Making Our Debut On The Unsuspecting Gentry of Charleston, SC

The morning looked like something from up North. Wind ripping, gray, gray skies and pale light, colors gone flat. The Nerve was bumping quite a bit at the dock. We put on some long sleeves and started towards the office. One of the fuel pumps was stopped at something like $734. Just down from our spot were some of the largest yachts I’ve ever seen. Not sailing yachts, mind you, but monsters--more than a hundred feet long, several stories of opulence--drawing much more, I knew, than $700 of fuel. A golf cart was parked on the dock next to one of the yachts, a certain “Hi-Banx.” I figured the golf cart belonged to the marina, was kept here, at least. Then I saw the Hi-Banx emblem on its little hood, and looked up to see the crane atop the stern, where two jet skis were also resting. There was also a bike rack with some bikes, and a little Hi-Banx welcome mat at the bottom of the gangplank. We could see in a port to the engine room. It looked like the boiler room of a high school, except that it was brightly lit and spotless, and the tubes were painted fire engine red.
Another golf cart came rolling along, and I felt pretty sure the two guys inside were marina employees, probably headed to our boat. We kept going. At the end of the concrete fuel dock, we stepped onto a beautiful teak floating dock that bent around to the buildings of the marina. As we passed the side window of the office, I saw a cute girl inside with the computers and office gear. We stepped in the front door, and I was struck with the sensation of being inside--rugs on the floor, glowing TV, climate-controlled air. The girl wasn’t nearly as cute from the front, having to deal with us at 7 am. She was willing, if not glad, to answer our questions. We signed the papers for one day and headed back out.
The Nerve looked very small when we got back to her. It seemed hard to believe we were living on board. The dockhands were waiting with the golf cart. One was about our age, chin strap beard, bored look, same Charleston City Marina windbreaker and Sperry Topsiders as his partner, who was older, smaller, with glasses, some kinda Rudy/Forrest Gump thing going on, slightly garbled speech. They brought the thick diesel hose over, handed Josh the nozzle. He started to fill the Nerve’s tank while I grabbed the gerry jugs. The older guy was counting off gallons at the pump. He told Josh when it hit fifteen (the tank held 20). Josh pumped a bit more, a bit more. Then pink diesel came bubbling up out of the chrome inlet and onto the white fiberglass of the cockpit. Josh cursed, and our friend with the chinstrap tossed him a soft chamois. He dabbed up the diesel as best he could, leaving a faint pink stain. Then he handed the employee the nozzle, wrapped in the chamois, cradled like some kind of metallic infant--a cautious, two-hand affair. I unscrewed the cap from the first gerry jug and dropped it onto the concrete. It promptly started to bounce away in the whipping wind, towards the edge of the dock. Instinct took over, and I summoned some unknown reserve of NFL-grade agility, sprinting after it and sliding down onto it like I was recovering a fumble. I got up, surprised as hell. I didn’t know I could move like that. I started to laugh really hard, there on the blustery docks of the Charleston City Marina, while three languid faces looked on. I filled up the gerry jugs, careful not to overfill.
Our new friend with the chin strap took me to the office in the golf cart, to pay for the gas. As we passed Hi-Banx this time, I noticed a chef, in full, Hi-Banx- monogrammed attire, leaning on the railing, surveying the morning. In and out of the office, more receipts signed, and finally the formalities were over. Josh, Miss Manerva and I were able to smile and relax, revel in the fact that we had made it to Charleston, South Carolina. We ate some puffed wheat and parmalat in coffee mugs. Then we packed up our little Rubbermaid “Action Packer” with fresh clothes, soap, and shampoo, and walked down to the showerhouse.