hell broke loose.

Antwerp sunset

First, some background. Belgium kicked off its history in the 13th century with cargo ships rolling across the English Channel to England. It rapidly became the heart of cargo shipping between Europe and England and vice versa. Between Brugge, Gent and Antwerp, all cities on the coast of Belgium, they had it made. But, between religious wars, the French Revolution and any other numerous catastrophes, they survived to have one helluva friendly country. If you open a map on any cobblestone street corner, a resident will step up and offer guidance.

The basis of the name of this city is wrapped around a biker of sorts. Seems there was a giant who stopped every ship that entered Antwerp along the Schelde River and demanded a toll before they could enter the port. If he wasn’t paid post haste, he hacked off one of the captain’s hands and threw it out to sea. OK, so one day this little Belgian tyke named Barbo comes along, lops off the giant’s hand and throws it to sea, putting an end to his carnage. Hence, Antwerp was named after hand throwing, which is called handwerpen.

city

So we arrived through another river leading in from the North Sea in blistering cold weather. Every day we have a cab take us to the train station where the Russian mafia runs diamond and jewelry shops behind a roll-up tin front. Antwerp is known for its diamond trade, with stones shipped in from South Africa. The section of town dedicated to the diamond trade is in no way connected with the mob’s hangout next to the train depot.

There are also a couple of other distinctions that need mentioning. One is the cathedrals, which are unbelievable. The ornate workmanship in churches dating back to the 1300s is beyond belief. I spent some time in a humble church as a kid before I joined the union of outlaws and never returned. But you can see why people escaped England and Europe to find religious freedom and deeper understanding. Religions controlled all that went on, all the jewels and wealth, and wielded tremendous power over the population. You can see it in every gold ornament in these churches. It’s almost frightening. The other aspect of Antwerp that’s wild is the shopping. This is a town full of narrow, winding streets with buildings that were built yesterday or nearly 1,000 years ago, side by side.

catherdral

This is a woman’s paradise. There are shops everywhere, high-class joints, flea markets in parks, fish markets alongside the river, department stores, franchise Levi’s joints, and fashion, fashion and more fashion. There’s even a bird market on Theater Square on the weekends. So you would have thought that there would be thousands of knockout broads walking the streets in the latest slinky item. Hell, you couldn’t tell, they were all covered from their slinky ankles to their kissable chins with furry shit to keep them warm.

Back at the ship we neared another holiday. I tell ya something had got to change about these godforsaken harbors. Every harbor is an industrial wasteland full of sharp-edged iron chunks rusting while waiting for a ship to be loaded on for a voyage to China. We live in a joyful society while our world of goods gets from place to place by being packed on rusting hulks that pull into one dour desert of junkyard steel after another. All we can see from each port we sail into are burning release valves and smoking, rotten warehouses and refineries for as far as the eye can see. In each case we need to beg someone to come to this area of the destitute to rescue us from a ghetto of cranes and fork lifts and stevedores surrounding 50-gallon drums full of cardboard and burning pallet wood to keep warm. Most of the crew, including the captain, never leaves the ship.

snow 2

They never see the frozen lakes of people ice skating, or the theaters or grand museums packed with the artifacts and the legends that brought these burgs to the prominence they now enjoy. They never see the colorful night life. They never see the brightly printed magazines after they have carried the paper to port. They don’t go to shore to see the beautiful women after they hauled the machinery that made the dresses. It’s a shame. On top of their steel cells and industrial surroundings, crime strikes and violence reigns.

A couple of days before New Year’s Eve, a religious group from the seaman’s mission came on board to entertain the Filipino crew. Either during or after their couple of hours on the board, two cabins were broken into or a woman’s purse was stolen. Another babe lost her watch and assorted items off her desk while she slept. The next morning the thievery came to light and the captain was alerted. Some assumed that a member of the crew was at fault, another thought it was someone from the religious groups.

At first the captain simply shrugged as the loss wasn’t great, but I didn’t like the idea that someone had entered a woman’s cabin without the correct prompting. I pushed for action that would indicate to the wrong doer that we were going to kick some ass if it happened again. I began my own sideline Chinatown investigation, although I wished I had Jean Harlow at my side during the cavernous hunt into the seaport underworld. I discovered that this harbor, as most harbors aside from Hamburg, had very poor security and people wander on and off ships without so much as a sign-in list. There is no security at the gang planks and kids sneak onto ships and usually hit whatever is close to an exit. The Antwerp police admitted that there are gangs that roam the dark port streets busting into anything they can carry away and attack ships and predominately captains’ cabins. That’s where the electronic equipment and cash is. The investigation continues with constant and unrelenting questioning of any young woman I can find.

Two nights later I slipped off the rotting hulk of a tuna can that carries cargo around the world and slid into the ornate world of the Hilton in downtown Antwerp.

cranes

With the blond of blonds on my arm, I entered the ornate ballroom overlooking the historic plaza next to the mammoth cathedral packed full of original Ruben paintings, the man responsible for paintings of men built like steroid-packed oxen and women as voluptuous as your imagination can go. Each painting was based on a religious theme. During one day’s excursion we wandered through the home of Mr. Ruben and I wished I could have beamed in David Mann and shared this experience with him.

Into the ballroom we strolled enjoying the high fashion of women in slinky dresses that slid on their silky skin and old farts in tuxedos. As we sat through one course after another in the lavish presence of the town’s high society, two things struck me: One was the ship and its imprisoned crew cooking another whole pig and drinking whiskey surrounded by cold steel walls and snow capped darkness.

snow 1

I was suddenly enveloped in lurid visions of my fugitive past. I don’t know what befell me, if it was the tall beautiful blonde two tables away who sought my attention with each sip of wine as her husband spoke to her intently. She wore a loose fitting gown that was held on by two miniscule straps that danced on her otherwise naked shoulders. The silver gown flowed over her unencumbered Rubenisque breasts. Her golden hair was pulled to the back of her head and held with a silver tie that revealed the soft curve of her neck, like Layla wears her hair at home. Something came over me like a silver bullet from my past, a revelation of my sins with women. I thought of the pain I inflicted on my last wife. It wasn’t a mere consideration, but a flashback of painful moments, relationship torpedoes launched in a sea of tears. I reached for my glass of wine, but knew full well that it wouldn’t hide the missile that was all too clear and irreversible. Another bomb came as the image of my first wife crying appeared in my heart. I couldn’t shake them, as if I was forced to relive my tainted past as the New Year approached.

In the Sunday post I mentioned that as a New Year’s resolution we should make a woman smile, something I love to do. In my mind I fight the rules and my spirit fights for freedom while my heart cries for the pain I’ve inflicted. I’m not sure there is an answer, but there is loyalty and truthfulness. I wish all relationships would be filled with joyous days and never end. I wish pirates had a source of maidens who understood their spirit and let them wander unhampered. I suppose if you’re a pirate, you must admit it and ride or sail away to another port as we will in two days. Ah, me laddy, it’s to Genoa, Italy, and another adventure.

We left the bright lights and slinky skirts and returned to the tarnished ship before midnight to spend the last moments of 2001 with the crew. But due to my efforts to enhance security, the gangplank had been raised while the officers and crew partied on the bridge and tried to look past the dark and dour conditions of the harbor to see the fireworks in the distance through the fog. We stood on the snow-covered concrete dock in the dark as the ship’s horn announced the beginning of a new year and a crew member hustled to our assistance. Have a wonderful 2002, and make every day count for something.-Bandit

The Scurvy Dog’s Logs
Part VII

Genoa, Italy

Story, and Photos By Bandit

genoa
Hey, rumor has it that one of my infamous Posts was tossed in the shitter because the party got out of hand. I may not be much of a writer, and I know that a large sum of what I babble about should be shitcanned, but what the hell? I feel like Steve McQueen in “Papillion,” out in the middle of the Mediterranean on a tin island with nowhere to go and only Polish officers and good-hearted but barely English speaking Filipinos to make faces at. Gimme a break. I hammered out the sullen Post knee deep in oily bildge salt water under the constant risk of electrocution only to have it tossed by a big-titted girl who had too much sex the night before. What’s wrong with that picture?

That’s all the sniveling you’ll get out of me. On the other hand, the weather improved immeasurably as we putted through the Med. It was like motoring on a calm lake, although the attentive captain pointed out to me, “While we will be in Genoa, Greece is being hit with major storm.”

Being on a ship is like being the mercury in a thermometer in the cockpit of a jet. We muscle our way from one climate to another. Hamburg and Antwerp were freezing, so we headed west out of the Black Sea. As soon as we did, we headed into the Gulf Stream then turned south and rolled into the summer zone and milder weather. As we turned into the Med the weather calmed even more and the seas flattened, then it cooled slightly, but stayed calm as we headed northeast to Genoa in the Ligurian Sea.

 

genoa

Genoa is not like the previous ports. We didn’t have to take on three fastidious port pilots to dodge bridges and piers up a 40- to 80-mile river. This harbor was built right on the coast in the 11th century and there are few flatlands. Hills opened to winding streets and tall baroque buildings that now house a city of 650,000. It’s predominately a medieval city of weaving narrow streets, vast cathedrals, ornate museums and spectacular galleries. Again, the cabbies know where to find the ships and arrived on the dot. The people don’t speak as much English as the folks of Belgium or Germany.

 

I found that even the dark-haired beauty who spent time with me spoke very good English, but struggled with the words, always attempting to put an A on the end. She spent a year in Baltimore training to speak the language. That must be the problem.

It was a little cool the first day, but we didn’t need scarves or gloves and the sun shone constantly. Oh shit, I forgot to finish my description of the harbor.

The port in Genoa is much more picturesque. It has a breakwater that runs across the front of the harbor and inlets to afford the ships entry. Cruise ships are moored very close to the brightly lit town. Since we’re a scurvy lot, they put us on a decrepit dock as far west of town as they could stuff us. The port and related businesses are the underpinnings of Genoa. Since the 1100s shipping has been the mainstay of the region. Just like all the other ports we’ve visited, the industrial portion of the harbor, especially where we sat and rocked back and forth as cranes shifted cargo to get the Genoa stash aboard, was a dump. The roads were a mess, with potholes the size of manhole covers. Containers were stacked everywhere. Old cement buildings sat abandoned between docks with the windows busted out and the exterior metal cranes and hardware bent and rusting.

Columbus was born in Genoa and we went past a house he lived in, but he wasn’t home. I only had two days to chase women and on the second, my time was running out as the sun set on the starboard side of the ship. Dierk, the cargo supervisor, searched the area for the remaining items to load. It’s a riot watching these guys in action. The departure times change as fast your girl’s sex drive. She’s hot to trot one minute and slowed to a stop the next. I had to check with him every four hours for an update.

 

ship

Finally, at about 7 last night, we pulled away from the dock and headed out to sea. The chief officer still didn’t know what was on board. He had a stack of invoices and manifests that he couldn’t make sense out of if he had an accounting license. He’s still waiting for a report from the abrupt port agent.

We’re heading to a narrow strait between Sicily and the Italian Peninsula after passing an erupting volcano called Stromboli. Right now we’re passing the islands of Corsica (French controlled) and Sardinia (Italian island) on the starboard and the peninsula on the port. In a couple of days we’ll be entering the Suez Canal. I sure hope the captain picked up a case of Marlboroughs or we’ll be in deep shit again.

That’s it for the news. I’m kicking off chapter 20 of Chance’s second dice-rolling book based on this world-wide run. Each port gives me new ideas and a fresh set for the next chapter. I’m up to 17 of the original Chance series, which is being published in HORSE- the chopper rag, and I’ll get caught up with No. 2 before we throw lines over the side in Singapore.
Ride Forever, Bandit.

The Scurvy Dog’s Logs
Part VIII

Via The Suez Canal

Story, and Photos By Bandit

 

 

If you’ve been staying on top of this mess, fine. If you just stumbled in here, you’re in for a surprise. I’m supposed to write a stunning motorcycle related news column weekly, but I can’t. No, I wasn’t run over by four old golfers in Palm Springs. I’m on a tramp freighter traveling around the world–from Los Angeles to, hopefully, Los Angeles, and from Houston to Houston by ship. I’m nearing the halfway point as I sit dead in the water in Port Said on the coast of Egypt.

This is the MV (motorized vessel) Leon owned by the Rickmers Shipping Company (since 1834). I found out yesterday that MS stands for Majesty’s Ship. It use to be HMS for Her (or his if the king was on top of the heap) Majesty’s Ship.

 

ship

I want to mention how fortunate I am to be able to send these reports and stay in communication with the site. Thanks goes to my old pal Bob Bitchin, who owned Biker Magazine and Tattoo, and who now owns the sailing magazine “Latitudes and Attitudes,” of which I own a small portion. Since Bob deals with sea-going communication systems, he turned me onto an iridium satellite phone. The phone works, although I will write a report on the foibles of its use for the sailing magazine. It’s a costly device and for the Bikernet girls to call me and whisper in my ear ranges from $2.47 a minute to seven bucks. That’s fuckin’ outrageous and if anyone knows anything cheaper for satellite phone calls, holler quick. We’re going broke trying to bring you these reports.

On a more positive note, and I may have mentioned this before, when I packed my sea bag and hit the trail, I put the site in the hands of my trusty crew: Layla, Sinwu, Nuttboy, Digital Gangster and Jon Towle. I confess that I had no notion of what I was doing and was sure that they could spring a vast, more glorious site on the Internet world. They proved me right. Hits surpassed the 1.7 million hit mark last month, more new customers than ever before. They must be doing something right.

 

A dense fog sat off the coast of Egypt as we steamed close yesterday morning and delayed our entrance into the Suez Canal by a couple of hours. As we entered we experienced something we have never endured in any port in the United States or Europe. Keep in mind that this is a rat bike of a ship, and not something that should draw attention. The hull is painted a dull, spotty gray. The lettering “Leon” was hand painted by someone who had no business with a black brush. The rest of the ship is rust and 14 coats of various paints from Hamster yellow to lawn green and rust red (the Rickmers colors). Yet even with the appearance of a marijuana smuggling ship and a crew to match, we were surrounded by a flotilla of ratty skiffs to highly varnished teak wood run-abouts carrying numerous Egyptians who sold tourist packages, leather jackets, metal plates of polished bras and enamel pharaohs. They surrounded the ship as a series of broad, 50-car and 200-passenger ferries attempted to cross the canal with packs of people from one Port Said on the Egyptian side to Sinai on the other. This portion of Sinai is controlled by Egypt, while the southern portion is part of Saudi Arabia and on the east it’s part of Israel. Lots of fighting has taken place on this small chunk of land that borders the Suez Canal and is no more than a desert of rock, gravel and boulders with rugged granite peaks, ridges arid valleys and tablelands. The greater part of the peninsula is very mountainous.

 

tug

The canal was opened for navigation in 1869 and engineered by the same Frenchman who began the work on the Panama Canal, which was finished by Americans and opened in 1913. By the Convention of Constantinople on Oct. 29, 1888, the Suez Canal was open to vessels of all nations and is free from blockades except during time of war. From 1956 to ’57, it was closed due to the Suez Canal Crisis because of numerous sunken wrecks. In June of ’67 it was closed again as a result of the Israeli/Arab war and not re-opened to international shipping until June 1975. Without its shipping channel from Europe to the Pacific ports, ships are forced into a long difficult and notorious trip around the southern tip of Africa. That closure was responsible for increased fuel prices due to the added transportation costs.

So I headed down the stairwell yesterday evening for dinner and discovered Egyptians selling leather jackets, trinkets, toys and tools on each level of the stairway. Each one approached me as I descended to have quiet chow in the mess hall. It was bizarre and immediately I suspected that it was some agreement with the harbor that let them storm the ship. Later I met with the captain who told me that if he didn’t allow them on board we would have serious problems getting through the canal. He told me of a story where the wives of stevedores came to the docks in Thailand everyday, cooked and sold their food to the ship crews. One particular captain told his men that they were not allowed to spend money with these people. The next day no stevedores showed up and cargo off-loading ceased until business with the ladies resumed. That cost that ship a small fortune.

It took us three and a half days to find the Suez. If we had arrived between three and five in the morning we would have sailed through. Some 25 commercial vessels are allowed through going east and 25 west daily. It’s a traffic jam of ships. Ah, but since we steamed into port in the afternoon, we were stuck for the night. We were scheduled to depart at 1 a.m., which turned into 5 a.m. and took us 10 hours to make it to the city of Suez at the end of the canal and the beginning of the Gulf of Suez, which leads into the dense Red Sea. From there to the Gulf of Aden that rounds the corner of Saudi Arabia into the Indian Ocean heading to Singapore, which will take an additional 13 days.

Day before yesterday we passed the Island of Crete off the coast of Greece. The people of the city of Iraklion, Crete, once ruled the Mediterranean. They were rich with metals and ships, but one day a massive earthquake took the city out. It is believed by a large percentage of scholars that this is the city of Atlantis 4-5000 years ago.

The captain had another story about a nearby Kasos island named after the Greek Odyssey of the Cyclops. Our captain knew another captain who ran for major on that island and won. He did it by recruiting people to come to the island and vote for him. His competition was working the same angle and hired a number of excited voters to arrive on the island via a plane from Athens. The captain got word of the ploy and called a connection at the airport. They held up the plane due to “mechanical problems” until the election was over.

Alright, that’s all the bullshit stories I have to report at this moment. I will attempt to stay on duty. In the meantime I roughed out chapter 20 of my second Chance book and chapter 17 of the first one. I’ve got to come up with some titles for these fuckin’ novels. In the meantime, get your rides ready for the summer. It’s coming on strong—Bandit.

The Scurvy Dog’s Logs
Part IX

From The Middle Of The Indian Ocean

Story, and Photos By Bandit

Ship report 1/25

indian update

It’s been two months since I came aboard this stinking, grease-soaked rat bike of a freighter. According to my buddy Mark Lonsdale, a fellow world traveler, I will have passed the halfway point in this world run. Mark recently returned from Afghanistan, where he was assisting a Russian military group. He has also been called to Hong Kong on another scandalous mission and I may hook up with him there.

Speaking of being ejected, my reports have been expelled from the news. I realize that this is not exactly Harley-oriented, but what the fuck can I do? The depression has driven me into the holds of the ship to smoke opium with the hollow-eyed crew. In the future, if I can get something rolling to ride to Sturgis in the form of a project, I will be back in the news with reports on the bike and what I plan to build or modify.

indian update

Meanwhile, we’ve been cruising out of the Sea of Aden, away from Egypt and the Red Sea and into the Indian Ocean. At the bottom of the Red Sea we passed through the narrow Bub el Mandeb Strait between Yemen and Djbouti, Somalia. The Somalia region is notorious for pirates. We had a pirate drill, additional spotlights were mounted on the bridge and all the fire hoses were laid out along the decks in preparation for pirate attacks through the entire Gulf of Aden voyage.

indian update

Some might scoff at the notion that pirates exist in the 21st century, but don’t be fooled.

While I was in Antwerp, Belgium, at the Zeeman’s Hotel, I discovered a shipping trade magazine that featured a shot of a pirate ship off the coast of Taiwan. It was a sleek- looking, used military vessel . For those who still doubt the existence of modern-day pirates, here are some warnings from a recent Telex report on piracy:

Bangladesh: Chittagong and Mongla at berth and anchorage. Ships have reported theft of zinc anodes welded to ships’ hulls and sterns.

Gulf of Aden: Between four to six fast boats have attempted to board ships around coordinates 14.34/51.22

India: Chennai, Cochin, Haldia, KIandla and Tuticorin anchorages.

Indonesia: Belawan, Balikpapan, Lawi Lawi, Merak, Panjang, Samarinda andTanjong Priok (Jakarta) have reported numerous attacks while at berth and anchor.

Malacca Straights: Avoid anchoring along the Indonesian coast or in the straits. Particularly risky for hijackings.

Malaysia: Bintulu, Penang and Sandakan

Philippines: Davao

Somalian waters: High-risk area for hijackings. Keep at least 50 miles and, if possible, 100 miles from the Somali Coast. Use of radio communications, including vhf, in these waters should be kept to a minimum.

Further warnings included Tanzania, Thailand and Vietnam.

Two miles from Parit, Jawa, of the Malacca straits, three pirates armed with guns boarded a fishing boat and robbed the two fishermen. They tied the hands of one fisherman. Pirates tried to remove the OBM of the boat but when they could not, they pushed the two fishermen overboard and sped off with their boat. One fisherman held on to a floating piece of wood and was rescued by another fishing boat.

indian update

At the Belawan port in Indonesia during loading the duty officer of a tanker was attacked by two pirates armed with knives. The alarm was sounded and the crew was mustered. Pirates jumped into the river and escaped by boat, taking the ship’s stores with them. An officer was wounded.

Along the Somali coast a general cargo ship dropped anchor for repairs. Twenty pirates armed with automatic rifles in five boats boarded the ship, taking hostage all 18 crew members and demanding a ransom of $200,000.

Six armed pirates in two white speedboats chased and fired upon a freighter and demanded the master to stop engines. The master took evasive maneuvers and ordered the crew to remain in their quarters. The pirates came close to the ship but were unable to board due to rough seas.

The reports of attacks continue. If I can control this fast-approaching opium addiction, I will work with the crew to build cannon on the bow to ward off such attacks. My disappointment is severe, but this opium is doing the trick. Future reports may become increasingly garbled.

By the middle of next week we’ll be motoring into Singapore for three days. It’s about fucking time. I need a stiff drink and the touch of a woman.

The Scurvy Dog’s Logs
Part X

Singapore Sling

“18 Days At Sea Ain’t Shit To Me”
Story, and Photos By Bandit

It’s been 18 long, miserable days at sea. I’ve got the shakes so bad I can’t even hold a drink. I need some dirt, man. I need to feel the land. As usual, the shipping business is a comedy of floating (hopefully) errors. Just when you think the whole mess is wavy, day-to-day drudgery, all hell breaks loose.

As we pulled out of Genoa, the captain didn’t know the weight of the cargo. This constitutes the draft of the ship, which you will see is a major consideration in ports. The draft differs depending on the weight of the cargo. The more weight, the more draft, the deeper the ship sits in the water, depending on the viscosity of the water. The man who was supposed to know the answer, the chief officer, had a stack of invoices to dig through.

sing1

We steamed that night through the straits of Messina between the island of Sicily and the point of the Italian Peninsula. The channel is so narrow that you are required to have a pilot on board if your ship is over15,000 metric tons. We were weighing in at the 30,000-ton range. It was nightfall but I staggered up to the bridge to check the action. Even after midnight, a multitude of water taxis and ferries blasted back and forth across the channel.

Let me flash ahead because we covered the Suez Canal, the Red Sea and who knows what else. The salt spray isn’t cocaine but I’m writing about opium and don’t have anything to snort besides salt air. It’s getting to me. You’re going to love this: While in the Suez, someone mentioned that the Rickmers Company sent a box of movies to the ship in Egypt, a Muslim nation. Seems the top 20 were porno or adult films. Needless to say, customs did not allow them on the ship. We are scheduled to receive them here in Singapore.

While we were discussing the movie fuck-up, the captain mentioned how strict the people of Singapore are. If you spit on the sidewalk, the fine is $100. He also mentioned how the fueling people try to cheat the ships. They pump almost 1,000 metric tons of fuel in the Bibi (the Leon’s sister ship) that was 16 percent sea water. It’s in court now. Some ships have testers that take drops of the fuel as it is loaded into three bottles, one for the ship, one for the fuel company and one for the lab. In the past, the crooks would ask the chief engineer how much less fuel he wanted. They paid him under the table for the rest. Then they would put water in the fuel because they knew the engineer would keep his mouth shut. Capacity on a ship this size is 1,300 metric tons of fuel oil and 300 tons of diesel fuel.

On Monday I saw the captain on the bridge, his young face buried in his hands. Jakarta was calling, wanting to know when we would get there. He doesn’t know and can’t know. He doesn’t have any idea of the cargo being loaded on the ship. He knows that some cargo will be discharged and some shifted but that all depends on what?s being loaded and he doesn’t know. It is out of his control.

I tell some wild ass stories that give the impression that we’re lucky we aren’t floating in a sinking life raft off the coast of China. Maybe we will be. We manage to get from day to day with decent food and watch as the corroded ship’s conditions improve. The sordid stories continue, though.

sing

Here’s a positive one: The Saturday of the 26th we had an engine room fire drill that consisted of donning fire suits, locking down the engine room and releasing a gas within it. The crew went through the motions, but couldn’t shut down the exterior vents from the engine room due to rust and deterioration. I’ve seen chunks of mild steel a half-inch thick that are so corroded that they look like a chunk of wood left in the desert. The grain of the metal is exposed and separated from the other grains so that the layers peel away from one another, until there is nothing of any strength left.

These vents are 5 feet tall and 4 feet wide and louvered with a lever that runs down the center from flap to flap to shut off the escaping air. One of the vents was shot, so the handyman, Kuriata Andrizej, went to work. He set up scaffolding off to the side of the vent and there was a platform in front. He cut the old sonuvabitch off and fabricated a new one. I thought this guy was cool, but not a rocket scientist, or a JesseJames fabricator, until I saw this project finished. I watched as the crew set up a series of hoists to lift the new vent back into place where it took him two days to finish welding the damn thing into place. I was impressed.

OK, so now that I mentioned something upbeat about the crew and their abilities to refit a rusted vent, I can get back to the bullshit. A few days out of Singapore the captain had to get the paperwork together. He discovered that if we go ashore as the strange citizens that we are, we would be forced to endure a series of interviews by customs people at their offices. Bad news, so we are now consultants and members of the crew hired by Rickmers to write a book. This is actually not far off. I am writing a book. But does a book about a biker chasing his kidnapped girl have anything to do with Rickmers?

All right so last night was the final pirate watch before arriving in Singapore. We had entered the Strait of Malacca between Malay Peninsula and Sumatra. Yesterday we had another pirate alarm drill (general alarm). In this area the threats were even greater than Somalia, so the captain pulled out the stops and taught his crew how to use anything that would shoot from line rockets to flairs. Old rusted spotlights were mounted on the bridge. Extra spots were mounted on the bow and all the firehoses were hooked up and laid along the decks.

I broke out my 1-foot blade sheath knife and prepared for the worse. At midnight I was on the bridge with the crew. We were watching out as the Leon and a number of other vessels crept through the straits. The moon was full and it must have been almost 80 degrees. The skies were perfectly clear as we motored along with the flicker of lights occasionally visible on the coast. The night was incredible and we could have seen pirates from a distance as I stood dressed in all black with by blade on my belt and three, 200-meter flairs jammed into my waist band. Nothing happened.

I awoke at 7 a.m. and felt the sun beating in the portholes. It was a magnificent day as we steamed toward the tip of Malay into Singapore. I was on the bridge as the harbor pilot came on board. He was a short man who wore a pharmacist?s-style white coat, black pants and deck shoes. He wore gloves as he got on board and made his way to the bridge six decks up. He had a round face and almost black hair. His age was showing in flecks of gray. I found out later as I watched him pull a handkerchief and clean his bifocals that he was retiring that night. It was his last night on the job so he was particularly detail oriented. He wanted nothing to go wrong.

That’s where the fun began. There is a buoy that ships must pull near in order to receive a pilot. The buoy was across the channel and since another ship was coming, the captain passed over the channel and continued to wait for the pilot, since he didn’t arrive on time. When the pilot entered the bridge, the captain attempted to shake his hand and welcome him on board but the pilot quickly shrugged off his greeting and abruptly instructed him to stop the ship immediately, back up and use his bow thruster to turn the ship to the starboard. Seems he was on the brink, according to the pilot, of running aground.

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You have to keep in mind as you picture the captain attempting to back up a 30,000-ton vessel, that no ships moving along at 14 knots do anything on a dime. It?s a tough job that happens at a snail’s pace. The bridge went into red alert while the pilot explained to the captain that he should never cross the channel until the pilot has arrived. If you look at a map you will see that this is one of the few high traffic areas on the globe for ships. There were more than 42 ships surrounding us as we entered the port. Tankers are running back and forth to Saudi Arabia. All the ships from Japan heading to Europe pass through these straits heading west. It’s a goddamn traffic jam.

So the captain backed the ship down, threw the bow thruster into gear and lined us up with a couple of buoys leading us into the harbor. Is that all there is? Hell no. First the captain hands over the paper work to the pilot who wasn’t pleased with it and made them change it, but the key fuck-up is next. A Telex was sent to the agent in Singapore several days ago with the cargo figured out and the draft of the ship listed at 9.9 meters, or about 10 yards. He was sent a similar Telex three more times before entering port.

The agent contacted the docking people and made arrangements for the parking spot. During the translation of the materials, the draft number was changed to 9 meters. The docking people set them up with a 9.5-meter spot and the agent would not allow the captain to pull into his docking area, but forced him to anchor 300 yards off the docks until appropriate arrangements could be made. That’s where we sit. Welcome to Singapore.

Check out Chapter 3: http://www.bikernet.com/pages/story_detail.aspx?id=9935
Back to Chapter 1: http://www.bikernet.com/pages/story_detail.aspx?id=9933

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BikerNet Fiction: The Set-Up by Jon Juniman

The Set Up by Jon Juniman
The Set Up
Part I

Francis “Ace” Calhoun awoke with the fear, accompanied by guilt, which was a bit odd. It wasn’t that Ace didn’t have plenty to feel guilty about. In his 32 years, he had been involved in as much debauchery as any 10 pimps or con men. He had slept with his best friend’s wife and his wife’s best friend. He’d gotten the clap from his boss’ daughter and given it to his daughter’s boss. Then, of course, there had been that notorious, drug-addled day back in ’87 when he’d stolen 23 cars.

But none of this had ever bothered Ace before because he viewed morals in much the same way he viewed underwear — he knew they existed, but he?d never understood why others considered them necessary. It’s not that Ace was immoral in the traditional sense. It’s just that morals had simply never occurred to him, and he lived in a world where consequences were like getting caught in the rain — it just happened sometimes, and not necessarily as a result of anything you did. To Ace, the world contained two kinds of people, Ace and not-Ace, and he had no doubt about who existed to serve whom.

Nonetheless, there it was, that itching sensation, accompanied by a premonition that retribution was at hand and that the hammer was about to come down.

Fortunately, however, there was the ever-present hip flask of JD to stupefy that one rebellious nerve ending that refused to vibrate in synch with the larger picture of Ace’s persona. He took a mighty swig, pulled on a crusty pair of jeans and shambled stiffly out to the garage of the dingy apartment in which he stayed (under a phony name, of course). The garage was where The Beast lived…

Ace’s bike was a dozen bad ideas all rolled into one. From the “Easy Rider” front-end to the worked 96 ci Evo engine, it cornered like shit and tried to power-wheelie every chance it got. It looked like a collision between a chopper and a medieval weapons locker; hand-made parts (including the hardtail frame) had been hack sawed and flame-cut with the jagged edges and sharp points left on. But once you got it up around 80, it was 520 pounds of pure, smooth hell, and there weren’t many vehicles on the road that could catch it in a straight line. Ace straddled the monstrosity, wrestled it upright and thumbed the huge engine to life.

Minutes later, he was out on the open road, rolling down the pre-dawn highway, thoughts of divine retribution far behind him. With a little luck, he would cross the bridge from Pennsylvania into New Jersey before the yuppies were even out of bed, then cut across to Wildwood and the HOG rally. Aaah, the HOG rally, where beer flowed like a river and the women (not coincidentally) looked mighty fine. Ace had his knees in the wind, the rumble in his ears, and was feeling like the king of the world.

Glancing in the rear view mirror, he suddenly noticed that he had picked up one of those inevitable tailgaters who won’t give you any space and refuse to pass. Annoyed, Ace eased the throttle open. Seventy and the tailgater still hung in there. At 80 mph he began to fall away. Slowly, Ace’s irritability faded and the peaceful feeling of the open road returned.

Then he saw the flashing red and blue lights.

Shit! The goddamn cop didn’t even see the tailgater. (Or else he did, but hell, why hassle a taxpaying citizen when you can bust a big bad biker instead?) In any case, there was nothing to do but wrap the throttle around and hope for the best. Ace was wanted in at least a half-dozen states, and the bike had so many stolen parts in it that it was practically a rolling felony.

At 120 mph, the cop was still hanging on. Ace was practically blind in spite of his shoplifted wraparound Ray-Bans. The wind-scream was deafening and the tears that streamed from his eyes evaporated even before they reached his ears. The pavement sped by in a blur and hard-shelled bugs impacted against his face and jacket like shots from a BB gun. At this speed, there was no margin for error. Everything, from a discarded beer bottle to a patch of oil, represented a life-threatening hazard. Then the engine began to cough and sputter, and Ace knew that he was really fucked…

The high-speed chase came to an inglorious end as Ace coasted unceremoniously to the side of the road. In his rear view mirror, he could see the cop getting out of his cruiser with his revolver drawn, but the cop seemed to have understood at once what had happened, and Ace thought that he could see him laughing. The cop strolled over to Ace with no real sense of urgency, but nevertheless pointing the gun at Ace’s back. There was no point in even getting off the bike. Ace kept both hands on the ape-hanger handlebars where the cop could see them. No sense compounding his miseries by getting shot.

“Keep your hands where I can see ’em!” the cop shouted. “Do you understand that it is a crime to run from an officer of the- ”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ace replied, cutting him off. “You got me. Shit, I’m guilty as sin, why argue?” The cop smiled. For the first time, Ace noticed that he was dealing with a mean, pig-eyed fellow with a missing tooth, who was obviously enjoying the opportunity to humiliate a biker. The cop relaxed and stopped pointing the gun directly at Ace, although he didn’t put it back in the holster either. He eyed Ace up and down for what seemed like a very long time, as though carefully weighing some kind of decision. Finally, he said, “This can go down two ways. First way is I bust you for leading police on a high-speed chase, reckless endangerment, resisting arrest and anything else I can find when I check for outstanding warrants.”

Ace inhaled deeply. Far away in the foggy extreme of his memory he remembered his grandmother saying that if you’re going to eat with the devil, you need a very long spoon. “What’s the other way?” he asked.

“The other way,” replied the cop, “is I do somethin’ for you, and you do somethin’ for me.” He scrawled something on a scrap of paper and handed it to Ace. It said, ?Holiday Inn, 2831 Roosevelt Blvd., Rm. 254, 8:30 p.m.? “And just to make sure you’re a man of your word,” said the cop, “I’m impounding your bike.” * * * Ace stood on the pavement outside the gray monolith that was the Holiday Inn and looked at it for a long time. There seemed to be no doubt that whatever was about to go down would be something he would later regret. The only alternative, though, was to let the pig have his precious bike that he?d built, piece by piece, with his very own hands, and there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell of that happening. Steeling himself, he took one last drag from his cigarette, flicked the butt into the gutter and walked inside.

Once in the lobby, Ace was aware that his long hair, beard and tattoos were drawing stares from the people behind the desk. Trying to look nonchalant, he strode over to the elevator, punched the “up” button and stepped inside. Getting off at the second floor, he walked down the hall toward room 254. He paused a moment, wondering what sort of heinous trouble was almost certainly waiting for him inside. Then he knocked.

The door opened just a crack, but nobody beckoned him in. Whoever was on the other side of the door obviously didn’t want to be seen or identified. Ace pushed the door open and walked in.

He was instantly struck in the face by a powerful halogen light that reduced the rest of the unlit room to jagged shadows. Some unseen figure clicked the door shut behind him and there were two silhouettes standing on the other side of the light. “You’re late,” rasped one of the figures. The voice belonged to Officer Pig.

“Yeah, well, I had to take the goddamn bus to get here,? Ace replied. “Would you mind turning that fuckin’ thing off?”

“Apologies for the inconvenience, Mr. Calhoun,” said another voice, which carried a hint of Spanish accent. “But it would be to our mutual benefit for you to remain ignorant of our identities.” The voice was low, resonant and smooth as aged brandy.

“OK, enough of this X-Files crap,” said Ace. “You wanted me here. I’m here. What the hell do you want?”

“A proposition, Mr. Calhoun,” said Mr. Smooth. “We have a job to offer you. We want you to drive a tractor-trailer from Mexico City to California. Of course, we would not expect you to accept our proposal merely to recover your motorcycle. The job pays $50,000 upon your arrival in the United States.”

“If I refuse, I suppose you’re gonna put me in jail?”

“Oh no, Mr. Calhoun. It’s much too late for that. Should you refuse us, by the time they find you, your own mother won’t recognize your remains.”

Ace thought about this. He had considerable experience with posers and wannabe tough guys who tried to bluff their way through confrontations. Whoever Mr. Smooth was, he didn’t sound like one of them. “What’s in the truck?” asked Ace, as if he didn’t know.

“That information is only available on a need-to-know basis,” replied Mr. Smooth. “However, I will tell you that there will be 10 drivers. Of the 10, nine will be decoys carrying crates of coffee. Only one will be carrying the actual merchandise, and none of the drivers will know whether he himself is a decoy. So you see, the risk is minimal, and the rate of payment is quite good.”

Ace thought about the potential mess he was getting himself into, but the lure of the 50 grand was too great. “I’ll do it,” he said, “but I want half up front. And I want my bike back.”

From the shadows, Mr. Smooth chuckled. * * * The following day, Ace cruised down a deserted country road, which is where he liked to go to think. Right now the hamster wheel in his head was turning even higher rpm?s than his engine, pondering this incredible turn of events. Mr. Smooth had, of course, refused to give Ace the 25 grand up front. He had, at least, returned the bike, which Ace had had to tow back to his garage to fix the traitorous son of a bitch. At any rate, Mr. Smooth was clearly not a man to be trusted, and just as clearly not a man to be crossed. It was not all that hard to believe that even a medium-sized drug kingpin would be willing to pay half a million dollars to his drivers; an 18-wheeler full of coke would surely make the half mil look like chump change.

The question was, what was the real chance of Ace ending up with the hot truck? On the one hand, Ace was a fairly conspicuous person, so it would probably make more sense for him to be a decoy. On the other hand, since he was the new guy, he was expendable. Hell, they might just reward him by riddling him with bullets when he got to California, if he got to California. Although it was likely that the other drivers had been recruited in much the same way, and Mr. Smooth couldn’t damn well kill them all…

Round and round he went, like a dog chained to a $50,000 stake, knowing that it was a bad idea but nevertheless unable to let go of the thought of all that green. One thing was certain, though: Mr. Smooth had Ace at a definite disadvantage, and Officer Pig was probably the key to figuring out the identity of Mr. Smooth. Ace slowed the bike to a halt, walked it around a Mack-truck-sized U-turn, then twisted the throttle and roared back home. * * * An hour later, Ace impatiently paced his apartment like a caged animal, a ringing telephone clamped tightly to his ear. After what seemed like an eternity, a voice answered on the other end.

“Hello?”

“Hey Buzzard, it’s Ace.”

“What’s up, bro?”

“You’re not gonna believe this…” Ace briefly recounted the incredible tale of the last 24 hours.

“So whatcha gonna do?”

“Well,” Ace replied, “for starters I want to figure out who the pig is. Can Scratch still hack his way into the cops’ personnel records?”

“Sure. They ain’t changed their password in five years.”

“Good,? Ace replied. “We’re looking for a fat cop, about 50, with small eyes set close together.”

“Hate ta tell ya this, bro, but that don’t narrow it down much.”

“Our man’s also missing a front tooth on the left side.”

“OK,” replied Buzzard. “I’ll getta holda Scratch. We probably shouldn’t talk about this over the phone. Meet me at Gino’s tonight at 9 and I’ll tell ya what we dug up.”

“Thanks, bro. I owe you one.” * * * Ace pulled up to Gino’s Bar and Grill, a run-down dive in a dilapidated section of town. He could see Buzzard’s ’53 Panhead chopper parked out front and he eased his own bike up next to it. He sat there, letting the big beast rumble between his legs for just a moment before hitting the kill switch and flicking the kickstand down with the well-worn heel of his left boot. The honky-tonk blare of the jukebox, the clacking of balls on the pool table and the raucous laughter of barroom banter wafted through the closed door and out into the moonlit night. Ace dismounted, clicked the fork lock into place and clumped up the short flight of rickety wooden stairs that led to the front door.

Ace pushed the door open and scanned the dark, smoky room for Buzzard?s lanky form. Sure enough, there he was, drinking a beer and smoking a fat cigar in a booth near the back door, and right on the dot of 9. Old Buzzard was as reliable as ever. Ace felt somehow comforted by this.

Big Dave nodded a silent greeting to Ace from behind the bar and, without waiting to be asked, poured a tall, frosty mug of Guinness Stout. Ace slid into the booth with Buzzard, and Big Dave sent the beer over with the new waitress, a tender little blonde with pouty lips and lobotomy eyes. Ace could tell at once that the news was bad by the grave look on Buzzard’s bearded, leathery face. He waited for the waitress to get out of earshot and said, “That bad?”

“Worse,” Buzzard replied. “The pig’s name is Scanlan. Tom Scanlan. See, Scratch figured he’d talk to Snoop ’cause Snoop knows everybody. Turns out Snoop knew a guy that was once recruited by Scanlan, an’ he barely escaped with his ass in one piece. Anyway, the guy says that Scanlan’s on the payroll of an outfit that smuggles coke fer a Colombian cartel. Whenever they make a run from Mexico to California, they divide the real goods between 10 or 20 trucks, not ta put all their eggs in one basket. Those trucks are driven by clean-cut sorta guys who can usually make it past customs. Then they recruit another 20 or so decoys ta draw the heat, mostly high-profile types like ex-cons with swastika tattoos and grunge kids with long hair an’ nose rings.”

“And outlaw bikers,” added Ace. “What happens to the decoys when they get to the States?”

“Most a’ them don’t get to the States,” Buzzard replied. “The bosses plant just enough dope in the trucks to get the drivers busted. They get picked up at the border fer possession of contraband or some bullshit like that, an’ then they rot forever in some Mexican hell-hole of a jail. The few that do make it back are paid with a bullet in the back a’ the head, an’ then dumped in the river. That’s why they use outlaws an’ derelicts fer the job; nobody misses ’em when they disappear. Best thing you could do is disappear right now; go ta Canada or someplace an’ lay low fer a while.”

“That would be the safe and smart thing to do,” Ace agreed.

“But it ain’t what you’re gonna do,” said Buzzard, reading the malicious smile that spread slowly across Ace’s lips.

“Hell,” said Ace, “I was riding along, minding my own business. I just wanted to get that tailgater off my ass, and next thing I know some asshole with a badge drags me down into this goddamn tar pit. If I have to go to Canada and lay low, it’ll damn well be for a good reason. Maybe I can’t get to The Big Man, but I can get that son of a bitch cop!”

“Whatcha got in mind?” Buzzard asked. Ace thought for a minute, then an evil grin spread across his face.

“You still got that camera with the telephoto lens?” Buzzard nodded. “Good,” said Ace. Ignoring Buzzard’s puzzlement, Ace slid out of the booth and walked over to the pay phone near the bathrooms at the back of the bar. He fished around in his pocket, came up with a quarter and jammed it into the slot. He punched in a phone number and, holding the tip of his left finger in his left ear to block out the bar noise, waited impatiently while the phone rang. Presently, he heard the telltale click of the phone on the other end being lifted out of its cradle, followed by a sexy, female voice, which said, “Hello?”

“Yeah, Nina? It’s Ace. Not too bad… Listen, remember that time I bailed your brother out of jail? Well, I’m in a bind here, and this time I need your help…” * * * It was 5:25 a.m. and Ace was hidden in the bushes by the side of the road, not far from the spot where he had originally been stopped. He looked impatiently at his watch, which he had carefully synchronized with Nina’s and Buzzard’s. He slowly flexed and relaxed his leg muscles to relieve the cramps; he had been hidden in the bushes since before Scanlan had come on duty. I’m gonna owe Scratch and Buzzard for this big time, he thought. Ace looked down at his watch again to see the seconds roll dutifully by: 5:29:58, 5:29:59, 5:30:00. Mark.

Nina’s red Mustang came over the ridge right on schedule, 20 mph over the speed limit. She passed the spot where Ace knew Scanlan’s cop cruiser was hidden, and within seconds the red and blue lights flared to life. The cruiser eased out onto the road, ran up behind the red Mustang and blared its siren a few times. The Mustang coasted to a halt by the side of the road, right near where Ace was hidden.

Scanlan grunted as he heaved his ponderous bulk out of the cruiser. He waddled over to the Mustang and motioned for the driver to roll down the window. Ace could see Scanlan’s eyes get wide as the window rolled down and he came face-to-face with Nina’s perfect, round, braless 38 D?s, hard nipples poking through a thin, low-cut Spandex top. He smiled as he imagined the sultry, seductive look that he knew Scanlan was getting from Nina’s gorgeous blue eyes; Ace had been on the receiving end of that look himself, and he knew from painful experience what it could make a man do. Nina leaned forward slightly, pushing her ample cleavage into full view.

“License and registration please,” said Scanlan, trying his damnedest to sound professional and nonchalant.

Nina began to whimper softly. “Please, officer,” she begged, “I can’t afford to get another ticket. I’ll lose my license! I’ll do anything. Please!” Her gaze slid downward toward Scanlan’s crotch. Scanlan stood there, dumbstruck. Without waiting for an answer, Nina eased the door open and slid down onto her knees in front of the cop in one fluid, catlike motion. She ran her finger up and down over the growing bulge in his pants, then started to pull his zipper down. This brought him to life again, and he began to furiously undo his pants. By the time he heard the repetitive click-click-click of the camera shutter, it was too late. Scanlan was standing on the road with his uniform pants down around his knees and a gorgeous blonde kneeling in front of him, his tiny dingus sticking out from underneath his massive belly.

On a little dirt road on an abutment overlooking the highway, Buzzard stood up. Scanlan saw the camera with the telephoto lens hanging around the lanky biker’s neck, and his little stick wilted instantly. Buzzard moved quickly out of view, and Scanlan heard the roar of a Harley coming to life. Before he could react, he heard a rustle in the bushes from the other side of the road. Nearly tripping over his own pants, he whirled around just in time to see Ace climbing out of the bushes and moving quickly around the parked cars.

“That’s a shameful display, that is!” said Ace, grinning ear to ear. In the distance, Scanlan could hear the sound of Buzzard’s bike fading away. “Positively disgusting! Why, when I stop to think of a pervert like you taking advantage of that poor, helpless girl… Why, what would the chief think? Hell, what would Mrs. Scanlan think if she saw that picture in the morning paper? It’s more than any taxpaying citizen should have to bear, I tell you!”

Scanlan’s face turned bright red. His nostrils flared with rage and hate, and his eyes bulged out of their sockets. His mind was a congealing mass of lead, paralyzed between conflicting impulses to pull his gun and to shove his dingus back into his drawers. Fortunately, he chose the latter. This was good; it meant that Ace’s Walther PPK could stay tucked away in the back of his waistband.

“Goddamn son of a bitch!” Scanlan raged. “You set me up! Fuckin asshole!”

Ace grinned triumphantly. “This can go down two ways,” he said. Scanlan winced as his own words came back to mock him. “First way is I send copies of that photo to the chief of police, the DA’s office and every newspaper in the city.” Ace waited, but Scanlan said nothing. “Second way is you fuck off and never get in my face again.”

Scanlan looked down at his shoes. His shoulders slumped and he knew he’d been defeated. After a very long pause, he said quietly, “OK.”

“Good,” said Ace. “Now get yer fat ass outta here.” As Scanlan turned to go, Ace said, “Hey Scanlan, one more thing.” Scanlan turned just in time to catch Ace’s rock hard knuckles in the side of his jaw. His head lashed backward from the impact and he fell into the dirt like a sack of potatoes.

Ace winced and briefly rubbed his fist. Both he and Scanlan would feel that tomorrow. He looked up to see Nina’s baby blue eyes gazing into his own. Smiling with satisfaction, he slipped his arm around her waist and said, “Come on, beautiful, I’ll take you out someplace nice tonight.” She smiled in return. Ace took one last look back at Scanlan, moaning in the dirt, then he slipped into the Mustang beside Nina. She threw it in gear and stomped on the gas, and within seconds they sped away.

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BikerNet Fiction: You Can’t Go Home Again

 

Nobody knew Buzzard’s real name. There was a reason for this; if you had aname like Horace Hieronymous Toozfetz, you probably wouldn’t go aroundadvertising it either. Some people might say that it’s a bit of anoverreaction to become an outlaw biker just because your parents gave you aname you didn’t like. Of course, the people who might say that hadn’t beencondemned to a youth of getting beaten up by the high school jocks everyday, year after year, with no hope whatsoever of ever getting laid. No, itwas too late for should haves or could haves; Buzzard was irrevocablyshaped by his upbringing, for good or ill.

Despite this, he was actually quite a good-natured fellow; a hard-assbrawler and a multiple felon, true, but nevertheless a quiet, dependablesort (as outlaws go), holding fewer grudges against the world at large thandoes, say, the average postal worker.

At the moment, Buzzard was cruising up Route 842 in rural Pennsylvania,feeling the sunshine on his shoulders and easing his ’53 Panhead choppercarefully around the hairpin turns. The telegram was a tiny, crumpled ballin his pocket. Buzzard had no idea how they had located him, and thetelegram offered no explanation. It said, simply, come home, stop, fatherdying, stop, Uncle Roy, stop.

The Reverend Wolfgang Amadeus Toozfetz was a hard and uncompromising man.He didn’t like many things, but he knew what he hated, and he had no doubtwhatsoever that God hated the same things. He was The Man in Charge ofStraightening Out The Universe (trumpets, please), and he bore hisGod-given burden upon his broad shoulders with unflagging tenacity.

How and why Horace’s mother had chosen the reverend for a husband hadalways been a mystery to Horace. She was a small, pretty, delicate woman,patient and quiet, honest and uncomplicated. The reverend’s bulldog actoverwhelmed her completely; he forbade her everything he could think of and berated her mercilessly for the smallest infractions, such as going tothe market without her luxurious, blond hair tied in the mandatory sexlessbun. He would inexplicably relent at random intervals, suddenly becomingpleasant and kind, but no sooner would she let down her guard than thereverend would revert to his former self, berating her in his mostterrible fire-and-brimstone voice about how God hated disobedient wives.Horace had always reviled himself for not protecting his mother, but he was only a small boy, and his courage wilted instantly before the reverend’s 6-foot, 4-inch frame.

The farmhouses and lush, green fields rolled lazily by. Cows and horsesmeandered around, occasionally pausing to munch on a green tuft of grass.Buzzard eased the long, lean bike to a halt at the stop sign, then turnedleft onto 82 north. Route 82 was a much straighter road, so he eased thethrottle open and accelerated to a leisurely 45 mph.

Horace’s mother had always shielded him from the reverend’s wrath by taking the heat upon herself. Horace mostly stayed out of his father’s way,performing his chores to the reverend’s exacting specifications and therebyavoiding attention. This continued until Horace was 16, when his mother took ill.

From the corner of his eye, Buzzard saw a German shepherd launch itselffrom the porch of a small, white house and bound across the lawn toward him. He slowed down a bit and whacked the shifter down into third. When the dog was about 10 feet away, he let out the clutch and rolled the throttle, throwing off the dog’s planned point of interception and rattling the window panes with a blast from his upswept fishtail drag pipes.

The doctors had been unable to find anything specifically wrong with Mrs.Toozfetz, but her condition continued to worsen daily. On a bitter fallday, under a steely gray sky, Horace’s mother finally died. The countycoroner had explained the cause of her death with the ambiguous phrase”natural causes,” but Horace knew that there was nothing natural about it;she had died of a broken heart. And he knew without a doubt who thereverend’s next target would be, now that he had been deprived of hisfavorite victim.

After the funeral, Horace had snuck out to his Uncle Roy’s barn, whereRoy’s son, Johnny, had secretly helped him restore an ancient 45 ciFlathead, which Horace had bought from an old widow for $150. (Uncle Royknew about the Flathead, but kept Horace’s secret. Being the reverend’syounger brother, Roy was aware of Horace’s harassed and abusive home lifeand took pity on him.) Horace had snuck out to work on the bike at everyopportunity, using the money that he?d earned by working at the hardwarestore after school. This had been a risky endeavor. Motorcycles were thework of the devil, and if the reverend had discovered it, he would havebeaten Horace to within an inch of his life.

Now that Horace’s mother was dead, there was nothing to keep him in SouthCarolina any longer. He hastily packed all of his belongings onto the bike — a duffel bag full of clothes, some extra ignition points and spark plugs, aworn and dirty tool roll and $122.47 in small bills. He straddled the bike,kicked it to life, then eased it out of the barn and onto the main road. Henever looked back. The road ahead beckoned with promises of adventure andinfinite possibilities; his new life as a scooter gypsy had begun.

By the time Buzzard reached Coatesville, he decided to respect Uncle Roy’srequest and go back home. This would not be a happy run; the reverend,being the town preacher, had been a revered and respected figure in thecommunity. In small towns, everybody knows everybody else’s business, andpeople have long memories. Not being privy to all of the facts, everybodywould assume that Buzzard was guilty of the foulest betrayal — deserting hisloving father in his hour of need, an outlaw biker who deserved nothingless than 12 hours on the rack. Nevertheless, Buzzard decided to go. Hehad lived for 34 years with the strange burden of his unresolvedrelationship with his father, and he was determined to seize this lastopportunity for closure.

 

* * *

Early the next morning, Buzzard was in his garage, strapping a large Armysurplus duffel bag to the chopper’s tall, dagger-shaped sissy bar, crisscrossing the bungee cords back and forth. Having decided to go, he was eager to get started as early as possible. He made a last-minute mechanical check of the bike, then began stuffing tools into the weather beaten leather fork bag.

In high school, Horace’s chief tormentor had been Bobby Plachette, starquarterback and captain of the football team. Horace had never been taughthow to fight, nor would it have mattered if he had been. Plachette wasthree years older than he was, and was significantly taller, stronger andfaster. No matter how discreetly Horace had tried to sneak home fromschool, at least twice per week he would hear, “Hey whore-ass, you can run,but you can’t hide!” coming from behind him. Then the inevitableass-whipping would begin. Horace lived in constant fear of it. It hadutterly destroyed his self-esteem, making it impossible for him to havefriends or date girls. It ruined his performance in school and made himyet more miserable at home. Horace dared not tell his father, though,because the reverend had a strict policy of non-violence (which heparadoxically enforced with a leather strap), and to let the reverend findout that he had been fighting would only have compounded Horace’s miseries.

Plachette had graduated just as Horace finished his freshman year.Although a star quarterback in his small-town high school, Plachette hadnot been quite good enough to win a college athletic scholarship. Becausethe teachers had breezed him through the system, Plachette’s poor academicperformance made it impossible for him to get into college on his ownmerit. At the ripe old age of 18, the erstwhile pampered star,beloved by all, had become just another penniless nobody, a washed-uphas been with no marketable skills and no future. He seemed poised tobecome either the town bully or the town drunk, (both positions for whichhe was eminently qualified), when something happened to change hislife. He became a cop.

Buzzard straddled the chopper and jumped hard on the starter pedal. Theperfectly tuned Panhead rumbled to life on the first kick. He backed thechoke off slightly and waited for a few minutes while the engine warmed up.

Horace was glad to have left town before having any serious run-ins withDeputy Plachette. A long series of lateral drifts had eventually led himto a small apartment in New Jersey and a reasonably steady job as alongshoreman at the port. He put plenty of miles on the Flathead, it beinghis only means of transportation, and the antique scoot soon began toattract the attention of the local motorcycle aficionados. Within a year,he was riding with the Jersey Renegades and had earned the name Buzzard,since by this time he was over 6 feet tall and lanky, with a prominent beak ofa nose protruding from underneath his long, ragged hair. It was through hisassociation with the Renegades that he eventually hooked up with his firstreal friend, an infamous young outlaw by the name of Ace Calhoun. Buzzardwould soon sell the Flathead to a local Harley dealership that wanted todisplay it out on the floor. He got enough money from the sale to buy anold Panhead, still a classic scoot, but a bike whose larger engine had morepossibilities than the already overworked 45.

When the engine’s cooling fins were warm to the touch, Buzzard eased thebike out of the driveway and onto the road. Interstate 95 was the straightest shot down to South Carolina. Although it was a crowded and unpleasant highway,this was a Monday and most of the lemmings were at work. He decided that itwould be OK as long as he stayed off of the road during rush hour. And withthat, he sped away.

 

* * *

Buzzard roared down the mostly empty interstate. The traffic petered outonce he got past the airport, and he screwed it on through Maryland andinto Virginia.

In Virginia, an ugly storm was massing. From the east, a crescent lineslashed the sky, a telltale parabolic border delimiting the boundarybetween cool and warm air, clear sky in front and dark clouds behind. Acold front was moving in. Buzzard twisted the wick, hoping to outrun thestorm, but to no avail. Soon the sky was bible-black, and threatened toregurgitate itself upon man and beast. A cold wind picked up and small bits of highway trash danced across the road, caught in tiny, invisible whirlwinds. The thunder began to rumble, drowning out even the blast of the chrome drag pipes. By the time Buzzard got to Richmond, the rain was pouring down. A million tiny needles pelted his soaking leathers and stung his face and neck. It was all his poor headlight could do to penetrate the gray murk and feebly illuminate a few square feet of rain-drenched pavement. Buzzard grimly pressed on, left hand wiping the rain from his wraparound glasses, determined to make North Carolina by nightfall. But cold fronts pass quickly; within a half hour the wind dieddown and the storm dissipated as suddenly as it had appeared. The sun cameout, for which Buzzard was eternally grateful, warming his cold and clammyflesh.

Buzzard crossed the border into North Carolina by dusk. He checked into asmall motel, hungrily devoured a burger and fries at the hamburger standacross the street, then retired to his room. It was a cheesy little motel. The paint job was piss yellow and the Art Deco furniture was straight outof the ?50s, but it was comfortable and dry, and that was all he wanted.He hung his leathers from a coat hanger in front of the window to dry, thenslept the exhausted sleep that awaits every rider at the end of a long,hard road.

The next day he awoke full of enthusiasm. The sun was out and the birdswere singing. It was the kind of day made by God especially for riding. The coldfront had brought with it a mass of cool, dry air, lowering the temperatureto a comfortable 70 degrees. The leathers were stiff and hard but dry, andBuzzard pulled them on quickly, eager to get started. He checked out at thefront desk, ate an omelet at a local diner and blasted off onto thehighway, heading south once again.

 

* * *

Markham, South Carolina, remained a one-horse town, for the most partuntouched by time. Old people sat on rocking chairs on porches, looking asthough they had sat there since the beginning of time and would continue tosit there until the sun grew cold. Main Street consisted of a generalstore, a gas station, a tiny bar and grill and a small church where, untilrecently, the Reverend Wolfgang A. Toozfetz had preached every Sunday. Thetown was small enough that everyone knew everyone else, and since Markhamdidn’t connect anywhere with anywhere, the appearance of any strange face(let alone Buzzard’s) was enough to cause a stir.

Buzzard rumbled over the horizon like a ragged and bearded messiah, a madprophet from the mountains covered in leather and tattoos, riding upon aterrible chrome steed that drank gasoline and belched flames from theblackened depths of its fiery asshole, a grim harbinger come to deliver TheWord. His appearance on the scene was as disruptive as Attila the Hunriding his horse into the middle of the New York Stock Exchange. Housewivesstopped and stared, children pointed excitedly, old people scowled indisapproval from their rockers. Buzzard ignored all of this, casuallyblasting down Main Street toward Uncle Roy’s house (assuming, of course,that Uncle Roy still lived there), rattling windows on either side of thestreet and setting off car alarms.

Buzzard hadn’t been sure that he would be able to remember the way, but now that he was there, everything came back to him in a rush. Within minutes,he was cruising down Uncle Roy’s tree-lined street, and damn if that wasn’told Roy himself out in the front yard! The little brick house with thegreen shutters was just as Buzzard remembered. Uncle Roy was older, ofcourse, and grayer, and he looked much smaller than Buzzard remembered, buthe was definitely Uncle Roy. Roy heard the chopper roaring up the streetand stiffened apprehensively as he turned around, then took two full stepsbackward when he saw the grim figure bearing down upon him. Buzzard waved,and Roy stared, nonplussed. Buzzard pulled into the driveway, flicked thekickstand down and killed the engine. He felt a lump rise suddenly in histhroat; here before him was the only man who had ever shown him anyaffection or kindness. All Buzzard managed to say, somewhat lamely, was,”Uncle Roy… I got your telegram… I came right away.”

Roy was stunned. That cute little boy, so fresh in his memory, had turnedinto this big hairy monster, some half-human werewolf in greasy leathersand muddy boots. But he was that boy, home at last. After a long pause, Roygasped, “Horace! Horace, my boy! I… I didn’t think you would come…”Buzzard dismounted and stepped squarely into a bear hug. “Horace, it’s beenso long, we have so much to catch up on. Come on in, your cousin John’sinside.”

 

* * *

That evening, Buzzard was sitting at a small, round table near the back ofthe Markham Road House Pub, drinking a beer and talking excitedly with hiscousin about all that had transpired in the past 18 years. John wasmarried with two kids and had settled down to a quiet life as a countrymechanic, the only one in Markham. The reverend had stoically borne hispublic humiliation after Buzzard ran away, and neither Roy nor John hadever mentioned the Flathead. There didn’t seem to be any point. Thereverend had continued preaching at the church until he was diagnosed withbone cancer at the age of 64. He had managed to live a fairly normal lifefor 18 months after that, but the treatments soon stopped working and hisincreasingly ill health forced him into early retirement. They had sent himhome from the hospital once it became apparent that there was nothing morethey could do, and the reverend, at present, was in his own home, under thecare of a nurse, slipping in and out of consciousness and awaiting theinevitable end. Roy had hired a private investigator to find Buzzard’saddress and had then sent the telegram that was still crumpled up inBuzzard’s pocket.

“Well,” said Buzzard, “I came this far, so I guess the only right thing tado is stick around a while and hope I get at least one chance ta set thingsstraight before he goes.”

John nodded in silent agreement and took a sip from his beer. “Of course,you can stay with me or my dad as long as you want.”

“Thanks cuz,” Buzzard replied, “that means a lot to me.”

Then, from over his left shoulder, Buzzard heard something that he thought he?d never hear again. “Hey whore-ass! You can run, but you can’t hide!”

Buzzard whirled around and stood up in one fluid motion, fists clenched and teeth bared. Standing before him was a pudgy, middle-aged man in a uniform, armed, swaggering and arrogant. He was older and out of shape, but he was definitely Bobby Plachette. And he had a gold, star-shaped badgepinned to the breast pocket of his uniform…

Holy creeping shit. Sheriff Plachette.

Buzzard stood a half-head taller than Plachette, and his hard, knottedmuscles were wrapped like bundles of steel cable around his lanky frame from years of working at the docks. Plachette, by contrast, had obviouslyspent those years sitting in his cruiser eating donuts. Buzzard could easily break him in half now.

And here was the final absurdity: In spite of all this, Buzzard could still feel that old fear knotting his stomach and rising in his throat. It was as if Plachette’s very voice had the power to yank him backward in time andturn him into Horace Toozfetz again, a scared little boy being stomped intothe dirt.

The sheriff stuck his thumbs into his gun belt and swaggered around. “Yessiree,” he said, “when one of my men saw that motor-sickle parked outsideRoy Toozfetz’ house, I went in there an’ I sez, ‘Roy, we don’t cotton tooutlaws an’ drifters ’round these parts. Whoever owns this hunka junk, I’mgonna lock ‘im up fer vagrancy.’ Then ol’ Roy sez, ‘You ain’t gotta dothat, sheriff. It belongs to my nephew Horace.’ That’s how I knowed you wuzback in town, an’ I figgered I’d find you here.”

All eyes were upon Buzzard and the sheriff. Buzzard looked around, thenback at the sheriff and said, loud enough for everyone to hear, “I’m hereto see my father, so why don’t you just fuck off?”

“Don’t get smart with me, boy, I’ll whip yer ass good. If ya wanted ta seeyer father, ya coulda seed him long before now. Like I sez, we don’t likedrifters around these parts. If you’re not outta here before the sun comesup tomorra morning, I’ll lock ya up fer vagrancy.”

Buzzard’s face twisted into a lethal snarl. The fact was, Plachette was armed and Buzzard wasn’t. “I ain’t goin’ noplace until I get ta talk to myfather,” Buzzard spat.

“Just remember, whore-ass,” Plachette replied, “sunrise tomorra.” Then heturned around and, chuckling to himself, swaggered out.

Buzzard deflated back into his seat and the other patrons went back totheir business. “How the hell did that asshole become sheriff?” Buzzard asked.

“Well,” said John, “you remember when he became a deputy?”Buzzard nodded.

Once in uniform, Plachette had discovered that he had a great affinity forthat line of work. All those years he’d been bullying people for free, andnow that he had a gun and a badge, he was getting paid to do it.

Not many years later, a small-time drug ring had moved its operation toMarkham to escape the heat that the new police chief of Charlotte wasbringing down in the city. The theory was this: Since drug problems weremore or less unheard of in small towns, the gangsters would have moreleeway to operate, free of the threat of a large, well-funded police force.This theory proved to be correct. Then-Sheriff Ed Channing was getting oninto his 60s and had little stomach for getting shot right before hewas due to retire.

Deputy Plachette and another deputy with the ironic name of Fred Manley had taken matters into their own hands, initiating a two-man crusade againstthe gang. They ticketed the gangsters’ cars from one end of the county tothe other, obtained search warrants on any pretense, and even sent thecounty building inspector to cite them for numerous trumped-upbuilding code violations. Within a year the gangsters decided thatthere was even more heat in Markham than there had been in Charlotte. Theirgoal, after all, was to make money, not to lock horns with redneck cops, sothey folded up shop one day and left Markham for good.

Plachette had once again become a town hero. Even those who disapproved ofhis methods had to admit that they were pleased with his results. Plachettewas elected sheriff by a landslide the following year, and Ed Channingquietly retired. Plachette, of course, was still a bully, and there werethose in town who called him a thug and worse, but in the end the people ofMarkham chose to cast their chips with a man who knew how to get thingsdone. He had been the sheriff ever since.

Buzzard had no respect for the badge as a symbol. Long years on the outlawcircuit had instilled in him that a cop’s authority, like that of any otherthug, is measured solely by his power to enforce it. Fortunately forBuzzard, Markham’s entire police force at present consisted of only twodeputies, plus the sheriff. Still not good odds, though, especially withall three of them armed. What Buzzard needed now was an equalizer, andthere was only one equalizer currently available…Ace Calhoun.

Buzzard was absolutely certain that Ace would come, that wasn’t whatworried him. He was in a quandary because it would be easier to call Acethan it would be to restrain him, and there was no way to predict what sortof savage hell might break loose once the genie was out of the bottle. Acewas a force of nature, inexorable and swift, and Buzzard was like a shamanwho knows that he can summon a storm but is not at all confident of hisability to control it once it arrives. Finally, however, desperation wonout over prudence. Buzzard excused himself and went to the pay phone at theback of the bar, dropped in several quarters and dialed a number.

“Hey, Ace? Buzzard… Yeah, I’m in Markham. Listen, I’m in a bind here. Ican’t stay on too long, but I’ll give you the story real quick…”

 

* * *

Potato, potato, potato.

It seemed to Buzzard that he had hardly closed his eyes when he wassuddenly awakened by that sound he knew so well. It was Ace, rumbling slowly up the street. Buzzard could tell that Ace was going easy on the throttle to keep his fiberglass-baffled pipes from barking and waking up the neighborhood. He?d probably eaten a fistful of cartwheels and then ridden like a maniac all night to get to Markham before the citizens (and cops) woke up. Buzzard swung his legs over the side of Roy’s couch and levered himself upright. He banged one shin against the wooden coffee table in the dark and whispered a stream of obscenities under his breath. Pausing momentarily to rub his injured leg, he stumbled hastily through the front door. Outside it was cool and dark, with the first red rays of dawn just beginning to streak the eastern sky. Buzzard waved to flag Ace down, and Ace coasted the last 20 feet, tires crunching softly on the gravel-covered driveway. He killed the engine and dismounted, staggering alittle. Even in the dark, he looked stiff and exhausted. Buzzard claspedhis friend’s shoulder warmly. “You OK, bro?”

“Yeah,” replied Ace. “I just need some sleep.”

“OK, let’s get yer bike outta sight and then you can crash inside.”

Buzzard swung open the door of the little red barn. He got behind Ace’sbike and together they pushed it inside next to Buzzard’s on the hay-strewndirt floor. Ace clicked a padlock into place on the bike’s triple tree,then followed Buzzard inside the house. Buzzard decided to take the floorand let Ace have the couch, and Ace collapsed like a marionette whosestrings have been cut. He would sleep like a dead man until at least noon.

Buzzard went back to sleep himself and was awakened again by the phone. Itstopped after two rings, meaning that Uncle Roy had probably answered it inthe bedroom. The clock on the wall said 10. Buzzard looked over at Ace,who was still sound asleep. Good, Buzzard thought, he was glad that thephone hadn’t disturbed Ace. He would need the rest.

A few minutes later, Roy came creaking down the old wooden steps. He wasabout to say something to Buzzard when he stopped, mouth open, surprised tosee that his living room now contained not one but two outlaws, as thoughnew ones had sprouted from the floor like mushrooms during the night.Buzzard put his finger to his lips, then motioned Roy into the kitchen where they could talk without waking Ace.

In a whisper, Buzzard hastily described his run-in with the sheriff andexplained that Ace was a friend who had come to help him get out of Markhamin one piece.

“You boys aren’t gonna do anything foolish, are you?” Roy asked worriedly.

“No, of course not. I didn’t come here lookin’ for trouble, you know that. But I’m a grown man now, and badge or no badge, I ain’t about ta take no crap from the likes of Bobby Plachette.”

“OK,” said Roy, “just be careful. Anyway, that was the nurse on the phone.She says your father’s awake and feels good enough to take visitors.”

This was the moment that Buzzard had simultaneously hoped for and dreadedmuch of his adult life. He took a deep breath and said, “Alright, let’sgo.”

“What about your friend?”

“He’s had a long night. Let him sleep it off.”

Buzzard followed Roy to his battered old pickup truck and slipped intothe passenger seat. He hoped they wouldn’t have the ill fortune to getpulled over by one of the sheriff’s men during the short ride to thereverend’s house. The sun was, after all, up, and Buzzard had missed hisdeadline. Roy didn’t look at all worried, which probably meant that thethought had not even occurred to him. Being a respectable tax-payingcitizen, Roy was not accustomed to worrying about things like being stalkedby cops, and Buzzard decided not to disturb his peace of mind by mentioningit. Roy threw the old rattletrap in gear and eased it gently onto theroad.

Within minutes they were at the reverend’s house. Buzzard knew the waywell; as a boy he had walked the short distance countless times to meetJohnny in the barn and work on the old Flathead. Roy parked the truck infront of the gray stone house, then walked up the short flagstone path tothe front door, with Buzzard following two steps behind. Roy pulled thestorm door open and knocked on the weathered oak door behind it. Buzzardwas vaguely surprised that everything looked so much smaller than heremembered. The door was eventually opened by a stocky, middle-aged womanin a nurse’s uniform. She seemed momentarily taken aback by Buzzard’suncivilized appearance, but she knew Roy, and so said nothing. The nurseled Roy and Buzzard down a short hallway that looked exactly the same asit had when Buzzard was a boy. The faded floral wallpaper had not beenchanged in 18 years, and pictures of all-but-forgotten relativeslined the walls. She led them up the stairs to the reverend’s bedroom andsaid through the door, “Reverend, your brother is here to see you.”

A raspy voice croaked, “Send him in, send him in.” The nurse stepped aside, and Roy led Buzzard into the room.

Buzzard couldn’t believe his eyes. The father he remembered had been ahuge, terrifying mountain of a man — tall, broad and built like a bull. Theman before him was an emaciated scarecrow, wrinkled and gray, old and sick.But that was nothing compared to the shock the reverend received whenRoy put his hand on the huge, hairy outlaw’s grimy shoulder and said,”Wolf, Horace is here to see you…your son. I’ll leave you two alone.”Then he turned and left the room.

The bedroom was as unchanged as the rest of the house. The bed with itswooden headboard was positioned between two antique wooden night tables,under a window that had been opened to admit the warm sun and a pleasantbreeze. Both night tables were strewn with all sorts of pills, and the roomhad the vaguely antiseptic odor of a hospital. “Horace?” the old mancroaked. He sounded as if there were loose nuts and bolts rattling aroundinside his shrunken chest. “How can you be Horace? Horace was a goodChristian boy.”

“No, it’s me, dad.”

“It’s really you?” The reverend paused, then scowled. “I suppose you’ve got a motor-sickle or some such damned contraption to go with those rags you’rewearing.”

“It’s parked at Uncle Roy’s house,” Buzzard replied.

“Well, I don’t know if you’re really Horace or not,” said the reverend,”but it doesn’t matter anyhow. You may be the son of the devil, but you’reno son of mine.”

“Nothing’s changed, then, in all this time?”

“I raised my son to be faithful and obedient. He would never have abandoned me to join some…some heathen homosexual leather cult.” The reverendlooked at Buzzard with the most profound loathing that Buzzard had everseen. “Go back to whatever hell hole you crawled out of…back to yourdope-smoking, fornicating friends. That’s where you belong, not here,worrying God-fearing folk. Don’t come back to darken my doorway any more.God hates disobedient sons most of all.”

Buzzard cursed silently at a life that he had long ago left behind. Hegrowled, “My mother was sweet and beautiful and kind. You killed her, youbastard, just as surely as if you’d stabbed her in the heart. You wouldhave done the same to me too, and we both know it. So now you’re going todie an old man, lonely and bitter, and no one will mourn you. Was it worthit? Is this the way you want to end your life? No, don’t bother answering.I hope whatever God you believe in has mercy on your soul.” Without waitingfor a reply, Buzzard turned his back on the reverend and walked out.

 

* * *

By mid-afternoon, Ace had revived. He ate a ravenous meal (which Roygraciously supplied), then went out to the barn to talk strategy withBuzzard. A confrontation with the sheriff seemed inevitable, since therewas only one road in and out of town. It was possible that they could sneakout under cover of darkness, but that would be difficult with Buzzard’sopen pipes, and would also expose them to the possibility of an ambush onsome back country road. Ace had packed a small arsenal, but it would stillbe three against two. Besides, Buzzard was not eager to get into ashoot out with the cops; it was just too risky. In addition, beating up a copis one thing, but shooting a cop is quite another. Even if Buzzard andAce won the shoot out, they would still lose in the long run. They wouldbecome cop killers, America’s most wanted, with their faces plastered onthe walls of every post office in the country.

No, it would be better to keep the guns out of it. The outlaws at least had the advantage of being able to stage the confrontation on their own terms,to choose the time and terrain. The best place would be somewhere withplenty of innocent bystanders. Then the cops wouldn’t be able to use theirguns, either. The odds would still be three to two against, but the outlawshad the element of surprise. The cops were looking for Buzzard, and theyhad never seen Ace.

So now Buzzard and Ace were back in the Road House, nervously sipping beerand waiting for the show to begin. Buzzard had parked his chopper outfront as bait. Ace had parked his out back, hidden between two largedelivery trucks. Initially the bartender had protested, but he saw thelight when Ace offered to rearrange his dental work for him. He decided tolet the law handle it, which was what was going to happen anyway as soon asthe sheriff saw the chopper parked out front. Buzzard sat at the bar whileAce hid in the shadows at a table in the corner. It was shortly after 5 and the after work crowd was starting to fill the small pub; store managersin starched shirts and ties, working men in jeans and boots. Soon the barwas bustling with activity. People were talking, smoking, laughing andeating, ordering mugs and pitchers of beer.

Buzzard suddenly saw the bartender crane his neck to look out the window at something, and he could see the red and blue lights reflecting off themirror behind the bar. Show time. The sheriff burst in, flanked by twoyoung-looking deputies, and shouted at Buzzard, “I thought I told you tagit outta town!” The room was suddenly deathly quiet.

“I don’t want no trouble sheriff,” Buzzard said. “I got what I came for.I’ll hit the road just as soon as I finish my beer, and you’ll never see mehere again.”

The sheriff smiled a shark-toothed smile. “Too late, whore-ass,” he said.”I told ya ta hit the road last night. Now yer gonna get what’s comin’ toya.”

Buzzard smiled. “OK, don’t say I didn’t give ya no chance.”

They never even saw Ace coming. He moved like lightning, melting out of the shadows like a lizard and swinging a small, shot-filled sap. He struck eachdeputy a precise blow on the base of the skull; just enough force to causeunconsciousness but not enough to do any permanent damage. They crumpled tothe floor like paper dolls. This threw the room into confusion. Somewanted to help the sheriff, others wanted to flee and a few just wanted towatch the show like gawkers at a traffic accident. Between them, there wastoo much chaos for anyone to do anything. The sheriff looked over hisshoulder, then back again, and fumbled for his gun. But the bar was packedwith patrons and there was no way to get a clear shot. Before he knew whatwas happening, he was hit simultaneously from the front and the rear, andhis gun and nightstick had both been wrestled away from him.

Ace took the weapons and stepped away, leaving Buzzard alone with thesheriff. Plachette realized with horror that he was not facing a frightenedboy named Horace. He was facing a huge, savage outlaw named Buzzard, andhis knees felt suddenly weak. Buzzard’s hairy lips parted, exposing sharp,white teeth, and he said, very quietly, “You can run but you can’t hide.”

There is a strange thing that sometimes happens to even the most savage ofmen when they see their nemesis brought low, and realize that he ispathetic and small. They are suddenly filled not with anger but with anawful, towering pity, and they realize that to sink to the level of theiradversary would be wrong, that the right thing to do is to be the biggerman. Unfortunately for the sheriff, none of these things happened toBuzzard.

Buzzard kicked his ass all the way out the door, then grabbed him by thehair and dragged him back inside. He kicked his ass up the bar, then kickedit back down the bar. He beat Plachette until he was exhausted fromswinging his arms. Then he let his adversary fall face down into thespilled beer, spit and cigarette butts that covered the sticky floor.

When he finally looked up from his work, he saw that Ace had been busyhandcuffing the deputies to the shiny brass bar rail and stuffing theirservice revolvers into the various pockets of his riding jacket, keepingone handy just to make sure that none of the patrons would decide to try tobe a hero. Buzzard handcuffed the unconscious sheriff to the bar railbeside his men, and Ace went to work severing the telephone line. This wasprobably unnecessary since all the law there was to summon was at presentlying unconscious on the floor, but better safe than sorry. The outlawsthen ran for the door and the crowd parted to make way. Once outside,Buzzard tapped Ace on the shoulder and said, “We better take the scenicroute. Bastards’ll be lookin’ for us.”

Ace nodded in agreement. Then he smiled and said, “Lead the way, Horace.”

Buzzard smiled back and replied, “You better not break my balls about that, Francis.”

Ace ran around the back of the building while Buzzard ran out front. Thegawkers in the bar were crowding around the windows to watch Buzzardstraddle his bike and kick it to life. Seconds later, he heard the sound ofAce’s Evo starting up. Buzzard pulled out of the parking lot, rear tirescreeching, and Ace blasted out right behind him. Together they roared away into the reddening dusk, under the cloudless sky, in the wind and glad to be free.

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“Angels”

Ace sat at a booth near the back of the bar and sipped his beer. The Midnite Club, a private club in the French quarter of New Orleans, was where he liked to go when he had to lay low. Right now, Ace was laying lower than a snake’s belly, at least until the heat died down. He’d had a terrible run-in with the sheriff of a small town in South Carolina that had resulted in a heinous whirlwind of felonies and violence. He had even stowed his beloved chopper in a garage at a self-storage facility. The damn thing was a cop magnet even when every cop in the country wasn’t looking for it.

The Midnite Club was swanky, upscale and very, very private. The highly coveted membership was by invitation only, and all new applicants had to be vouched for by a current member in good standing. It was, needless to say, very expensive.

The club’s patrons were the hippest of the hip; 24-year-old millionaires from Silicon Valley, Wall Street power brokers, East Coast mobsters and Hollywood stars, with the occasional outlaw type thrown into the mix to add just a touch of danger, completing the scene of wild and erotic mystery. The Midnite Club was a place where the well-heeled could relax, unwind and be entertained by everything from jazz bands to live sex shows.

The club was owned and run by the strange and mysterious Papa Senegal. Papa was, in fact, not from Senegal. He was Jamaican, but Ace supposed that “Papa Senegal” had a better ring to it than “Papa Jamaica,” and none of the patrons gave a damn anyway. Papa Senegal had a fine sense of drama and played the New Orleans voodoo thing to the hilt. The club was decorated in occult black, with plenty of candelabras, skulls, mirrors and stuffed ravens sprinkled about. He was always fashionably late; just late enough to make the club’s newer members wonder whether he was going to show up at all. Then he would suddenly appear, long dreadlocks flying from beneath a tall top hat, wearing a tuxedo with tails and no shirt or cummerbund underneath, washboard abs rippling, carrying an ebony walking stick topped by a small ivory skull, smiling, shaking hands and passing out samples of everything from Cuban cigars to premium cocaine.

Ace worked sporadically for Papa as a procurer of the various commodities that were necessary to keep the club running, and he had negotiated some of his pay in credit, which was the only way he could have afforded to be there at all. Now Ace was watching the band set up and waiting for Papa to make one of his classy appearances.

Suddenly, there he was in the middle of the room as though he’d appeared out of thin air, smiling, milling around and pouring shots of 100-year-old scotch. A murmur of satisfaction went up from the crowd and Papa was temporarily hidden from view again. Ace waited until the crowd died down a bit, then he got up and walked toward Papa. Papa squinted at Ace, who was moving toward him in the dark, before his face broke into a wide grin of recognition. “Ess, my friend!” (When Papa said “Ace,” it came out sounding like “Ess.”) “Eet’s been a long time!”

Ace clasped Papa’s hand warmly and agreed, “Too long, too long.”

“Ahh Esss!” Papa screamed, “thee wan and onlee in-dee-spen-sable Ess!” clapping him on the shoulder. “Eet’s always a pleasure to see you! Tomorrow we talk business, ah? But tonight, tonight we have a good time!” That was fine with Ace; a good time was just what his jangled nerves needed, and it was widely agreed that nobody in New Orleans knew how to have a better time than Papa did.

As if on cue, the stage lights flared to life and the band started up — a wild jazz act with a swinging beat. Mostly-naked waitresses circulated between the small round tables taking food and drink orders, $20 bills sticking out of their G-strings like the plumage of some strange and exotic bird. The tenor man, a tall, gangly white guy with a protruding Adam’s apple, was blowing his horn like his life depended on it, jumping up and down, writhing, twitching and sweating, and the crowd was rising to an almost erotic frenzy as the tenor man struggled to grasp the elusive it, because they knew. An old man in a blue suit sat in a chair by the stage, stomping his feet and yelling, “Blow, man, blow!” at the top of his lungs. Papa tapped Ace on the shoulder and placed a glass of amber liquid into his hand. Ace nodded and smiled, and Papa went off to mill around in the crowd. Ace took a small sip; after all, it’s not often that a man has the opportunity to drink 100-year-old scotch. It went down smoother than silk, with no harsh bite at all. In fact, oddly enough, Ace thought that it almost reminded him of butterscotch. He looked over at the bar and smiled at a pretty young blonde who appeared to be by herself. She looked over and smiled back.

 

***

In a garbage-strewn alley in another part of town, the air was crackling faintly as before a storm, even though the sky was perfectly clear. A faint breeze kicked up, stirring scraps of newspaper around in circles and making a rustling sound. Then suddenly there was a body in the alley where there had been none a moment before. If anyone had been there, they would have felt the dull, sub-sonic thud of a concussion wave radiating outward from the figure, whose instantaneous appearance had displaced an amount of air equal to its own volume. The demon gasped for its first breath, then began panting like a wolf. It slowly uncurled from its crouch, painfully and awkwardly, like an infant struggling to learn control of its new physical shell. It tensed, then sprang and took off down the alley, covering 8 feet at a shot with its awkward, loping strides.

 

***

Ace slowly cracked one eye open, exposing his throbbing brain to the bright daggers of daylight that were stabbing in through the window. For one terrifying moment he had no idea where the hell he was or how he had gotten there. Then he remembered, New Orleans… Papa Senegal… Business. The long smear in front of him slowly focused into the hourglass form of a woman. Of course, the blonde from the club. That was why the tips of his fingers were tingling; she was lying on his left arm. For a long moment he wondered whether he should wake her or simply chew his arm off like an animal caught in a trap. Then he had an idea. He rolled over and pushed the mattress down with his right hand, slipping his left arm out through the indentation. She stirred faintly but didn’t wake. Ace dressed hastily, then quietly slipped out of the apartment, clicking the door softly shut behind him.

 

***

Ace handed the cabbie a $5 bill and stepped out of the cab in front of the Midnite Club. Seeing the club in the light of day, without its neon pizzazz, reminded Ace of an old coat that had hung on a hook on the back of his bedroom door as a child. In the dark of night, the coat had always loomed huge and terrible, casting menacing shadows across the wall like a vampire, but every morning when he awoke it would again become an ordinary, lifeless coat. The Midnite Club seemed to acquire the same sort of drab lifelessness when the city awoke in the morning like a whore, hacking, coughing and blowing trash around in the streets.

Ace made his way through a narrow alley and around to the service entrance in the back. He rapped on a beat-up sheet metal door, which was opened a moment later by a gigantic white man in a tux. Ace smiled and said, “Hey, Tiny, long time no see! How’s it hangin’, big guy?”

Tiny smiled back. “Ahh, same shit, different day, you know how it is, Ace. Heh heh… Papa’s waiting for you in the office.” he said, pointing with a thumb that was more than an inch in diameter.

A narrow spiral staircase, made of welded sheet metal and painted black, led from the service entrance to an office on the upper floor. The stairway was dark and the walls were bare cinder block, as gray and forbidding as any prison. But once you stepped past the threshold of Papa’s office, you stepped into a different world. All of the woodwork was polished mahogany, and the carpet was the color of red wine, which shone like blood against the white walls. Expensive paintings lined the walls, each in an antique, hand-carved frame, and a crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, such as one might expect to see in a ballroom. The door was open and Papa sat behind a gold table lamp, which threw a small circle of light onto a large mahogany desk, which was rather like a banker’s. This room was Papa’s concept of luxury, much more so than the club itself; not vulgar ostentation, but tasteful elegance. Papa looked up from his laptop computer when he heard Ace’s boot heels punishing the staircase with a dull clang, clang, clang that echoed around the stairwell. He stood up and smiled, stepping around the desk with his right hand extended. Papa was dressed casually (for Papa) in expensive gray slacks and white shirt sleeves… Come to think of it, Ace couldn’t remember ever having seen him wear jeans. Ace clasped Papa’s right hand warmly. He was genuinely glad to see the old bastard again.

They chatted for a while, a ritual to which Ace had grown accustomed. Papa thought it rude to open a conversation with business, as is the American habit. After a while he leaned forward with his elbows on the desk, making a steeple with his fingers, which Ace recognized as the sign that Papa was ready to come to the point.

“I have a small job for you, my friend,” said Papa. “I need you to go to a man across town and peeck up a small vial for me. Thee pay is wan-thousand dollars.”

“Wow,” Ace replied, “that must be one hell of an expensive drug. How ’bout a tiny sample for the courier? Like my grandma used to say, those who handle honey always lick their fingers.”

Papa shook his head. “Not thees time. Eet ees not a drug in the sense which you are theenking; eet ees a component for use in magick.” His eyes became very intense. “Eet’s powerful magick, eet geeve powerful visions! One must be equeeped to handle eet; a drop thee size of a match head would turn you into sometheeng out of a medeecal encyclopedia!”

Ace smiled. “All right, all right, I get the message. Jeez, I think you’re starting to take your own hype too seriously. Anyway, where is this guy?”

Papa handed Ace a slip of paper with a name and an address. Ace nodded, took the paper and started to go. Papa stopped him at the threshold and said, “Remember, no tasteeng!”

“Right,” Ace replied, “got it. No tasting.”

 

***

Ace had waited until after dark to get the chopper out of storage. It was probably a bad idea to be seen on it again so soon, but Ace had been taking buses and cabs everywhere for two entire weeks and he was dying to get his knees in the wind. He rationalized the decision by reasoning that he could stay on the back roads where it was dark and avoid attracting attention. His pipes were fiberglass-baffled and they weren’t obnoxiously loud if you were gentle with the throttle.

Ace putted slowly down the small commercial street, scanning the storefronts for Harry’s Occult Shop. The bottle, whatever it was, was already paid for; all Ace had to do was pick it up and take it back to the Midnite Club.

Presently, Ace spotted a small shop with skulls and jars of colored powder in the window. Bingo. Ace stopped in front of the store, killed the engine and leaned the bike over on its kickstand.

A small bell jingled on the door when Ace opened it. Harry’s Occult Shop was lit by dozens of candles that burned on candelabras throughout the store. Every wall was covered with shelves, which were crammed full of skulls, powders, candles, daggers and old leather-bound books covered in strange symbols. There was a gnarled old tree stump in the corner of the shop that made Ace jump when it moved and he realized that the stump was, in fact, a man.

“Uh, Harry, I presume?” asked Ace.

“Yeah,” the man replied. Hack, cough, wheeze. “What can I do for you, young man?”

“Papa sent me,” replied Ace. “I’m here for the pick up”.

Harry squinted at Ace for a moment, then said, “Yeah, yeah, hold on.” He shuffled into the back room, which was hidden behind a black velvet curtain. He emerged a moment later carrying a glass vial. He put the vial into a brown paper bag and handed it to Ace, who took it with a nod. “Interest you in some powdered bat wing?” asked Harry. “It’s on sale this week.”

“No thanks,” Ace replied, “I’m trying to cut down.” Harry chuckled in a most unpleasant way, and Ace was suddenly glad to be leaving. Harry made his skin crawl.

Once outside, Ace stood on the curb next to the chopper and peered into the bag. The vial was bulb-shaped, about the size of a baseball, with a long stem sealed by a cork stopper. He pulled the bottle out and held it up to the street light. The liquid inside was a faintly shimmering sapphire blue, which, from certain angles, appeared to be green. What the hell is it? Ace wondered. He had never seen or heard of anything like it before. Finally, curiosity got the best of him. Hell, there was no way Papa would be able to tell if he took just one little tiny taste. Remembering Papa’s warning about the dosage, Ace tore off a paper match and just barely touched the butt-end of it to the surface of the liquid. Then, with slight apprehension, he put the match in his mouth and waited for…

Nothing. It tasted faintly like almonds, but it didn’t do a damn thing. Ace replaced the stopper and put the bottle back in the bag. He wondered if he should tell Papa that he’d been ripped off, but then thought, better of it. Papa would find out soon enough anyway and there was no point in pissing him off by admitting to disobeying orders.

Ace straddled the chopper, thumbed the starter and the big engine roared to life. He eased the bike out of the parking space, whacked the shifter into first and headed for the highway. He was relatively sure that he wasn’t carrying anything illegal and he was eager to get back to the Midnite Club quickly in case the stuff had some kind of hellish delayed reaction.

The highway was mostly empty and Ace didn’t have far to go anyway. The cool night air was a welcome relief from the daytime heat and swamp-like humidity of Louisiana. The sky was clear, the stars twinkled brightly and the crescent sliver of the moon seemed to flash him a conspiratorial wink. Ace suddenly felt that this was the America that Peter Fonda and Dennis Hopper had searched for in “Easy Rider” but had been unable to find. This was the real America, land of endless skies and wide-open roads, not the other America, the one where they made you piss in a jar if you wanted a job and threw you in jail if you didn’t pay your taxes.

The exit appeared like a specter, materializing out of the inky darkness. Ace slid the bike around the off-ramp and stopped behind a short line of cars waiting for the tolls.

It began faintly at first, quickly growing louder, a shrill scream like the rending of metal, accompanied by a loud, sibilant hiss, which nearly made Ace jump straight off of his seat. He looked in the rear view mirror and saw a tractor-trailer slowing down, pumping its air brakes as it approached the tolls. The trailer was a cattle car made of gray metal slats, and Ace could smell the faint but rising odor of shit. The brakes screeched and squealed as the truck approached. The din rose to a deafening roar and the brakes gave one long, last hiss as the truck stopped right next to Ace.

The goddamn smell was nauseating. Ace imagined that this was what it must be like to drown in an ocean of shit. He tried to breathe shallow breaths to avoid puking all over his bike. Then, a soft, wet sound emerged from the bowels of the truck. A sludge of greenish-brown shit oozed from between two of the slats, then poured sickeningly to the pavement, splat, splat, splat. The shit was coming in torrents now, splattering all over the ground and spraying drops of filth everywhere. Ace was gagging. Fuck the tolls, he thought, I’m getting out of here.

Then he saw two red points of light winking in the darkness inside the truck like a pair of burning eyes, right above the source of the shit. Cow eyes don’t glow like that, he thought, and even if they did, cows don’t have eyes in their assholes. Ace was transfixed by horror and nausea, like a gawker at a traffic accident, unable to look away. Then the eyes flared up and he could almost see inside the truck; the source of the shit was not an asshole, but a mouth, like a frog’s, but bigger than a basketball hoop, with small, pointed teeth. The demon belched one last torrent of shit onto the pavement, then wiped its befouled lips with a long, thin arm. It turned its baleful gaze slowly upon Ace and laughed, hrf, hrf, hrf.

His mind fused by panic, Ace whacked the bike into gear and twisted the throttle, squeezing through the space between a small hatchback car and the side of the booth, then he roared away into the night. In the rear view mirror, two tiny points of light followed his movements as he sped away.

 

***

Ace awoke the next morning not at all rested, having spent most of the night thrashing and sweating through nightmares about giant frogs and shit. He had washed the bike, laundered his clothes and taken no less than three showers before going to bed, an attempt to erase the indelible stink from his skin and hair. Even after all that scrubbing he imagined that he could still smell it, even though he knew that it was all in his head. Fucking hallucinogens, he thought; I’m getting too old for this. Indeed, and there was no time for it either. Papa was waiting for his delivery with $1,000 burning a hole in his pocket.

Ace pulled his jeans on and grabbed his shoplifted wraparound Ray-Bans. He suddenly had new doubts about the legality of whatever the hell was in that bottle, and it simply would not do to be seen by the cops, staggering around the streets of New Orleans with pale skin and bloodshot eyes, cringing from the light of the sun like a sick mole.

Right. Keep a low profile, he thought; get in a cab, give Papa his bottle of Satan-juice, get your thousand bucks, and then we’ll find out if there’s enough whiskey in New Orleans to drown out the memory of that goddamn horror show in the truck…

 

***

The short cab ride to the Midnite Club gave Ace the opportunity to somewhat regain his composure. The bright sunshine of a brand new day already made that horror in the truck seem silly and distant, no more than a cobweb to be casually swept away by the omnipotent hand of Good Old Reality. Papa had not yet arrived at the club when Ace knocked on the service door, but Tiny was there to take the bottle, and he had been authorized to pay Ace what he was owed.

So now Ace was walking down the street with $1,000 worth of bounce in his step, feeling the warm sunshine and whistling a little tune. He was, in fact, so preoccupied with the thoughts of how he would spend the money that when he turned the corner, he nearly ran straight into the angel.

It stood nearly 6 feet tall with long raven-black hair, eyes with no pupils at all and pale white skin like a corpse. The feathers in its wings shone like metal, all sharp points and lethal razor edges. It was an automaton, as lifeless as any killing machine. Behind its eyes lurked a terrible intellect that knew neither anger nor pity, a ruthless logic that always calculated the shortest distance between two points, and woe betide the man or beast foolish enough to stand between the angel and its goal. A maelstrom of energy swirled and crackled around the figure. Every primal instinct inside Ace’s skull screamed “run” but his limbs somehow refused to obey, and for one terrible moment, he was certain that he would be charred to a cinder, immolated right there on the sidewalk, leaving nothing behind but a pair of smoldering boot prints melted into the pavement like an obscene mockery of an Arthur Murray dance diagram. The angel turned its withering gaze upon Ace. Its dusty lips cracked open and a hot desert wind blasted forth. It spoke with a voice that made no impression upon Ace’s ears, but seemed instead to implant itself directly into his mind. Nonetheless, the voice was terrible to hear; it sounded like the dry grating of metal-on-metal.

A demon is loose in the city, said the angel. Thou hast been chosen to drive it out.

Not me, Ace protested in his mind. I’m a thief and a drunk, I haven’t been to church since I was 12 years old, I’m not any kind of a prophet.

The angel’s eyes flared to life, smoldering like two coals. “Do not give me that ‘I’m not worthy’ crap”, it shouted with a harsh new timbre in its voice, like bags of nails being dumped onto sheet metal. “Have thee any idea how many times I have had to listen to that rotten old swill?”

Sorry, Ace replied. But still, it’s a valid question. Of all the sinners in New Orleans, why me? You’re the freakin angel, why don’t you do it?

I cannot risk provoking a war, the angel replied. Therefore I have obtained permission to choose a man to act in my stead. Thou art the only one in the city who can see the demon for what it is; by tasting the sacrament, thou hast put thyself upon the threshold of their world. A chosen one is not always a saint, Ace. Sometimes, when something must be done, one is chosen simply because no other is able do it.

“I don’t believe it!” Ace shouted. “You’re not real! You’re just another goddamn hallucination!” He was dimly aware on some level that it made no sense to scream at a hallucination.

I haven’t the time to argue, the angel replied. With a lightning-fast motion, it whirled around and struck Ace in the middle of his chest with its open palm. The force of the blow swept Ace off of his feet and smashed him into the brick wall of the alley, knocking the breath out of him and pinning him against the wall. Its palm felt like ice, but Ace could smell a smoldering odor like the smell of burning chicken, and he knew that he was smelling his own flesh.

A few seconds later, the angel released him and Ace slumped to the pavement like a rag doll. His vision began to grow dark and the silhouette of the angel, towering above him, was beginning to dissolve like smoke. Fear not, it said. Thy hand shall be made strong by the hand of the Lord. Then Ace blacked out as the figure vanished, but he wasn’t really sure which happened first.

 

***

Newspaper. Big newspaper, filling his entire field of vision. Smell of newsprint. As Ace’s vision swam groggily into focus, he realized that he was lying on his back in an alley with sheets of newspaper covering his face. What the hell am I doing here? Right, the angel. Just another bad trip; don’t sweat it, you’ve seen worse on acid. Just get up, before anyone notices you and calls the cops; dammit, get up.

Ace swept the newspapers from his face and struggled to his feet. His whole body felt sore and there was a sunburn-like pain in the center of his chest… Oh, no. With trembling hands, Ace lifted his shirt. In the center of his chest was a red, hand-shaped welt, except that there were four fingers instead of five, and at the end of each fingertip was a small laceration right where the angel’s talons would have been. Holy creeping shit, he thought, I have to talk to Papa.

 

***

Papa examined the welt on Ace’s chest with great interest and a grave expression on his face. “What the hell is happening to me?” Ace asked.

“I have already told you,” Papa replied, “that thee drug is not really a drug in thee ordinary sense of thee word. Eet ees a holy sacrament; an instrument of magick which opens thee door between thee seen and unseen worlds. Many sorcerers would geeve everytheeng they own for that bottle.”

“Yeah, well, I would give everything I own never to see it again. OK, so the door’s been opened. How do I shut it?”

“You don’t,” Papa replied. “Thees ees not like returning a pair of pants. Eet cannot simply be undone. You have been chosen. Now you must see eet through.”

“Great, so now I’m an exorcist, too. I think I’ll put that on my card: Ace Calhoun – Obtainer of Rare Commodities and Banisher of the Undead – no job too small, no zombie too ugly. Call for special introductory offer.”

“Bee serious!” Papa snapped. “Thees ees no laughing matter!”

“OK,” Ace replied. “Fine. How do I get rid of a demon then? Crosses? Garlic? A silver bullet in the heart?”

“You have been watching too many Bela Lugosi films. Demons are powerful, but they are bound by certain rules. They are obligated to abide by their own contracts. They are clever but greedy, and their greed makes them careless. Eef you are patient and astute, the demon may be treecked”.

“Trick it? I don’t even know where to find it!”

Papa leaned forward on his elbows and smiled in a very unpleasant way. “Do not worry,” he said, “eet will find you.”

 

***

Although certainly no scientist, Ace did consider himself a rational man. As such, he had always lived his life comfortably sure of certain facts — the earth is round, there is no Santa Claus and demons don’t run around New Orleans like baboons that escaped from the Bronx zoo. Now he was experiencing the same kind of mental inversion that bedeviled the medieval Catholic clergy when Galileo informed them that the earth revolves around the sun; his basic a priori presumptions of the world were being turned inside out. However, Ace was a man who was well accustomed to rolling with life’s punches, so he chose neither to believe nor disbelieve the evidence of his senses, but instead to simply ride this strange torpedo to its conclusion. At some point, maybe he would wake up. Or maybe not.

At any rate, he now sat in a back storeroom in the Midnite club, munching a salami sandwich and reading intensely. He had read more in the past four hours than he had in the previous four years. He was, in fact, reading as though his life depended on it, which it very likely did. Tiny had set up a small table for him amid the shelves and boxes, and the table was piled shoulder high with books from Papa’s library; books like “The Necronomicon”‘ Malleus Malificarum” and dozens of tomes that defied description, except to say that they were bound in cracked, dusty leather and they were very, very old. Ace had never been aware that there was so much to say about demons, but what the hell, live and learn.

 

***

Ace leaned back in his chair, swirling the ice around in his drink and trying to relax. It was nearly midnight, which meant that the Midnite Club was in full swing, band and all. This band was a mellower affair than the previous one had been; four elderly black gentlemen smartly dressed in suits and ties, playing cool jazz with an easy virtuosity that came with many decades of experience. All around the club, crowds of people were eating, drinking and smoking, with an occasional card game here and there at the tables near the back. Ace impatiently scanned the milling crowd for a sign of anything unusual. He wasn’t quite sure what he was looking for, but Papa had assured him that he would know it when he saw it. At any rate, he had been orbiting around the crowd once every 20 minutes for the past three hours or so, and he was relatively sure that he hadn’t seen it yet. It was an effort of will not to pace the club like a caged animal. He was actually getting impatient for something to happen, even though he knew that he probably wouldn’t like it when it did.

Ace got up and elbowed his way through the crowd. He moved slowly, like a sleepwalker, peering into peoples’ eyes as he passed. He was aware that he was making people nervous, but he felt fairly certain that the demon would betray its presence through its eyes, which are, they say, the windows to the soul.

Ace was near the back of the club now, where the gamblers were playing cards and smoking cigars at little round tables, each with a lava lamp in the center which threw a circle of sickly yellow radiance around the players. One table was filled with Southern gentlemen who looked like Texas oil tycoons with white suits and 10-gallon hats. Another table was occupied by Mafioso. And another…

Ace’s heart stopped. The third table was populated by two geeky-looking fellows who were probably software tycoons, (one of whom looked remarkably like a fatter version of Bill Gates), and a biker type with long brown hair and a neatly trimmed beard. The biker was facing Ace, and his skin seemed to pulsate and wriggle as though it were alive. As he got closer, Ace saw that what looked like skin was actually a mass of crawling maggots. In fact, it looked to Ace like there was really no head there at all, just a pulsing horror of little white worms, pushed together by some unseen force into the shape of a human head. If you were to hit it with a baseball bat, the bat would encounter no bone, no blood, just a pile of insects that would splatter everywhere like a watermelon being shot with a .300 Weatherby magnum.

The demon looked up at Ace and smiled, its eyes flashing red. Its skin looked normal now as it said, “Gentlemen, I believe we have another player. Deal you in?”

It took considerable self-control for Ace to hold his voice steady and reply, “What are you playing?”

“Five card draw, fifty dollar ante, jokers wild,” the demon replied as it shuffled the deck with a card-shark flourish.

“Fine. I’m in.”

Ace flagged down one of the g-stringed waitresses and tried to look nonchalant as he bought $1,000 worth of chips. He sat down at the table facing the demon, with one programmer on either side. Each player threw a $50 chip into the pot, and the demon deftly dealt each player five cards with a snapping flick of its wrist.

Ace examined his hand with a stony poker face that had been carefully perfected in more taverns than he cared to count. He had a 3, 4, 5 and 6, all spades, plus a jack of diamonds. Four parts toward a straight flush and open ended to boot. That gave him about one chance in four of completing the hand as either a straight or a flush, pretty good odds but still a risky proposition. If it didn’t pan out, he would be left holding nothing.

The programmer to the demon’s left sneered in a disgusted way, then tossed his hand face down on the table to indicate that he was holding nothing and would not open the betting. Ace opened by throwing a $100 chip into the pot. ‘Bill Gates,’ who was sitting to Ace’s left, eyeballed his hand, then tossed it on the table with a grunt. That left only the demon, who smiled and raised Ace by tossing in two $100 chips.

Ace was not rattled because Providence was on his side. After all, hadn’t the angel said that his hand would be made strong by the hand of the Lord? He smiled cockily and did something an experienced player never does, he threw in $700 worth of chips. Hmmph, that oughta make the ugly bastard back down.

The demon looked at Ace and chuckled, then it tossed in a fistful of chips, seeing Ace’s $600. It paused, locked eyes with Ace and hissed, very quietly, “It’s not the money I want.” The software tycoons looked at each other nervously. “Are you a religious man, Ace?”

“Never have been.”

The demon flashed a predatory grin and rasped, “Then I’m sure you wouldn’t mind betting me your soul.”

OK, thought Ace, this is it, the showdown, High Noon. “You’re on,” he replied. “You win, you get my soul. I win, you go back to wherever the hell you came from.”

“It’s a deal,” the demon replied. Ace wondered whether he ought to shake the demon’s hand to make it official, but the thought of touching that pulsating white skin filled Ace with unspeakable revulsion. The demon smiled, licked its lips and said, “Draw!”

Ace discarded the jack, flicking it face down onto the table. The demon also discarded one card, which meant that it was either trying to fill a flush or a straight, or else it was holding a pair or three-of-a-kind and was trying to make its hand look stronger than it really was. The demon dealt two cards, one to itself and one to Ace, deftly flicking Ace’s card across the length of the table. Ace reached over confidently, scooping up his card, then felt his heart sink into his boots when he picked it up and looked at it — 10 of hearts. He was holding a big, fat bust. Shit! Shit! Shit! Trying desperately to stave off internal panic, Ace threw his last $50 into the pot, delaying the inevitable for a few more seconds. Think, dammit, think! The demon smiled as it scrutinized Ace’s poker face, which Ace sincerely hoped was really as good as he thought. The demon called Ace’s bet and paused, savoring the moment. “Do you know what hell is like, Ace?” the demon whispered. It leaned in closer and Ace could see orange flames smoldering behind the empty facade of its eyes. “I’m going to tie you down to a bed of razor blades with a roll of barbed wire. Then I’m going to use a pair of rusty pliers to pull out all the bones in your feet.”

Ace leaned back in his chair, flashing his biggest, cockiest grin, and replied, “You’re pretty damn sure of your hand. What about your wrist?”

“What?”

“You got a bike?” The demon nodded affirmative. “I’ll race you for the whole enchilada, from here to the court house, winner takes all.”

The demon sized Ace up for a moment, then shouted “You’re on!” It threw its cards face-up on the table and laughed triumphantly. “Pair of threes! Ha! I bluffed you out!”

Ace smiled back. He showed his own worthless hand and replied with a bad Crocodile Dundee accent, “That’s not a bluff, mate. This is a bluff!” The demon cursed and sputtered, incoherent with rage. Ace flagged the waitress down again and said, “Hey, darlin’, would you mind watching my winnings for me? I’ll be back for ’em soon.” Ignoring the flabbergasted expressions on the faces of the waitress and the software tycoons, Ace stomped out of the Midnite Club with the demon hot on his heels.

On the curb outside the club, parked right next to Ace’s chopper, was a gleaming yellow sport bike, a hot-rodded Buell. It was obviously built with the singular purpose of speed in mind, and there was no doubt that the demon would have the advantage in the turns. However, Ace had picked the courthouse for a reason; a good bit of the ride would be comprised of straight-aways. The chopper, with its raked front end, couldn’t corner worth a damn, but in a straightaway its huge engine and long wheelbase made it a speeding missile. As Ace saddled up, it occurred to him that if the cops caught him racing, he would really be screwed, but the thought failed to land with any impact. It was a thought from another lifetime, a thought that seemed pale and insignificant when hell itself was breathing down his neck.

Ace straddled the chopper, pulled the enrichener knob all the way out and fired it up. The rich mixture forced the engine into the high rpm range, which made a staccato machine-gun sound that ricocheted off the stone face of the Midnite Club and echoed down the empty streets. He pushed the knob a quarter of the way in and the machine-gun tempo slowed to a loping potato potato potato, like a drummer playing paradiddles. Ace found the sound soothing. The demon fired up its bike as well, and the two of them sat there until both bikes were completely off choke. Ace pointed to the closest traffic light, which had just turned red, and shouted over the roar of the cycles, “When it turns green, we go!” The demon nodded affirmative and did a burnout to heat the rear tire, blackening the pavement and filling the street with acrid smoke. Ace didn’t bother; he knew that the demon would beat him off the line anyway. The speed of Ace’s takeoff would be limited by the fact that he couldn’t risk a power-wheelie; if the front wheel came off the ground, the impact when it landed again would bend the 12-inch-over forks, and that would be the end of the race. Ace wasn’t worried about it, though. He was betting that the chopper’s 50-to-100 time was far shorter than the Buell’s. The race was long enough that giving up a few seconds off the line wouldn’t ultimately matter.

The light that was aimed at the opposing traffic turned yellow, then red, and the demon gunned the Buell’s engine mercilessly. When the light turned green the demon popped the clutch and took off, lifting the front wheel 24 inches off the ground and instantly gaining a three-second lead.

Ace took off smoothly, quickly up-shifting into fifth. There were lines of tar across the pavement where some road crew had covered the thermal expansion joints in the concrete. As Ace accelerated, the sound of the tires rolling over the bumps sped up from a slow gadump… gadump… gadump to a loping wumpwumpwumpwump and finally to a singular sort of braaaap, all within about three seconds. At 3000 rpm, the high-lift cam turned on hard, and the chopper responded to the throttle like a bucking horse to a whip. Ace leaned his body forward and clutched the handlebars fiercely to prevent his ass from sliding off the seat and onto the rear fender. The wind scream in his ears rose to a deafening pitch, and tears streamed from the corners of his eyes. The demon also had its throttle pegged, but the Buell wasn’t designed to be a drag bike. Ace shot forward like a rocket, quickly closing the gap.

Traffic lights and street lamps sped by in a luminous blur as the racers blew every red light in their path at speeds in excess of 100 mph. If a car happened to pull out in front of them, there would be no time to stop. Both bikes would strike the car broadside, erupting in a volcanic ball of fire, showering the street with bright orange sparks and spraying bits of hot metal everywhere. There would be no need for body bags; there would be nothing left for the fire department to clean up except for a big red smear on the pavement and the occasional ear or finger hanging in the bushes or splattered against the curb. Ace desperately hoped that the highway on-ramp would appear soon.

After what seemed like the longest 60 seconds of his life, the big, green sign for the on-ramp appeared. The demon hit the clover-leaf interchange at 100 mph, leaning way over into the turn and dragging its leather-padded right knee on the ground. Ace maintained his speed until the last possible second, then braked hard and slowed to 50. Even so, the chopper’s low-slung frame only had about 4 inches of ground clearance. The right foot peg touched down when Ace hit the ramp, spraying a shower of white sparks behind him and costing him even more time.

By the time Ace had merged onto the highway proper, the Buell had gained a lot of ground, but the highway was where the chopper was at home. Ace nailed the throttle and braced for the acceleration. The chopper responded like a guided missile, with a massive surge of power. The needle of the speedometer quickly rose to 140 mph, and the gap began to close once again.

The road was long and straight, which was perfect for Ace, since the Buell topped out around 145, while the chopper still had plenty of top end left. The Buell’s taillight grew quickly from a tiny red point of light in the distance, until the demon was clearly visible again. The wind blast was nearly unbearable. Ace put his feet back on the passenger pegs and leaned forward with his chest on the tank, trying to escape the vicious slipstream. Gradually, the chopper pulled ahead of the Buell; Ace was finally in the lead.

Everything screamed by in a blur. Insects sand blasted Ace’s face and neck, stinging like hell and plastering his face and glasses with guts. The speedometer was vibrating so badly that it was barely readable, but the needle seemed to be shaking somewhere around 155. The exit for the courthouse was coming up too quickly. Ace had hoped to put more distance between himself and the demon, but there wasn’t going to be enough time. He began to slow the chopper down. It would be suicide to try to take the off-ramp any faster than 50 mph.

As Ace eased the chopper around the clover-leaf, the demon roared up from behind and slipped around him, once again seizing the lead with one knee dragging. The off-ramp let out onto a city street, straight and full of traffic lights. The courthouse was visible in the distance, no more than four or five blocks away.

As Ace wrapped the throttle around, he realized that he wasn’t going to make it. The demon had once again gained about three seconds worth of lead, and there wasn’t enough distance left to make it up. There was only one option left. Ace flipped the switch that armed the nitrous oxide. The last time he had used the nitrous, the force of the exploding gas had caused the front connecting rod to snap the Evo’s skimpy crank pin. The rod had then piled down through the crankcase, destroying the motor’s bottom end and dumping oil out all over the road. Of all of the bad ideas Ace had tried out on the chopper over the years, the goddamn nitrous was definitely the worst, but if he didn’t use it, this race was lost. The courthouse was two blocks away now. He silently prayed that the bottom end would hold, then he hit the button.

The acceleration was comparable to the Batman ride at Great Adventure. The G-force pulled the flesh of Ace’s face back, turning it into a grotesque, grimacing mask. Ace could feel his internal organs being pressed against the back of his rib cage, and it took all of the strength left in his exhausted arms to cling to the handlebars and not fly off the back of the bike. The chopper blew by the Buell like it was standing still, flying into the courthouse’s huge, empty parking lot, beating the Buell by about 20 feet. Ace hit the brakes, rode in a big loop around the lot and came back around to face the demon.

The Buell had stopped dead, frozen in time, as though it had hit an invisible brick wall. The bike stood up, flexing its limbs, and Ace suddenly realized that it was not really a bike at all. How could he have ever mistaken that abomination for a bike? The steed writhed and thrashed, spitting and gnashing its long yellow fangs before dissolving into a cloud of yellow smoke. The demon, meanwhile, was raging and screaming in some language that Ace couldn’t understand. It wanted nothing more than to tear Ace to shreds, to mash him into a pile of bloody hamburger and bone splinters, but it had lost the race, and a deal is, after all, a deal. The life force that had held the demon’s body together was being drained out, and the body was losing the cohesion that had held it together. It was, in fact, turning into a pile of little white worms that fell in heaps upon the ground and crawled away. Within minutes, the Buell and its rider were no more.

 

***

In the days and weeks that followed, Ace spent a great deal of time mulling over the recent events, trying to decide if they were real, wondering for the first time in his life, what is reality? But Ace was a man who had always survived by rolling with life’s punches, and sometimes the wisest course of action was not to think. Sometimes, it was better to just ride.

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