St. Augustine Part 1-First Impressions

Coming into St. Augustine was entirely different. I was doing the early morning shift, singing to myself in the dark and drinking mango energy drinks. Finally I came within sight of the inlet and woke Josh up. The sun wanted to stay in bed with the clouds, behind us in the East. Ahead, strangely lit gray beaches on either side. Then came the fishing boats. Huge ones, big ones, all with the puffy-eyed guys on deck shooting whatever shit there was to shoot at 6 am. Turning to see them head out, I saw it-the picture that could make me a fishing addict. The boats burbling out at idle, the sun a fierce orange globe resting heavily on the horizon, and the haze, the salt in the air-it was all like a grainy 16mm film image.
We began to see the manicured houses, Sea Rays in lifts, colors and things we had forgotten about. The Castillo De San Marcos was visible around the bend. When we came around it, the town sat there, right on the water, cars buzzing along in front of the historic façade. The Bridge of Lions raised for the historic schooner, making its way out with a big group. We tied up among the other boats, and I headed below for a nap.
Two hours later, Josh began to row us in the baking sun. We came out on the other side of the bridge and turned under the traffic-control looking tower that was the marina office. Two geriatric-looking guys were on a SeaDoo jet boat, one nosing in and out of the slips while the other stood on the bow with a light rod. Like shooting into a barrel. They started working into something big. The “angler” got it to the boat, and then it took most of their energy combined to finagle a fat amber jack out of the water and into the boat. We tied up at the dinghy dock and I walked back down the dock to the office, noticing some richies tossing a couple sandwiches into the water. I climbed up the gangplank to the office and opened the door to a blast of cold air. Again, I was wearing my blackened yellow short shorts, shades and visor, and four days’ worth of sweaty, sunburned body odor. The man standing in front of me had a shaved head, sharp, violent eyes, and a crisp, white St. Augustine City Marina polo shirt. I gave him my credit card. “Isn’t that illegal?” I asked, pointing to the jet boat.
“Technically, as long as they’re not on the dock there’s nothing we can do,” he said, not looking at me. I bet those two were regulars. As he put the ten-dollar charge through, I asked him, to be sure, if we could use the showers with our dinghy dock privileges. Yes, he said, without looking at me. I mumbled something about being sure I needed one. I signed receipts, got a little sticker for the dinghy, and left, stomping down the ramp. I was sure the dockmaster had seen dirtier transients than me.