Allegedly it's the end of summer.
Fourth of July is hotdogs, beans and tater salad.
(No. It's not long pork. I'm not eating Ron White. If I was I would have capitalized it as in Tater Salad. Hmmm...Ron White is kinda beefy. Beefy long pork...It's what's for dinner! No it isn't.)
Anyway, a Fourth of July meal is good enough for Labor Day.
I have a thing of tater salad from the supermarket deli, a small can of beans and with no grill I'll get a couple of those two for a buck hotdogs from the local convenience store. Hell. I might even get four!
For the dilientees that sounds like enough to gag a maggot but those people don't understand that if you can make it work it's all good.
One of the things that happened 35 years ago on a 24 foot seven inch sailboat in the Gulf of Alaska during a wild night at sea was having to stand up to my responsibilities.
I had told my crew of one that cocktail hour was at 1700 and dinner was at 1800.
We were getting the holy living $hit kicked out of us and quite frankly the issue was in doubt. I mustered a grin and at 1700 told him to hand me the bottle of Glenlivit and when he did I took a pull and then told him to get us each a Guinness.
"How can you think of drinking at a time like this?" he screeched.
"Good point. Have a snort and get us each TWO Guinnesses because the way things are going these drinks may damned well might be out last!" I replied.
At 1800 I opened two cans of B&M baked beans and handed him a can and we sat together in the cockpit of Karen Lee and watched a pretty good Gulf of Alaska storm.
One thing I remember a couple of days later in port he commented about the storm and the situation. He said he hadn't signed on for something like that.
"I told you cocktail hour was at five and dinner was at six," I replied. "It was. I kept my end of the bargain.
His eyes opened wide, he stopped short and caved in. "I guess you did," he laughed.
If you can hold to cocktail hour and dinner under difficult circumstances then you're probably doing OK.
The way I look at it, supermarket deli, some B&Ms and a coupla convenience store hotdogs and being holed up in a fleabag somewhere over Labor Day with Kitty ain't a bad deal.
In fact, I consider it rather amusing.
It's all good.
* FWIW a fleabag is ANY place that rents beds. It is an old sailor's term. The Waldorf Astoria's 10K/night suite is just as much of a fleabag as a $2 a night hotsheet joint.
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