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| I Got 99 Problems But My Ship Ain't One |
The other day, I was on my way to the gym to do a few minutes of high intensity
cardio and then pose in front of the full length mirrors for an hour or two when
something over towards the bay caught my eye. It was big and white, and I felt
myself drawn to it like a nubile coed is drawn towards a strange noise in a horror
movie. I wandered past the bail bonds district, past a restaurant selling cheap tacos,
and even past the railroad tracks. Soon I found myself down at the waterfront,
staring up at a magnificent schooner: The Star of India. It was beautiful, and it was
not alone.
Unknowingly, I’d stumbled upon one of San Diego’s best-kept secrets: The annual
Festival of Sail. Some would dismiss it as a mere boat show, and an antique boat
show at that, but let me tell you something, brother: The Festival of Sail is no boat
show. An unmistakable aura of whimsy filled the air. Despite the fact that I had
wandered far out of my usual orbit, and was now being harassed by bums I didn’t
recognize, I decided to see exactly what the Festival of Sail had to offer. And by
God, am I glad I did.
The Festival of Sail is a once-in-a-lifetime experience. To get the most out of it, I
highly recommend that you experience the Festival the same way I did: with no
money. Since I was headed to the gym, I did not have my wallet with me. That
turned out to be a real blessing, as had I had the funds I would have surely
squandered twelve bucks on the pass that lets you actually board the boats. And that
would have really taken away from the entire experience. Nobody really wants to see
what’s behind the curtain, except for the people who piss their money away on
special-edition DVD sets. There really is nothing quite like watching a majestic, 18th
century sailboat from land. As the wind ruffles the multitude of sails, you get the
feeling that the ship could sail away for unknown shores at any moment, leaving you
standing on the dock with your hands in your pockets and a sticky, brown substance
on your tennis shoe.
After witnessing firsthand the glory of the Star of India, I was almost overwhelmed.
Almost. After a good ten or fifteen seconds I managed to pry my eyes away from the
ship and go in search of the other wondrous sights the Festival of Sail was sure to
offer. I proceeded down the dock, past a U.S. Coast Guard cruiser, towards a
splendid white ship. The first thing I noticed about the ship was the masthead. Every
other ship I’ve ever seen in my life has had a mermaid for a masthead, but this
particular vessel had a mer-man. A thousand jokes involving long sea voyages and
male-on-male activity raced through my brain, only to be pushed aside by an image of
Derek Zoolander screaming “Mer…man! Mer-man!”
Chuckling to myself, I noticed the second strange thing about the ship: its name was
printed on the side in Russian. I suddenly realized that the San Diego Festival of Sail
must be so big, so widely known, that ships come from halfway around the globe to
participate. I marveled at the vast strides made in U.S.-Russo relations since my
birth during the twilight years of the Cold War and then, in the spirit of Glasnost,
moved on.
Past the therapeutic massage and funnel cake tents I walked. I couldn’t see what a
back rub had to do with high seas adventure, but I supposed the sailors of yore
needed to get the tension out just as much as everyone else. And hey, who doesn’t
dig funnel cake? People without forks, that’s who. But no matter what utensil
someone might have, I’m sure they love that sweet, sweet funnelly cake just the same
as I do.
On the other side of the terminal, I ran out of festival. A few lonely moon-bounces
(one had a pirate theme!) and a sparsely-populated beer garden were the only
attractions on that side of the dock. Falling to my knees, I cursed whatever twist of
fate had led me to a beer garden with no money and no I.D. And then, realizing that
the liquid on the ground appeared to be of human derivation, I quickly sprang to my
feet and headed back the way I came.
On my way back to the glorious Star of India, I was harassed by a t-shirt vendor.
Apparently, he was giving away a free dolphin with every t-shirt. Whether it was a
glass dolphin, a plastic dolphin or a dolphin sandwich, he didn’t specify, but he did
become rather indignant when I completely ignored him. “Who doesn’t want a free
dolphin?” he asked the back of my head. “If you don’t want a free dolphin, I’ll take
YOUR free dolphin!”
As far as I was concerned, he was welcome to it. The festival was still going on all
around me. Parents pushed strollers and cautioned their free-walking offspring not to
run into me while tourists snapped pictures of swinger magazine vending machines to
take back to their friends in Wisconsin or Illinois to prove what a decadent cesspool of
corruption California is. The energy of the festival might have dissipated when I
reached the beer garden at the end of the Earth, but now it was back in full force. I
gave myself over to it, lost to a much more sober and white version of Carnival.
Nearly floating through the crowd, I made my way back past the Star of India to see
what the other side of the dock had to offer.
Evidently, the festival was of a rather limited scope. Other than a very odd statue of
what I assumed to be a water sprite, the attractions on this end of the dock consisted
of several small and identical sailboats and a Hawaiian Shave Ice stand. Finally, I
saw an intriguing boat anchored all the way at the end, next to some sort of barge.
On its sail were printed the words “Renew, Recycle.” A fitting message, one I took to
heart. I immediately raced back to my apartment and recycled this entire experience
into the very article you are now finished reading.
cardio and then pose in front of the full length mirrors for an hour or two when
something over towards the bay caught my eye. It was big and white, and I felt
myself drawn to it like a nubile coed is drawn towards a strange noise in a horror
movie. I wandered past the bail bonds district, past a restaurant selling cheap tacos,
and even past the railroad tracks. Soon I found myself down at the waterfront,
staring up at a magnificent schooner: The Star of India. It was beautiful, and it was
not alone.
Unknowingly, I’d stumbled upon one of San Diego’s best-kept secrets: The annual
Festival of Sail. Some would dismiss it as a mere boat show, and an antique boat
show at that, but let me tell you something, brother: The Festival of Sail is no boat
show. An unmistakable aura of whimsy filled the air. Despite the fact that I had
wandered far out of my usual orbit, and was now being harassed by bums I didn’t
recognize, I decided to see exactly what the Festival of Sail had to offer. And by
God, am I glad I did.
The Festival of Sail is a once-in-a-lifetime experience. To get the most out of it, I
highly recommend that you experience the Festival the same way I did: with no
money. Since I was headed to the gym, I did not have my wallet with me. That
turned out to be a real blessing, as had I had the funds I would have surely
squandered twelve bucks on the pass that lets you actually board the boats. And that
would have really taken away from the entire experience. Nobody really wants to see
what’s behind the curtain, except for the people who piss their money away on
special-edition DVD sets. There really is nothing quite like watching a majestic, 18th
century sailboat from land. As the wind ruffles the multitude of sails, you get the
feeling that the ship could sail away for unknown shores at any moment, leaving you
standing on the dock with your hands in your pockets and a sticky, brown substance
on your tennis shoe.
After witnessing firsthand the glory of the Star of India, I was almost overwhelmed.
Almost. After a good ten or fifteen seconds I managed to pry my eyes away from the
ship and go in search of the other wondrous sights the Festival of Sail was sure to
offer. I proceeded down the dock, past a U.S. Coast Guard cruiser, towards a
splendid white ship. The first thing I noticed about the ship was the masthead. Every
other ship I’ve ever seen in my life has had a mermaid for a masthead, but this
particular vessel had a mer-man. A thousand jokes involving long sea voyages and
male-on-male activity raced through my brain, only to be pushed aside by an image of
Derek Zoolander screaming “Mer…man! Mer-man!”
Chuckling to myself, I noticed the second strange thing about the ship: its name was
printed on the side in Russian. I suddenly realized that the San Diego Festival of Sail
must be so big, so widely known, that ships come from halfway around the globe to
participate. I marveled at the vast strides made in U.S.-Russo relations since my
birth during the twilight years of the Cold War and then, in the spirit of Glasnost,
moved on.
Past the therapeutic massage and funnel cake tents I walked. I couldn’t see what a
back rub had to do with high seas adventure, but I supposed the sailors of yore
needed to get the tension out just as much as everyone else. And hey, who doesn’t
dig funnel cake? People without forks, that’s who. But no matter what utensil
someone might have, I’m sure they love that sweet, sweet funnelly cake just the same
as I do.
On the other side of the terminal, I ran out of festival. A few lonely moon-bounces
(one had a pirate theme!) and a sparsely-populated beer garden were the only
attractions on that side of the dock. Falling to my knees, I cursed whatever twist of
fate had led me to a beer garden with no money and no I.D. And then, realizing that
the liquid on the ground appeared to be of human derivation, I quickly sprang to my
feet and headed back the way I came.
On my way back to the glorious Star of India, I was harassed by a t-shirt vendor.
Apparently, he was giving away a free dolphin with every t-shirt. Whether it was a
glass dolphin, a plastic dolphin or a dolphin sandwich, he didn’t specify, but he did
become rather indignant when I completely ignored him. “Who doesn’t want a free
dolphin?” he asked the back of my head. “If you don’t want a free dolphin, I’ll take
YOUR free dolphin!”
As far as I was concerned, he was welcome to it. The festival was still going on all
around me. Parents pushed strollers and cautioned their free-walking offspring not to
run into me while tourists snapped pictures of swinger magazine vending machines to
take back to their friends in Wisconsin or Illinois to prove what a decadent cesspool of
corruption California is. The energy of the festival might have dissipated when I
reached the beer garden at the end of the Earth, but now it was back in full force. I
gave myself over to it, lost to a much more sober and white version of Carnival.
Nearly floating through the crowd, I made my way back past the Star of India to see
what the other side of the dock had to offer.
Evidently, the festival was of a rather limited scope. Other than a very odd statue of
what I assumed to be a water sprite, the attractions on this end of the dock consisted
of several small and identical sailboats and a Hawaiian Shave Ice stand. Finally, I
saw an intriguing boat anchored all the way at the end, next to some sort of barge.
On its sail were printed the words “Renew, Recycle.” A fitting message, one I took to
heart. I immediately raced back to my apartment and recycled this entire experience
into the very article you are now finished reading.
Email me at JimiChanga@SurlyTaco.com
Or, just head back to Salsa
Or, just head back to Salsa