Fourth of July: Never Moon the Game Warden

Fourth of July we went over to Port Isabel, over to the marina to go out on Sandras 35 foot Chris-Craft cruiser to watch the fireworks. We had run into Sandra and her Sister Judy about a week ago over at the Palm Street Pier and had many beers and fried oysters with them, and during the course of things, had conspired to accompany them out on the bay for the fourth. We were packing a big pizza for the kids, but no alcohol, because it’s a war zone out on the water this time of the year. Every agency is out in full force trying to drum up a little revenue, and I certainly wasn’t going to let them shake me down, not to mention the fact that the kids were along, so their well being was of course my first concern.

Sandras Chris-Craft looks like a cigarette boat, long and mean, twin 350 Chevy engines, an interior of white rolled naugahide topped off by a racy looking bimini, and a small cockpit capable of holding about 10 adults comfortably, A real cherry 1980’s vintage cruiser. Mark says Sandra wants to sell it, get about 35 grand or so, but I reckon it’s not worth half that. Age and deterioration are beginning to set in, just like it is on all of us. Personally, I'm a little saltier and more barnacle encrusted with each passing season.

Getting across the causeway was a bit of a challenge, people were already driving erratically, like amateur stunt drivers after a long day of drinking and sun on the beach, and my traffic temper was beginning to flare. I felt obliged to cut off some stupid fuck towing an ancient eighteen foot tri-hulled boat with an aging sears seahorse engine when he started to weave in and out of traffic like a damn Ferrari or something, causing a wake of chaos behind him. I found myself hoping that my subtle demolition derby driving would cause one of his paper thin 12” trailer tires to burst, throwing the hulk and its tow driver over the rail of the causeway and into the whitecapped waters far below, where it would promptly sink to the bottom, alleviating us of another brainless fuck and his giant motorized nunchuck. But, he managed to sneak by, heading for some unknown destination.

We finally got over to the Anchor Marina around seven thirty or so, and were the last to load up. There was a temporary shortage of life jackets, so we dug around and got enough for us and the kids prior to taking off. We crossed the rail, and came aboard to a cockpit brimming with about 15 adults, some obviously "three sheets to the wind". Mark was behind the wheel, drinking a mountain dew, and his kid was below already attacking the food. Marks brother in law, Rick, a stereotype trailer trash ape, replete with sleeveless tshirt, redneck mullet haircut, ever present cigarette dangling from the corner of the mouth, and tall boy bud light in hand, was already belligerent and overconfident….a classic picture of white-trashism. He shouted to Mark that we had the proper number of PFD’s, and with no further hesitation, we untied the dock lines, and headed over to Thompkins channel.

Just outside of our channel, the port engine starts to run hot, Mark switchs it off, and we creep along about 10 knots or so heading towards the island, through a choppy brown bay as the sun makes its departure from the world. Disco music blaring from the radio, and the din of empty beer cans and bottles and loud laughing drunks make me think twice about my decision to go along. We make the turn east of the causeway and head up Thomkins. I turn around, and behind us is Sol Mate, all decked out for the fourth, banners and flags flying, a picture of class and civility.

We find a spot near the fireworks barge and ran the bow of the cruiser up on the spoil bank. Around nine fifteen the show begins, an awesome display lasting about a half hour or so. Big booming, thumping pyrotechnics, lighting sky, water and boat in a surreal kaleidoscopic glow. The drunks aboard grow dim and background, although at one point, Rick comes back from the front deck to get a bunch of Evian water bottles to clean up a spill of red wine on the white fibergalss foredeck.

I become temprarily lost, introspectively mulling over the idea of freedom, contemplating the meaning and implications of a word so broad in scope that I sometimes am unsure of what exactly it means.

The fireworks die out in the sky, and all that remains are the smoke trails. I am rousted from my musing by the shouts and screams of drunken revelers, most of them unfortunately, aboard our boat. Mark fires up the Chris-Craft, and grinds off of the shallow spoil bank, heading west towards Port Isabel. About midway to the causeway opening, I see the flashing red and blue lights reflected in the helm console, I tell Mark….”Hey, we’re gettin’ pulled over”.....

Next thing I know, a kid TPWD game warden climbs aboard, over the transom. The kid says “I’m making a courtesy check, could I see your lifejackets?” We oblige, but there’s only sixteen for the eighteen persons aboard. He writes a routine citation, worth about a hundred fifty dollars or so, pretty minor, and I figure we’re pretty lucky with all of these drunk people aboard, and god knows what other violations the boat holds, but apparently Rick doesn’t think so, and begins to lip off to the guy in true trailer trash style. Mark keeps his cool and as the Captain of this vessel, advises the officer to finish his job and once done, depart.

The warden eventually slides back to his boat, and we continue towards home, the mood a bit more somber, but I can sense hostility among the drunks on the fantail, hot like the overheated engine we shut down earlier . I hear various curses and taunts being directed loudly, hurled like empty beercans over the side toward the TPWD skiff, still on our stern. The all of the sudden, the lights come back on, and I glance over to starboard, and now there’s THREE MORE TPWD SKIFFS ALONGSIDE!

Lots of TPWD guys clad in bulbous orange life jackets, cowboy hats, gray cop suits, hands on holstered guns. "Pull over" one of them shouts authoritatively. Damn, Walker Texas Ranger couldn'tve made a better appearance. Now I'm thinking; "Shit, we're really in trouble.

I hear somebody sarcastically say to Rick; "well, if you hadn’t mooned the goddamn warden, we wouldn’t be getting pulled over again". Mooned the fucking warden? What did he expect to happen? Dumbass. Fuckstick.

Chaos, shouts of “pull over now!”, TPWD guys with hands on their guns, and I’m thinking, “jeez now we’re really in trouble”. Mark says; “nah….I’m heading back to the dock”…TPWD lets us go saying; "OK, let him go to the dock”…we creep toward the channel marker 17, flanked by four TPWD game warden skiffs, all with lights flashing. A bit much…but we haven’t even seen the best yet. As we turn into the fingers, overhead a helicopter hovers, turning on the midnight sun light, illuminating the entire harbor. I see three Port Isabel constabulary waiting on the dock too. All the while, Rick has sequestered himself in the head, not coming out at all, but I still hear muffled curses emanating from behind the closed door, just below my perch on the control deck.

We tie up, and Rick pops out of the head and oozes towards the starboard rail. It looks like for a moment, he's gonna bail, make a run for it, but TPW and the cops are too thick, so they sit him down on the bow, but he's still acting like a dick. Now TPW is riled up too, and an old fat possum cop gets in Marks face and accuses him of lipping off, cussing out his guys…he starts asking a lot of detailed personal questions, and Mark decides it’s time to call his lawyer.

The cops let us go, told us we obviously weren’t involved, but they handcuff three of the most noxious drunks, as well as Mark, hauling them all off to the PI jail. Dee, the girls and I go over there and meet with Marks lawyer, a true expatriate who lives on a 26 foot Hunter there at Anchor Marina, a refugee waiting the inevitable collapse of society. Society doesn't collapse this night though, and we finally leave around two AM, when it seems that there's nothing else we can do.

Fourth of July is always a busy time on the Bay. Every agency is out in force, and besides sunburns and hangovers, a lot of people go home with other souvenirs of the coast, a little mordida for the man, and maybe if they’re real ill-behaved a short visit to the graybar hotel courtesy of the local cops. By morning the next day, Mark and the drunks were free men again returning to the sanctity of the harbor. The game wardens had dispersed, the night cops had gone home to bed, and life had pretty much returned to normal.