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Photo by: Zach Stovall

I’ve assembled a can-do crew – the best I can do at short notice. I have abandoned the names they used on the ship’s manifest and address them by the nautical monikers of Graybeard, Redbeard, Blackbeard and Blondbeard, though nary a one could raise a whisker if called upon. I, Salt-and-Pepperbeard, have broken their wills with landlubber libations poured into the wee, wee hours this morning, and they move slowly today, staring dead-eyed as the harbor staff completes all the preparatory heavy lifting. Boats arrive at and depart from the marina like gleaming white bees attending a hive. Monohulls and catamarans fill innumerable slips, but I muster the crew at a gangway that ascends to the king of charter boats: a 47-foot-long, 25-foot-wide twin-dieseled, tri-air-conditioned and quad-cabined behemoth that soars above us three decks high. It is so new that it has no name, so I christen it Boatosaurus Rex. On this, we will ride to infamy.

Galley workers from the Moorings’ catering operation cram our larder with all manner of pre-prepared chicken curries and lasagnas on the off chance we’ll resort to food. Our primary concern, though, is the starter kit I’ve ordered to keep our whistles well wet until we can find our first suitable beach bar. When a team of longshoremen finally muscles several wheelbarrows’ worth of rum and beer aboard, I sign the beverage chit ($413.80 American), humbly call upon the blessings of Neptune and Bacchus and order the lines cast off and the stereo cranked up. We sail.

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