My phone is ringing at dawn. It’s a real Pearl Harbor day: there’s a nasty nip in the air….

Braveheart is frothing at the mouth and screaming over the northeast wind: "My boat’s on the beach Slag! La Chiquita too! It’s a counteroffensive. You should have never put them coons on the island. The birds are pissed and now they’re conspiring with the Windigo!”

“Don’t be so superstitious Braveheart. Birds are not cognitively complex enough to conspire with higher powers.”

“Superstitious you say. Superstitious! Answer me this then: Why are all these fuckers flying around me screaming ‘Mengele! Mengele!'”

“Hey it wasn’t my idea Braveheart. Blame the Ghost.”

“It never would have happened. None of it if it weren’t for you and your Mekong River Skimmer boat! Well now we need that skimmer boat, your deep water mooring, a couple hundred feet of line, a shovel and a crowbar. So get your shit together and get over here and save us you asshole!”

“Okay, okay. I’m on my way. Send somebody for coffee.”

Psycho, my skimmer boat is on a trailer in the garage so I load up on rope, gas, tools and head for the launch at the village harbor.

On arrival I, of course, found a 300 foot cruise ship full of German tourists anchored off shore. They’re ferrying in launch after launch of breakfast hungry krauts and taking up one launch ramp while they pile a truckload of PFD’s on the other ramp. Being a master of close quarters trailer boat backing I barely broke stride as I jackknifed my rig around their pile compromising only a few of their PFD’s.

The Jerrys are all over me, dressed in little uniforms and exclaiming: "Vee are so sorry! Very sorry!” as they drag their jackets to safety.

“Vy do you go out this day!”

“I’m on a rescue. There’s boats on the beach over there.”

“Oh ya, das boot!” and they’re all pointing at La Chiquita and the Nancy Lou.

A launch has just arrived and the tourists are all howling over the wind about the birds.

“De burds, de white burds. Vas are they?”

“Seagulls,” I say.

“They make funny cry. Not like North Sea gulls.” Another tourist yells out: "Vas is Mengele!?”

“Ya de burds say ‘Mengele.”

“Mengele! Mengele!” they rejoice as they laugh away to breakfast.

“Yeah, happy Holocaust to you too,” I think as I warm up the Evinrude.

The Ghost had yet to arrive so I motored through the swells past La Chiquita on the rocks. I could see Braveheart and the SOP (spouse of Posey) on the sandy part of the beach with the Nancy Lou listing at 45 degrees. I anchored just off the sandbar and hit the water playing out my 200 feet of rope attached to the pull harness on Psycho. We secure the rope to the Nancy Lou and Braveheart and the SOP start ‘hand over handing’ it up the mast. They’re trying to get enough weight on the end of the mast to leverage the keel up off the beach.

I watch while I apply constant forward pressure on the rope. The men valiantly shimmy out the mast. The Nancy Lou begins to tip: 42 degrees . . . 38. ..30. .. . At 22.5 degrees I ‘hole shot’ the Evinrude and the Nancy Lou, now almost on her side begins to move across the sand bar. We’re motoring straight into the breaking waves. "Give her hell! Give her hell,” they both command. The first wave strike wobbles the hull and both men on the mast dangle dangerously close to the water. The Nancy Lou gets heavier as she ships water. The second wave sweeps the SOP off the mast. He’s in the water. I cut the power. The reduced weight on the lever arm of the mast sends Braveheart rocketing upward away from the water while he clings steadfastly to the mast.

“More power! Leave him! Go! Go!” Braveheart crawls further out the mast to increase leverage. The Nancy Lou starts to tip and I gun it for the dark water.

“Dark water! We’re in the dark water!” I bellow as the Nancy Lou clears the bar. Braveheart disengages from the mast and plunges ten feet down into the tempest. I supply holding tension while the SOP swims out from the bar. I watch the men scramble over the gunwales and into the cockpit.

I headed out, across the bay toward Paradesia and the security of my deep water mooring. "Like I haven’t been here before!” I thought.

We powered back from Paradesia and found the Ghost and Posey doing coffee and donuts on the 5th street beach. I hit the ‘up motor’ button and we beached the skimmer boat. We all discussed our plan for the Chiquita.

We ‘pry barred’ the swing keel of La Chiquita back into its trunk and then with the brute force power of the skimmer boat we were able to pull her off the rocks and into a position of straight and level flight. I anchored and inspected the swamped La Chiquita. There was maybe a four or five inch bubble of air above the porthole in the cabin. We’d have to bail before we could move her anywhere.

Captain Ron, the Papa Sierra, with a 50 gallon per minute trash pump strapped on to the trunk rack of his TR-6 Triumph, arrives. We wade to shore to further witness the spectacle.

Captain Ron is a Pathological Speech Doctor who now in retirement ferries movie stars’ boats from port to port around the lakes. Pre-retirement he had a good business in the glitzy suburbs of the “D” where he fixed the lispers, glottals, nasalics and harelips of the wealthy.

His friends, while sitting poolside downing Jamesons came up with the whole Papa Sierra namesake. "You’re a Pathological Speech Doctor, Ron.”

“Let’s call him P.S. for short.”

“It sounds too much like B.S.” he complains.

“Okay we’ll militarize it. Like the military alphabet: Papa Sierra!”

I watch him and the others as they unstrap the trash pump from the sports car. I’m seeing him as our liberator: a Special Forces operative liberating the oppressed. "Opresse Liber!” I exclaim.

But being a pathological speech doctor he’s really more a liberator of the tongue: `Lingus Liber’ or maybe just `Liber Lingus’. That’s it, Liber Lingus! Wouldn’t you just love to introduce him: "May I introduce Liber Lingus and this is his spouse Connie…” No one would get the Latin though….

We dingy up the trash pump and head out to the wreck. Captain Ron, the little Irishman, jumps into the cabin with the business end of the pump. I can see his nose pop up into the five inch air bubble in the cabin. I hold the exhaust end of the pump hose as 50 gallons a minute are moved. Papa Sierra stands for little Piece of Steel in my book today!

After eight minutes Papa Sierra’s air bubble is getting no bigger. I hand off my end of the hose and dive down along the hull. I discover a gash I can easily place my arm through running six or eight feet along the hull. I surface and hit the kill switch on the trash pump.

“Hey Slag. What are you doing?”

“The hull’s been compromised—it’s hopeless.”

The Ghost makes a dive and surfaces looking forlorn. La Chiquita was headed for the dump…

We all voiced our condolences and apologies over the boat and then took our leave. As I waded out toward the anchored Psycho, the Ghost caught up to me.

“Is it just me Slag, or are these gulls telling us something? Could they have something to do with this? Can you hear what they’re saying Slag?”

“It’s not just you Ghost. I hear it too. So do others but it’s a real leap to think the birds have something to do with this….”

I was cold, wet and sore. It was well into the afternoon. There was nothing more for me to do so I motored toward the launch ramp and home.