The night SaltDog spent in jail
Sep. 13th, 2003 07:01 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
saltdawgEverything seems so simple when you are underway. All you have to worry about is nine other, sometimes volatile, egos. Weather the cook is going to make something you actually like to eat. You worry about how much work you are going to accomplish during the day, and weather the Bo ‘sun is going to let you complete the job the right way, so you don't have to re-do the job in a couple of weeks. And of course the weather, pirates and grievous injury from exploding aerosol cans in the burning garbage. The usual. When you are underway, everything is so small and compact and has it's own place that you forget how big and chaotic the world is back on the beach. You actually believe that when you get home you can actually tie up all the things you need to do in a couple of days and then sit back and enjoy weeks of nothingness.
And then you hit the beach to find that nothing could ever really be that simple and you spend weeks pulled in fifteen different directions. This has been the longest time I have spent at the place where the mail gets sent in five years. And I haven't accomplished a damn thing. The simple task of cleaning my apartment has become such a monumental task that find I'm simply moving piles of crap from one place to another. I have no place to put all this stuff. She took a lot of the furniture while I was in Africa. But I have been angry enough to throw a lot of stuff away and/or out the window. I mean I should really just rent a dumpster and throw everything away, really. Everything I need fits into my sea-bag after all.
So everything seems so simple and then you find yourself back on the beach and you are in a place that you can't run away from. My behaviour ashore has never been exemplary, but once I ran away to sea, it got worse. There is an old maritime expression that "the first turn of the screw pays all the bills" In other words, no matter what horrible things you did ashore, once you are underway again all is forgiven/forgotten. Provided you didn't get caught, that is. And that is why being without any wheels is driving me crazy. I want to get the hell outta dodge. The duchess is still giving me a hard time. Things with the Sicilian are going well, but I have lost the capacity to deal with even that wonderful wonderful feeling you get when you find yourself with someone who actually likes you. And there was the death, and the funeral. I seem to have become addicted to the anonymity that comes with every new port. Even as lonely and gut wrenching as it can get. It seems I have simply lost the modicum of social skills I once possessed. I've changed into something that even I don't recognize anymore. I have been walking around with a mantle of sheer anger around my shoulders. And I have never really been an angry person. Slightly pissed off, maybe, but not angry.
So I'm used to being able to behave as awfully as I want and then crawl back into the hull of my ship and have these really simple ideas about how things work ashore. How things work among civilized folk. I'm used to having the bills paid by the first turn of the screw, because for all my salty adventures I've never been caught. Well, almost. There was
The night SaltDog spent in jail was about a month after they blew up the world trade center. I was still on the EPA ship, and because it was a "federal vessel" all our surveys were cancelled indefinitely. The ship had been in key west when all that crap happened, but that's another story. We were in key west and after a couple of weeks we had to move to Miami. Now, usually when our ship was in Miami we would tie up at the Coast Guard base, which is walking distance from South Beach. Not that I particularly like south beach, being too poor and ugly to participate in all the good stuff that goes on there, but it is a hell of a lot better than where we ended up.
Because of "terrorism" we weren't allowed to put in at the Coast Guard base, and the company found us a berth on dodge island, Port of Miami. Right by all the big cruise ships. We were there for almost three months. And nothing destroys a crew faster than sitting fallow, pier side for months at a time. There is only so much actual work you can accomplish, and it's not the kind of work that you have grown to depend on when you are actually moving. And what made things even worse was the fact that there is nothing in downtown Miami, nothing in an affordable cab ride away from Dodge Island. Nothing except "bay walk" or whatever the hell they call it in Miami. Most cruise ship ports have one of these facilities. An outdoor mall with a smattering of bars and restaurants that cater to the itinerant. They certainly weren't used to having regulars. I mean we were regulars at the freaking Hard Rock Cafe fer chrissake. If that isn't depressing enough, we were trapped. Together. At least when you are in a port you can escape from your shipmates, but this bay walk was a tiny microcosm that had only so many places to try to hide. But they always found you. After about three weeks in Miami, the fights started. Fisticuffs on the pier, after all the bars had closed at Bay Walk, after the cooler was empty on the pier. I stayed out of it as best I could, but I did have to pry a couple of my mates apart from time to time. Things were getting really bad. People were refusing to talk to each other. People were fucking off all day long. People were staying drunk all day. People were smoking crack and what-not. And then the carnival came to town.
Across the water from us, over by the Mobil station where we would buy our beer, they started setting up a carnival around the middle of October. It was going to be a spooky haunted house carnival for Halloween, and boy, was I excited. I love carnivals and circuses and amusement parks. Watching them set up buoyed my spirits every day, watching the Ferris wheel go up. The spider. And most especially the Zipper. I talked about nothing else for a week. Even tried to go the night before it officially opened up. So by the day that it actually opened I was on fire for the carnival. I was going to go every night while it was there. I was going to ride the Zipper until I got my sea-legs back. I was going to eat cotton candy and fried dough for dinner every night. And when the night finally came, we started out at the Hard Rock, as usual.
Now it seems that the employees of hard Rock cafe have a certain amount of drinks they can give out every night to boost their tips or whatever, but because we had become "regulars" we received all those rounds of drinks. Red-headed sluts, slippery nipples, red death; all those shots I wouldn't be caught dead actually ordering, but gulped down so willingly when slid next to my bass, gratis. We started out in the hard rock and everybody who was there was going to go, but after a couple of hours the fighting and animosity kicked in. After they started giving us those all-too-dangerous Jager/Schlager shots. I ended up with only Miss Competition as a companion for the big night at the carnival. At this point in time I hadn't yet begun to despise her as deeply as I still do (a year and a half after the last time I saw her). She was still relatively new to the ship and stroked my ego by hanging on to all my words that she would later use against me. Anyway, it was just the two of us and we were pretty well oiled already, but made the big mistake of stopping by Wet Willie's for a couple of LARGE 190 Octane’s, to go. If'n y'all cain’t tell from the name, it's a slushy made with Grain Alcohol.
So Octane in hand we start the short walk over to the carnival. And when we arrived, it was a madhouse. I never thought there would be so many people out on a Thursday night, but it took us the better part of an hour just to get admission tickets. By then the octane was gone. At least from the cups. And then we had to stand in the actual admission line, holding each other up. She was starting to have second thoughts about going on any of the rides, but it was OK, she'd wait for me. And besides, she thought she would be able to handle the Ferris wheel, at least So another 45 minutes go by and all of a sudden I can see what the hold up is. There are cops. With metal detectors. Never know what kind of terrorists are going to hi-jack the tilt-a-whirl right? Anyway, I had my Gerber 'multitool' on my belt. I cannot explain (in short form) exactly how much my Gerber is an extension of my being. Just the story of how it came to be mine is not only another epic post, but perhaps the post that I am entirely too terrified of writing to ever actually go through with it. In any case, the Gerber had become an extension of myself. It had saved my ass many times out on the water, it had saved entire surveys from failing. I daresay it may have even saved my life on a couple of occasions. And because it is such a natural part of me, I never gave a thought that it could be construed as a "dangerous weapon" despite the three inch, butter knife-sharp blade that’s folded inside the handle. But the cops didn't see it that way. The cops made me "spread 'em" when they found it. They searched me. Made me take off my boots, they felt my crotch. But most importantly they confiscated my Gerber. And as much as I was looking forward to the carnival, the Gerber was much more important. So I told them that I would take my Gerber back and be on my way, thank-you very much.
They said that it was too late. They had confiscated it and I could never, ever have it back. Now go into the carnival and leave us alone. Of course I wasn't having any of it. I was already pretty loaded, but the octane was just starting to really kick in at this point. I tried to explain the faulty logic they were using to confiscate my pliers. They admitted that it wasn't an illegal weapon, but no weapons “of any kind” were allowed at the carnival. Period. I could understand that, but I wasn't in the carnival yet. They could have my ticket. I just wanted my Gerber back. By this time, a scene had started. By this time, no matter how well I could argue my point, despite being a half a shot away, they couldn't back down. They were the Miami-Dade police and couldn't let a drunken white boy (sporting a Mohawk) make fools of them in front of all those people. Right? At one point they finally tried to placate me by telling me I could pick it up when I left later in the night. They gave me a badge number that didn't match either of the ones they had on their badges. And of course, ol' SaltDog hadda question their logic of making me wait to get it back, when I wanted it then. I wanted to leave. All they had to do was give it back. Right?
I was pretty calm, up to a certain point. But then there was Miss Competition. This whole time she had been escalating the situation as only drunken college-aged chicks with huge breasts can. While I was drunkenly trying to negotiate, she started muttering and then yelling, and eventually screaming epithets at them. Pigs! Fascists! Crap like that. They were in a bind. I was the one they were having a problem with, but she was the one that was attracting all the attention. Eventually, she was pushed by one of the cops. Pushed into me. And we fell down in a pile of 190 Octane and Jager/Schlager. This was their excuse to start beating me. Because, of course, as far as they were concerned I was the one who knocked her over. They hit me with the batons and then I really got angry. They hit me with the batons and brought me down to the level that they needed to in order to get me out of their hair. I didn't take a swing at them or anything, but I did squirm out of their meat hooks a couple of times before the (now four of them) pinned me and cuffed me.
As soon as the cuffs were on, I knew that no matter what I thought had happened, I was done for. And after they pulled me up by the (oh-so-tight) cuffs and smashed my head into the roof of the cruiser, after they Mirandized me. I calmly asked them if they could tell me what in the hell they were charging me with. There was some quiet debate, and then my answer: Public Intoxication.
And I said: Public drunkenness?? What ABOUT DISORDERLY!!! I WANT DRUNK AND DISORDERLY!!!!!
They obliged This request.
By the time I made it to Miami-Dade lock up I was completely wasted. Even by my standards. I think I blew a .23 or something. And I really wanted a smoke. So they breathalyzed me and tossed me into the pen with all the Cubans and Haitians and other assorted riff-raff. They were all eyeing this drunken white boy with a mashed-down mohawk. I was eyeing them trying to figgure out which one of them I should try to beat the piss out of. I didn't want to be anybody's bitch.
But then, before I did something really stupid, I got a slightly less stupid idea. I tried to play the diabetes card. I used to work the drunk tanks at RI hospital and thought that if I complained about my condition I could weasel my way into the slightly more comfortable situation of a hospital bed. I turned away from the Cubans and Haitians and climbed up on the bars. I started trying to rattle the bars like you are supposed to in jail. Oh, how I wish I had a tin cup! I climbed up on the bars and started screaming. I started screaming "I HAVE DIABETES!!! I NEED INSULIN!!! IF I DON’T GET INSULIN I'M GONNA DIIIIIEEEEEE!!!!! I’M GONNA DIE!!!!.
'Course all they heard was the "I'm gonna die" part, and before you can say 'dark as a dungeon' I found myself completely stark raving naked in the hole. Solitary Confinement. It was dark and cold and wet. They threw a paper johnny at me when they locked the cell, but I refused to put it on. I'm such a martyr. After screaming some more, and doing the pointless, totally white-trash move of banging my head against the door, I finally fell asleep in a puddle of god-knows-what on the deck. All this happened before nine thirty.
They roused me around four AM and finally got around to booking me. The watch had changed, but the guard who took my mug-shots and finger prints and crap told me that I he heard I had been "one for the books". He was really nice to me and tried his damndest to get me my clothes back. And I had sobered up enough to be my normal goofy self. I made him laugh. I made him laugh with me about what I had been doing earlier. And I finally asked him about my phone call, and bail and all that crap. He told me that my bail was $100.00. Fuck, a hundred dollars? I've got about five hundred in my wallet, wherever you guys put it. Can I bail myself out?
Turns out you can bail yourself out. And it turns out that Miss Competition had been out in the waiting room all night causing a scene. They told me that they almost arrested her about three times while I had been snoozing, oblivious, in the puddle. She was waiting for me when I shuffled out in my johnny, all my worldly possessions in my arms. She told me that she loved me, which really confused me because I had never thought we had anything even close to a relationship of that type going on. Maybe she just thought that was what you were supposed to say when someone comes stumbling out of Miami-Dade lock up, half nekkid at five thirty in the morning.
And when I opened the bag of all my crap, so I could put my pants on, my Gerber came tumbling out and fell on the deck.
We couldn't get a cab to come pick us up, but we made it back to the ship just in time for everybody to think that we had spent the night together at a hotel or something. But we did make it back to the ship, and nobody ever knew what went on that night (you can get fired for being arrested ashore, you know...) and later on that day the two of us took my 7.5m Avon for a ride up the river. To get away from the ship, to relax a little and take stock. And when the engine stalled out next to a tiny island freighter named "God Is Able", my Gerber helped me get her running again.
And then you hit the beach to find that nothing could ever really be that simple and you spend weeks pulled in fifteen different directions. This has been the longest time I have spent at the place where the mail gets sent in five years. And I haven't accomplished a damn thing. The simple task of cleaning my apartment has become such a monumental task that find I'm simply moving piles of crap from one place to another. I have no place to put all this stuff. She took a lot of the furniture while I was in Africa. But I have been angry enough to throw a lot of stuff away and/or out the window. I mean I should really just rent a dumpster and throw everything away, really. Everything I need fits into my sea-bag after all.
So everything seems so simple and then you find yourself back on the beach and you are in a place that you can't run away from. My behaviour ashore has never been exemplary, but once I ran away to sea, it got worse. There is an old maritime expression that "the first turn of the screw pays all the bills" In other words, no matter what horrible things you did ashore, once you are underway again all is forgiven/forgotten. Provided you didn't get caught, that is. And that is why being without any wheels is driving me crazy. I want to get the hell outta dodge. The duchess is still giving me a hard time. Things with the Sicilian are going well, but I have lost the capacity to deal with even that wonderful wonderful feeling you get when you find yourself with someone who actually likes you. And there was the death, and the funeral. I seem to have become addicted to the anonymity that comes with every new port. Even as lonely and gut wrenching as it can get. It seems I have simply lost the modicum of social skills I once possessed. I've changed into something that even I don't recognize anymore. I have been walking around with a mantle of sheer anger around my shoulders. And I have never really been an angry person. Slightly pissed off, maybe, but not angry.
So I'm used to being able to behave as awfully as I want and then crawl back into the hull of my ship and have these really simple ideas about how things work ashore. How things work among civilized folk. I'm used to having the bills paid by the first turn of the screw, because for all my salty adventures I've never been caught. Well, almost. There was
The night SaltDog spent in jail was about a month after they blew up the world trade center. I was still on the EPA ship, and because it was a "federal vessel" all our surveys were cancelled indefinitely. The ship had been in key west when all that crap happened, but that's another story. We were in key west and after a couple of weeks we had to move to Miami. Now, usually when our ship was in Miami we would tie up at the Coast Guard base, which is walking distance from South Beach. Not that I particularly like south beach, being too poor and ugly to participate in all the good stuff that goes on there, but it is a hell of a lot better than where we ended up.
Because of "terrorism" we weren't allowed to put in at the Coast Guard base, and the company found us a berth on dodge island, Port of Miami. Right by all the big cruise ships. We were there for almost three months. And nothing destroys a crew faster than sitting fallow, pier side for months at a time. There is only so much actual work you can accomplish, and it's not the kind of work that you have grown to depend on when you are actually moving. And what made things even worse was the fact that there is nothing in downtown Miami, nothing in an affordable cab ride away from Dodge Island. Nothing except "bay walk" or whatever the hell they call it in Miami. Most cruise ship ports have one of these facilities. An outdoor mall with a smattering of bars and restaurants that cater to the itinerant. They certainly weren't used to having regulars. I mean we were regulars at the freaking Hard Rock Cafe fer chrissake. If that isn't depressing enough, we were trapped. Together. At least when you are in a port you can escape from your shipmates, but this bay walk was a tiny microcosm that had only so many places to try to hide. But they always found you. After about three weeks in Miami, the fights started. Fisticuffs on the pier, after all the bars had closed at Bay Walk, after the cooler was empty on the pier. I stayed out of it as best I could, but I did have to pry a couple of my mates apart from time to time. Things were getting really bad. People were refusing to talk to each other. People were fucking off all day long. People were staying drunk all day. People were smoking crack and what-not. And then the carnival came to town.
Across the water from us, over by the Mobil station where we would buy our beer, they started setting up a carnival around the middle of October. It was going to be a spooky haunted house carnival for Halloween, and boy, was I excited. I love carnivals and circuses and amusement parks. Watching them set up buoyed my spirits every day, watching the Ferris wheel go up. The spider. And most especially the Zipper. I talked about nothing else for a week. Even tried to go the night before it officially opened up. So by the day that it actually opened I was on fire for the carnival. I was going to go every night while it was there. I was going to ride the Zipper until I got my sea-legs back. I was going to eat cotton candy and fried dough for dinner every night. And when the night finally came, we started out at the Hard Rock, as usual.
Now it seems that the employees of hard Rock cafe have a certain amount of drinks they can give out every night to boost their tips or whatever, but because we had become "regulars" we received all those rounds of drinks. Red-headed sluts, slippery nipples, red death; all those shots I wouldn't be caught dead actually ordering, but gulped down so willingly when slid next to my bass, gratis. We started out in the hard rock and everybody who was there was going to go, but after a couple of hours the fighting and animosity kicked in. After they started giving us those all-too-dangerous Jager/Schlager shots. I ended up with only Miss Competition as a companion for the big night at the carnival. At this point in time I hadn't yet begun to despise her as deeply as I still do (a year and a half after the last time I saw her). She was still relatively new to the ship and stroked my ego by hanging on to all my words that she would later use against me. Anyway, it was just the two of us and we were pretty well oiled already, but made the big mistake of stopping by Wet Willie's for a couple of LARGE 190 Octane’s, to go. If'n y'all cain’t tell from the name, it's a slushy made with Grain Alcohol.
So Octane in hand we start the short walk over to the carnival. And when we arrived, it was a madhouse. I never thought there would be so many people out on a Thursday night, but it took us the better part of an hour just to get admission tickets. By then the octane was gone. At least from the cups. And then we had to stand in the actual admission line, holding each other up. She was starting to have second thoughts about going on any of the rides, but it was OK, she'd wait for me. And besides, she thought she would be able to handle the Ferris wheel, at least So another 45 minutes go by and all of a sudden I can see what the hold up is. There are cops. With metal detectors. Never know what kind of terrorists are going to hi-jack the tilt-a-whirl right? Anyway, I had my Gerber 'multitool' on my belt. I cannot explain (in short form) exactly how much my Gerber is an extension of my being. Just the story of how it came to be mine is not only another epic post, but perhaps the post that I am entirely too terrified of writing to ever actually go through with it. In any case, the Gerber had become an extension of myself. It had saved my ass many times out on the water, it had saved entire surveys from failing. I daresay it may have even saved my life on a couple of occasions. And because it is such a natural part of me, I never gave a thought that it could be construed as a "dangerous weapon" despite the three inch, butter knife-sharp blade that’s folded inside the handle. But the cops didn't see it that way. The cops made me "spread 'em" when they found it. They searched me. Made me take off my boots, they felt my crotch. But most importantly they confiscated my Gerber. And as much as I was looking forward to the carnival, the Gerber was much more important. So I told them that I would take my Gerber back and be on my way, thank-you very much.
They said that it was too late. They had confiscated it and I could never, ever have it back. Now go into the carnival and leave us alone. Of course I wasn't having any of it. I was already pretty loaded, but the octane was just starting to really kick in at this point. I tried to explain the faulty logic they were using to confiscate my pliers. They admitted that it wasn't an illegal weapon, but no weapons “of any kind” were allowed at the carnival. Period. I could understand that, but I wasn't in the carnival yet. They could have my ticket. I just wanted my Gerber back. By this time, a scene had started. By this time, no matter how well I could argue my point, despite being a half a shot away, they couldn't back down. They were the Miami-Dade police and couldn't let a drunken white boy (sporting a Mohawk) make fools of them in front of all those people. Right? At one point they finally tried to placate me by telling me I could pick it up when I left later in the night. They gave me a badge number that didn't match either of the ones they had on their badges. And of course, ol' SaltDog hadda question their logic of making me wait to get it back, when I wanted it then. I wanted to leave. All they had to do was give it back. Right?
I was pretty calm, up to a certain point. But then there was Miss Competition. This whole time she had been escalating the situation as only drunken college-aged chicks with huge breasts can. While I was drunkenly trying to negotiate, she started muttering and then yelling, and eventually screaming epithets at them. Pigs! Fascists! Crap like that. They were in a bind. I was the one they were having a problem with, but she was the one that was attracting all the attention. Eventually, she was pushed by one of the cops. Pushed into me. And we fell down in a pile of 190 Octane and Jager/Schlager. This was their excuse to start beating me. Because, of course, as far as they were concerned I was the one who knocked her over. They hit me with the batons and then I really got angry. They hit me with the batons and brought me down to the level that they needed to in order to get me out of their hair. I didn't take a swing at them or anything, but I did squirm out of their meat hooks a couple of times before the (now four of them) pinned me and cuffed me.
As soon as the cuffs were on, I knew that no matter what I thought had happened, I was done for. And after they pulled me up by the (oh-so-tight) cuffs and smashed my head into the roof of the cruiser, after they Mirandized me. I calmly asked them if they could tell me what in the hell they were charging me with. There was some quiet debate, and then my answer: Public Intoxication.
And I said: Public drunkenness?? What ABOUT DISORDERLY!!! I WANT DRUNK AND DISORDERLY!!!!!
They obliged This request.
By the time I made it to Miami-Dade lock up I was completely wasted. Even by my standards. I think I blew a .23 or something. And I really wanted a smoke. So they breathalyzed me and tossed me into the pen with all the Cubans and Haitians and other assorted riff-raff. They were all eyeing this drunken white boy with a mashed-down mohawk. I was eyeing them trying to figgure out which one of them I should try to beat the piss out of. I didn't want to be anybody's bitch.
But then, before I did something really stupid, I got a slightly less stupid idea. I tried to play the diabetes card. I used to work the drunk tanks at RI hospital and thought that if I complained about my condition I could weasel my way into the slightly more comfortable situation of a hospital bed. I turned away from the Cubans and Haitians and climbed up on the bars. I started trying to rattle the bars like you are supposed to in jail. Oh, how I wish I had a tin cup! I climbed up on the bars and started screaming. I started screaming "I HAVE DIABETES!!! I NEED INSULIN!!! IF I DON’T GET INSULIN I'M GONNA DIIIIIEEEEEE!!!!! I’M GONNA DIE!!!!.
'Course all they heard was the "I'm gonna die" part, and before you can say 'dark as a dungeon' I found myself completely stark raving naked in the hole. Solitary Confinement. It was dark and cold and wet. They threw a paper johnny at me when they locked the cell, but I refused to put it on. I'm such a martyr. After screaming some more, and doing the pointless, totally white-trash move of banging my head against the door, I finally fell asleep in a puddle of god-knows-what on the deck. All this happened before nine thirty.
They roused me around four AM and finally got around to booking me. The watch had changed, but the guard who took my mug-shots and finger prints and crap told me that I he heard I had been "one for the books". He was really nice to me and tried his damndest to get me my clothes back. And I had sobered up enough to be my normal goofy self. I made him laugh. I made him laugh with me about what I had been doing earlier. And I finally asked him about my phone call, and bail and all that crap. He told me that my bail was $100.00. Fuck, a hundred dollars? I've got about five hundred in my wallet, wherever you guys put it. Can I bail myself out?
Turns out you can bail yourself out. And it turns out that Miss Competition had been out in the waiting room all night causing a scene. They told me that they almost arrested her about three times while I had been snoozing, oblivious, in the puddle. She was waiting for me when I shuffled out in my johnny, all my worldly possessions in my arms. She told me that she loved me, which really confused me because I had never thought we had anything even close to a relationship of that type going on. Maybe she just thought that was what you were supposed to say when someone comes stumbling out of Miami-Dade lock up, half nekkid at five thirty in the morning.
And when I opened the bag of all my crap, so I could put my pants on, my Gerber came tumbling out and fell on the deck.
We couldn't get a cab to come pick us up, but we made it back to the ship just in time for everybody to think that we had spent the night together at a hotel or something. But we did make it back to the ship, and nobody ever knew what went on that night (you can get fired for being arrested ashore, you know...) and later on that day the two of us took my 7.5m Avon for a ride up the river. To get away from the ship, to relax a little and take stock. And when the engine stalled out next to a tiny island freighter named "God Is Able", my Gerber helped me get her running again.
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no subject
Date: 2003-09-13 04:23 pm (UTC)Leatherman VS Gerber
Date: 2003-09-13 04:31 pm (UTC)Almost makes you feel like Wolverine. With Adantium pliers in his knuckles.
Re: Leatherman VS Gerber
Date: 2003-09-13 04:43 pm (UTC)Fuckin' AYE!
Date: 2003-09-13 04:47 pm (UTC)(considering it is ILLEGAL for Merchant Marines to carry sheath-knives aboard a ship)
Re: Fuckin' AYE!
Date: 2003-09-13 05:47 pm (UTC)(considering it is ILLEGAL for Merchant Marines to carry sheath-knives aboard a ship)
Weird rule. I've seen butterfly knives that are downright nasty. Just out of curiosity, how the law and jurisdictions apply out in the open seas?
Re: Fuckin' AYE!
Date: 2003-09-13 06:04 pm (UTC)I do have a really good story about butterfly knives abd canadian custom agents, But I have to go get (oh so much more) drunk in the city. I have a bus to catch.
Maritime law is something you don't want to get me started on. It's uhhh...Complicated...
no subject
Date: 2003-09-13 05:09 pm (UTC)I love my leatherman. The only "man" I'm ever gonna love! ~KMK
no subject
Date: 2003-09-13 05:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-09-14 09:00 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-09-13 04:54 pm (UTC)I have two uncles that REUPPED not immediately...no, they went back in after YEARS because they simply couldn't handle the real world. They got so used to being in the military that all this other stuff seemed crazy and whatnot, and they had to go back in because life is just so much simpler when someone else is telling you what to do.
My dad always had trouble with the stress too.
Now I'm gonna read about your trip to jail. ~KMK
Gerber indeed!
Date: 2003-09-13 04:59 pm (UTC)It stays in my pocketbook and I always have it with me. ~KMK
OMG
Date: 2003-09-13 05:02 pm (UTC)That's great.
I'm still reading and I'm liable to comment again, sorry. ~KMK
Re: OMG
Date: 2003-09-13 06:41 pm (UTC)Sr. John-Mary had done so much damage with the ruler in Kindergarden, tghat I am unsalvagable. My handwriting, My moral flaws. It's all Sr. John-Mary's fault! I swear!
no subject
Date: 2003-09-14 12:02 am (UTC)you're an interesting fellow saltdog.
High praise indeed...
Date: 2003-09-14 04:01 pm (UTC)Re: High praise indeed...
Date: 2003-09-14 04:43 pm (UTC)Re: High praise indeed...
Date: 2003-09-14 06:58 pm (UTC)Do you realize that Rhode Island is the Austrailia of the USA?
Conections abound.
Re: High praise indeed...
Date: 2003-09-14 08:23 pm (UTC)Re: High praise indeed...
Date: 2003-09-14 08:39 pm (UTC)But the point is that RI was founded by heretics, lunatics and criminals. The Mayor of providence was a pirate during the 1600's and granted free practique to all sorts of vermin in those days.
Which should leave me to the much easier subject of our recent mayor, Vincent "buddy" cianci. He ran things in the sqame vein, but I have 'personal biases' about the whole situation. Google away!
Re: High praise indeed...
Date: 2003-09-14 08:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-09-14 08:34 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-09-14 04:05 pm (UTC)Someday I'll tell the story about makikng the most feared cop in my lil' ol town break down and blubber on my shoulder after he caught me stealing a flag....
no subject
Date: 2010-06-08 02:59 pm (UTC)I have never been in the pokey. Not even the drunk tank. I just come and pick up you crazy men when you call me in the middle of the night. It's cool. I know another white boy with a mohawk that has been in some blue situations, too. The two of you are seriously the two most kickass people I know.
Anyway. I await the rest of your story from present day!
no subject
Date: 2010-06-08 03:23 pm (UTC)I still have the word "DIE" marked out in surgical tape (20 years later) by a drunk girl who tried to kill herself by jumping out a first storey window. She succeeded in spraining an ankle. She wandered around the tank unimpeeded all night. Plus, she was hot.
My favorite thing, well maybe not "favorite" but most memorable thing was when I'd clock in at a quarer to midnight and have all the guys clocking out tell me that "there are a couple of chicks who have been screaming your name all night down in the ER" They always got very special treatment.
no subject
Date: 2010-06-08 03:29 pm (UTC)Jumping out a first story window? Man. Classy.