PLACES I'VE BEEN AND SHOES I'VE LOST

I was sitting here contemplating my gnarly old arch deprived feet the other day and I thought about the people that would be envious of me and my barefoot lifestyle. You know, the “No Shoes, No Shirt, No Problem” kind of life. The truth of the matter is….I don’t have any friggin’shoes left.

I don’t remember the first time I lost a pair of shoes. It was probably somewhere up north. Maybe in Block Island at the tiki bar at Champlin’s Marina. Probably the same night I learned to do the hand jive from some little girls that were sitting outside the bar’s entrance, the same night we couldn’t find the boat for a couple of hours. Hey come on, there were 1200 boats in the harbor.

There are a few times I do remember, though. Like my favorite pair of “Candies” sandals. (I admit, I never was a Manolo Blahnick kind of girl and anybody that knows me knows that.) They now rest in a watery grave at the Las Olas Marina in Fort Liquordale. We’d started our happy hour at Blondies on the corner of Las Olas Blvd. and A1A. Of course, Blondies’ happy hour starts at 10:00 a.m. and goes until. This is one of the cap’n’s favorite bars. He says it’s because of the scenery. Blondies is smack dab across the street from the beach which sports many signs that say nude sunbathing is not allowed under which numerous young nubile bodies are blatantly disobeying these public sanctions and the authorities are turning a blind eye but risking the other just for a peek. The cap’n went inside for some freshers and conversed with one of the patrons leaning tiredly against the bar.

“I’m so drunk. I really need to go home but I just can’t tear myself away from the view,” says the patron as he eyes one of the sun worshipers who I hope only had to pay for the half of the bathing suit she is wearing.

“Come on, man,” says my noble cap’n, “They’re obviously fake.”

“My complimentsh to the shurgeon,” drooled the bar patron.

Later on that night after bar bouncing down A1A with the cap’n and four other guys, (Mary’s a lucky girl!! One of them even looked exactly like Steven Segal, but his shirt was wrinkled and he lived in a cinder block house so I don’t think it was him.) we ended up back at the boat for a nightcap (like we needed one!). The tide was out, waaay out, and I was faced with a little 6 ft. hop down to the deck of the boat. I decided to do my best Baryshnikov impression and leapt…and missed…again. Instead of partaking of the assistance offered by my four handy male companions, I decided I’d retain what was left of my dignity while floating around with the skirts of my very short dress swirling about me and climb aboard myself. No, not by using the ladder. The cap’n never puts it down. I guess he doesn’t want it to get wet. Instead I’ll use the barnacle encrusted piling to which the boat is tied up. I’ll just use the barnacles as foot and handholds. Just like one of those climbing wall on those fancy cruise ships. Not a good idea, as my oozing scraped up arms and thighs would attest to in the weeks following. I did eventually make it back onboard but alas my poor “Candies” didn’t.

Marsh Harbour Marina and Jib Room Restaurant, Abacos, Bahamas. It was a dark and stormy night. I don’t remember what kind of shoes they were but I’d lived aboard long enough that I’m certain they were of the moldy variety. I can’t even blame it on too many Bilge Burners or any of the other lethal adult beverages that Steven, the bartender at the Jib Room, serves up. We hadn’t even gone into the Jib Room, instead we’d had a nice quiet dinner with some friends who lived across the road. Just a couple of glasses of wine. When the evening wound down, we made our way down the death defying steps of the Marsh Harbour Marina without mishap and proceeded to the dinghy dock to continue our passage home. Did I mention it was raining? For some imperceptible, idiotic reason I chose this night to abandon my usual “old lady, ass slide” into the dinghy and leapt feet first. And I made it! At least my feet did! The dinghy lurched one way, of course I lurched the other and with arms windmilling I ended up in the drink….again. By the time I sputtered to the surface, whatever shoes I had on were permanently embedded in the muck of the bottom. Another innocent pair of shoes left behind along with a pretty good chunk of my scalp on the dock. Thanks, Cleatus. Whooee! Those scalp wounds sure do bleed! Fins to the left, fins to the right. And I'm the only bait in town!

So this year before we got on the boat the cap’n refused to invest anymore capital into my shoe inventory. “Nothing but thongs,” he pronounces. I presume he meant the shoe kind. Have you ever tried to find flip-flops in Colorado in the winter? So here I am shoeless. But you know what? If shoes are required, I don’t think I want to go.