This is a chapter from my upcoming book; Floating Fantasy.

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Call the Highway Patrol!!!

I was standing on the aft deck of the Mariner II.  As the sun was spilling itself in ribbons of orange, red and magenta into the bay behind us.  This was my favorite time after a charter.  Having off loaded our passengers at Gas House Cove in San Francisco.  I could now relax and enjoy the sun set as we cruised back across the bay to our home port in Jack London Square.

I noticed a fellow yacht club member’s cabin cruiser behind us in the distance.  I thought perhaps he had snapped his steering cable,  as the boat was veering wildly across our wake.

This fellow Yachtsman, I will call Tom was a liquor salesman and completed his sales calls by noon each day.  He had a liberal expense account and usually took an attractive young woman to lunch at one of the many restaurants in the Square.  He would buy the bar a round of drinks,  tip generously and was always quick to entertain with the latest joke.  On a good day he would finish lunch and invite the woman down to his boat.  It was docked just below the windows of the Yacht Club.  It could be seen by all who were seated at the bar.  He was well aware of his silent audience and would often give a wink and an A-OK sign to the fellow members as the woman proceeded down the dock in front of him.  There was always bets placed on whether this would be a quick conquest.  If so they would spend an hour or so on the boat at the dock. If not we would hear the engines fire up and know that this one was to require a Bay Cruise and some romancing beyond drinks and lunch.  He would often return to the club after escorting the lady to her car and regale all with humorous antics of his adventures with the ladies.  Never with malice.  He truly loved women.  All women.  All the time.  Any time!

This late afternoon,  I watched his boat and wondered if he was having mechanical problems or was drunk at the helm.  I instructed my Skipper on the intercom to slow down and keep Tom in his sights in case he needed help.

We entered the mouth of the Estuary and on our Port side is a levy of boulders lining the air strip of the Oakland Navy Base. Tom’s boat is cruising at top speed and is soon approaching the rocks.  I watch in shock as I see his boat hit the rocks and take flight.  It lands with an ear shattering crash on the runway. 

The Coast Guard Station is located just yards away and dispenses a rescue craft down the estuary to the scene.

The Navy having heard the crash arrives on the runway with two jeeps.  One jeep full of Military Police and the other with some Officers that had been having cocktails at the Officer’s Club.

The Coast Guard gets on their hailer {Loud Speaker} and Hails the Skipper of the boat.

Good ole Tom comes up on the deck from the cabin below struggling into his jockey shorts.  He looks around and assesses the situation and very defiantly picks up the Microphone to his hailer and responds in a firm voice…

“GO TO HELL COASTIES.  I AM NOT IN YOUR JURISDICTION.  CALL THE HIGHWAY PATROL.”

The Naval Officers hearing this directive toward their rival branch of the service,  howl with laughter.  They cheer and give him and his disheveled half clothed Paramour a thumbs up.

The officers are so amused and delighted with the situation that they arrange to have the boat hoisted onto a truck and taken to the Naval Boat Yard  and repaired.

This, by far was one of Tom’s most famous afternoon adventures.  From then on Tom’s entrance into the Yacht Club Bar was greeted with the chant;

“TOM IS HERE.  CALL THE HIGHWAY PATROL”.

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