A Cruise to Treasure Island or Mungo Don’t Eat Today

My 20-year-old granddaughter Mallory and I enjoyed some exciting rides reaching back and forth across the five- mile-wide section of Traverse Bay in Michigan on which our house is located.  Mallory, a trim, five foot ten athlete could really do her part to hike and hold the Wayfarer down when Grandpa sheeted in and coaxed the boat to jump up onto a plane.  We had so much fun with those wet rides that by August I told her I would buy an old, high performance boat for us to sail on the bay.  That fall I bought a 1970 Flying Dutchman.

I fiddled with the boat through October putting it together and throwing dollar bills into the cockpit.  Well, the rigging should be up to date after all.  All of this went well with the exception of one afternoon when my grandson Joe and I set the mast up with the boat sitting on the trailer in the driveway.  The wind was gusting a mere 40 knots off the bay but we, of course, never gave it a thought.  We couldn’t wait to hoist the genoa - yes, the one with the 9-foot-long lower edge - to see how it looked.  We won’t do that again!  We decided it would be easier to take the genoa down while the boat was still lying on its side next to the trailer, since it seemed easier that way. Was there perhaps a message there that I might be going somewhere that I didn’t belong? But that’s another story.  This story is about my cruise with the Flying Dutchman.

I had made plans to crew for a friend in the Wayfarer Midwinter Regatta on Lake Eustis in central Florida in February 2006 and discovered that the FD Midwinters would be held in St. Pete the week after.  That was all I needed!  The feeblest of excuses would have me trailing my new toy to Florida in hopes of sailing it on Eustis and then stopping to meet the FD sailors at St. Pete the following week-end.

I did all of that.  It started on Saturday with an exciting FD sail on Eustis with Brian De Brincat, an International 14 sailor, on the wire (above) and an invitation to meet the FD guys on Sunday at the end of their regatta.  I was then going to trail further south with two of my Wayfarer friends, Al Schonborn and Marc Bennett to spend Sunday night on Treasure Island, a busy tourist strip on the Gulf Coast, and head for Sanibel Island on Monday morning.

I followed Al and Marc to the motel where they stay every year during their annual trek to Sanibel Island (they seem to be creatures of habit).  The parking lot at the hotel was quite small and parking the 20’ long FD with its 26’ mast was out of the question.  At the check-in desk, the girl said she thought there was a marina down the road where I could leave the boat for the night.  It was about 5:30 pm by then so Al and Marc opted to chill out in their room until I returned and then we would go to dinner.  We, of course, would be going to the certain restaurant they eat at every year on their way to Sanibel.

Off I went with sketchy directions, determination and “the certainty of an idiot”.  After a half hour of driving and five or six U-turns (try a few of those on Treasure Island with a 26’-long rig!) I was about a mile and a half from the motel and prospects of finding the marina were growing dimmer.  Maybe it was time to do the unthinkable: stop and ask someone for directions.  Five minutes after getting directions, I found the marina.  I knew it was the marina because there was a big sign right there on the gate … the one with the big padlock on it … the one with the “Closed” sign on it!  Remember the guy who looked up and said, “Why me, Lord?  Why do so many bad things happen to me?”  Then the Lord’s voice boomed down from the Heavens and said, “Because you pissed Me off!”   I didn’t bother to look up because if I did hear a voice from the heavens I knew what He would have to say.  I did, however, look in my rear view mirror and, sure enough, that damned boat was still there!  I knew that Al and Marc were probably getting antsy to have dinner. By now I suspected that maybe they always ate dinner at the same time, at the same restaurant choosing the same meal served by the same waiter every year.

My desperation was building fast, but just then I saw what I thought was a husband and wife coming out of the back door of the bar next door to the marina and walking towards a back street.  Putting my marvelous detective’s mind to work, I quickly deduced that they lived nearby and were walking home perhaps to watch the Lawrence Welk re-runs that were always on about 6:30 pm on Sundays.  I sidled up to them, blocking their path and explained that I couldn’t find anywhere to leave my boat for the night.  I said I wondered if I were to pay them twenty dollars, maybe I could park the boat in their driveway under their watchful eye for the night.  The guy jumped right on it and said for twenty bucks he would be delighted. 


I followed them around the corner to two little flat-roofed duplex apartments (above) with a small driveway that would hold my boat.  The man introduced himself as “Mungo” but didn’t introduce his wife to me. Strange! I backed the boat in and after it was parked I noticed there were still eight beers from a twelve pack in the boat.  I thought it would be a nice gesture to offer them to this couple and handed them to my new friend, Mungo. His wife(?) immediately ran over and gave me a big hug.  As she was slowly disengaging herself, she said, “By the way, are you married?”  At this point I was becoming more married every second and quickly replied, “Yes, I am!” before she could mount a second attack. By now I was really hoping she wasn’t Mungo’s wife. I didn’t think I wanted to see this deal get any stranger. 

Next it was Mungo’s turn to mount an attack.  By the way, she was not his wife.  He said, “As part of the deal could you give this guy next door a ride home for me?”  Ah, now the hook was set!  He had the twenty, my boat was unhooked and sitting in his driveway.  I felt that my success in leaving my boat there overnight was dependent on his goodwill and if I had to reach out a little to maintain that goodwill, so be it.  “Yes, I will be happy to,” I said.  He said, “Follow me.” And headed for the little apartment which was the other half of the duplex he lived in.  By then the-not-his-wife, almost-my-new-girlfriend had somehow gotten hold of the eight beers and was on her way to the door ahead of us.  We walked into the little living room and lo and behold, there must have been eight people sitting around.  The air was absolutely pale blue with cannabis smoke recently exhaled by the eight inhabitants. By then Mungo had wrested two beers away from what’s-her-name and handed one to me, his new best buddy.  What luck!  I was just dying to sit down and have a few beers with these guys. 

The three of us piled into the car and my skinny passenger seemed to be in good enough shape to navigate from the back seat.  By now it was pushing 7:30 pm and I was sure this was eating into Al and Marc’s dinner schedule. But I had bigger problems. I needed to get this guy home and then gracefully extricate myself from my new best friend, Mungo, while still maintaining his goodwill.  Within twenty minutes, we had dropped “Skinny” off at his friend’s apartment somewhere in St. Pete and were ready to start back. I, of course, had no idea where we were. But now my new friend Mungo and I were alone and could continue our male bonding. 

At this point, I think a description of Mungo is in order.  He appeared to be about fifty-five or so, gray-bearded and wearing a Greek fisherman’s cap. I think Mungo could be mistaken for a normal person if you didn’t look too closely and, you know, from now on I was going to start looking closer before developing these friendships. He said, “I am a professional boat pilot and between jobs.” I said, “What is the quickest way back to your house?”  He said, “We’re going to have one helluva party at my place tonight. You should hang around for it.”  I said, “Do I turn right or left at the next intersection?”  He said, “There will be plenty of girls and I can get one for you.”  By now I decided he could have the bloody boat, goodwill be hanged!  “I can’t stay around and my friends are waiting for me to go to dinner with them.”  I was convinced by then that he, the Vets and the girls would probably burn my boat in the driveway so they could cook hot dogs over the fire.  How was I going to explain this to my insurance agent?

“Turn right at the next light,” he stated.  It looked like he was finally beginning to understand the foundation of our friendship.  We had no more than rounded the corner when I saw a pair of Golden Arches.  “Pull into that McDonald’s so I can get a burger,” he said.  He must have seen the sign and that was why he was so emphatic about turning.  “No,” I stated, “My friends are waiting and it is almost eight o’clock.”  I will say he seemed pretty good-natured about my refusal because all he did was fold his arms and say, “I guess Mungo don’t eat today.”

Now it was time to get serious about his professional piloting skills and get him back home.  “How the hell do we get back to your place?” I politely asked.  “Uh, turn left at that next light,” he mumbled.  After fifteen minutes of turns and seeing some things for a second time, I caught on.  Mungo didn’t know how to get back to his place!  We now switched roles and I became the lead navigator. My navigation system involved driving in ever-widening circles until Mungo saw something he recognized.  Sure enough, by eight thirty we were on our way back to his place.  I dropped him off and hurried back to pick up my friends, or former friends, whichever the case may be. 

After dinner we drove by the duplex.  All the blinds were drawn and you could detect dim lights inside.  The party was in full swing!  The good news was the boat was still sitting in the driveway undisturbed.  Maybe they didn’t have any mustard or something.  I worried all night about picking the boat up in the morning and bringing a friendly end to my cruise.  I shouldn’t have worried since when we drove up at nine am they had probably just been in bed for four hours or so and chances of waking them were between slim and none.  We hooked the boat up, I gave a farewell wave to the house where, I would assume, my new-found friend was sleeping it off. We quietly drove away, thereby bringing my first cruise with the Flying Dutchman to a successful conclusion.