High Winds, Smooth Sailing

It was a day of irony and omens, as good as any other day to drink. The place itself was the name of a liqueur--Curaçao, torrid island of temptations and balmy distractions. The vessel was a Chinese junk outfitted to ply the tourist snorkeling trade. The decks seemed varnished with Teflon, the skipper oiled with rum, and the weather was too windy to sail. Great! Three days short of my seventeenth year sober, I was aboard a ship where every step threatened a slip. With on-board communications difficult, ship-to-sponsor contact was as likely as a message in a bottle. And, on board this tub, the bottle was rapidly becoming the message.