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megastir
Mega means big or large
stir because I like to mix it up
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Tuesday, January 28, 2003 :::
The Harbor Patrol was no friend to many who called Keehi lagoon or Sand Island home. A large protected basin, home to the sand island marina and also home to a peculiar array of dilapidated yachts, Rusty scows, barges with rickety shacks perched atop and many a crusty sailor ensconced within.
The basin itself was protected on the southeast from the maw of the pacific by the reef runway of Honolulu international airport. To the south lay the channel flanked by Sand island in the west and shallow reef to the east. The calm of the lagoon was large enough that many floating craft eschewed the marina and its expensive mooring fees and simple weighed anchor to bob among the working boat traffic.
As an employee charged with maintaining a fleet of temperamental Jet-ski's I came to know many in the strange community. My days were filled with runs for petrol for the infernal stinking machines. I used a 15 ft inflatable with a 30 horse outboard, and with this craft I quite unexpectedly became a bit of a fixture amongst the rag tag characters who found an in-expensive alternative to the over heated housing market in Honolulu.
The vast majority of the populace living in the lagoon was either one of two types.
Type one was a savvy local who built a raft or moored a local scow in the lagoon. This fellow usually kept a job on land but was working poor and could afford no other place. These characters I often saw at dawn paddling all manner of amusing dingy towards shore. They would disappear into the service industry that was the island's life blood, only to return to their floating shacks at dusk carting fresh water and basic staples to sustain till next morning.
Type two, was usually a grizzled old salt that had pursued a dream of sailing to the Hawaiian islands. It's easy to purchase a small ketch or sloop and outfit it for a sail from the mainland. It is a much bigger task to actually sail the boat to this small island chain. Upon reaching paradise a sailor is confronted with the biggest task of all staying focused enough amid the distractions of the tropics to provide the upkeep that such a craft requires. Many an old salt has lost the discipline of dry dock and through general lubberliness often found themselves a year or more at mooring without any maintenance on their craft. Most of these folks ended up resigned to the fact the their vessels were no longer seaworthy and spent their days drinking Budweiser in the shade at the marina. Eventually the money ran out and they were forced to hove to in the lagoon. Free of the onerous docking charges but now at the mercy of the Harbor patrol who although by international maritime law could not compel such a craft to leave the protection inside the reef, but were anxious to harass and generally discourage the ever growing flotsam and jetsam bobbing in the bay.
Mostly Native Hawaiians made up the working poor who were of the type one variety. They held certain immunity to the harbor patrols frequent harassment tactics. The drunken lubberly yachtsmen were the real prey on these raids. I myself had a certain fear of the Harbor patrol being that I was an illegal alien who was working for his supper and could ill afford a brush with the INS. Thus it was with a keen eye that I watched the events unfold each time the patrol buzzed the lagoon.
Unfailingly I would see the large twin engine patrol craft well before the hapless mariners. Often I would raise a small flag on my inflatable that could be seen at a distance in solidarity of our mutual distrust. Then for those who were sober enough they would attempt to make themselves scarce with a dramatic dash from their rotting vessels to the safety of the marina in all manner of ridiculous dingy.
Most relied on oars during this dash. Gas money and powered vessels being a luxury most had long since drunk away. However there was one amongst this sad crew that still had the resources to provide petrol for his aging jet ski. It was with this craft that I saw him bolt upon viewing the warning flag. Problem was that the demon rum had obviously paid a visit to his yacht and his course was not steady. In fact he soon fell off the ski and as the ski was also in a sad state of disrepair the throttle stuck on full as the ski barreled straight towards the rocks of the poorly named Sand Island.
As often happens in dire situations, I was forced into a course of action before weighing the gravity of events. I veered my Zodiac to catch the streaking craft and being that I worked alone on this chore I was forced to run alongside and simultaneously cut my engine as I leaped with great conviction overboard and onto the racing ski just in time to kill the throttle and sidle back to my boat just before a disastrous accident happened. Surely this saved us both, as the Harbor patrol would have no doubt questioned me had the ski exploded in front of us all. As it was the patrol simply waved as they passed thinking I was once again wrestling with one of the machines with which our enterprise depended.
The drunken mariner was safely put back aboard his aging craft. Later I heard he had attempted to run the Molokai channel late one night and wrecked what was left of his vessel on the reef at Kaunakakai.
Eventually I left the marine service I was engaged in but I'm sure if you were to venture down to Keehi Lagoon you could witness this very same foolishness being played out today.
::: posted by Mega at 5:39 AM
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