Tales of Ringo Key - Southwinds, October 2001

- Local News for Southern Sailors - September 2001 Next Story

Tales of the Ringo Key Marina - Captain Krunche
By Allan Horn

The cry went up, "Herman's coming in!" and every boater in the marina dropped whatever they were doing and leaped to attention. People on both docks scrambled from cabins, engine compartments, and cockpits...in search of boathooks and fenders.

It's not that Herman is a bad guy, or even that he's a poor captain. It's just that wherever Herman goes, disaster follows closely on his transom.

There was the time that Herman decided to take a simple Sunday afternoon jaunt aboard his aptly named 44-foot Bertram trawler The Besieger. Herman had failed to notice the two-knot tide running through the marina until he was already committed to the channel between the two docks. By the time he was back into his slip, there were two outboard motors, one Aries windvane, a dinghy, and two anchor platforms resting on the bottom.

Then there was the time that Herman made the turn into the marina on his way back from a weekend cruise, and promptly lost, (or at least misplaced) his starboard transmission. Dockbound well-wishers watched in helpless terror as Herman's bow firmly planted itself about six feet deep into the main cabin of a well-restored Chris Craft Connie...not just once, but THREE CONSECUTIVE times.

Now there are those people who would chastise, harass, and otherwise humiliate some captains into staying tied to the dock after such antics, but Herman seems completely immune to those tactics. He simply responds: "That's what insurance is for."

Herman is an insurance adjuster's nightmare. Part of Herman's immunity to admonition comes from his size. Herman is big! I don't mean big like John Wayne. I mean big like Refrigerator Perry the football player. HUMONGOUS! Herman is somewhere over six feet tall and probably hasn't been less than 300 pounds since grade school.

This is not to mean that Herman is a pudgy couch potato either. He's a retired Marine drill instructor who has been known to bellow like a bull and get a rage in his eyes that would intimidate the most hale and hearty of men. When Herman retired from the Marine Corps, he decided to return to the sea aboard his own destroyer. To a Marine of course, there is no such thing as an "ex-Marine." Once they have stayed in as long as they are able or permitted to do so, they continue to wear the title Marine until they die.

In Herman's case, he carried the label so far as to insist that the only good music in the world was marching music like John Philip Sousa and the Marine band brand of marching music. When the salesman who sold him his boat said there was a radio onboard, Herman asked if it would get "the Marine Band." Naturally, the salesman said "Of Course!"

Two days after purchasing the boat, Herman spent hours tuning his radio all over the dial trying to find "the Marine Band" to no avail...all he could get was people talking, weather reports and an occasional Coast Guard Notices to Mariners broadcast. Three times he returned the vessel to the dealership docks because his radio didn't work properly...it wouldn't get "the Marine Band." He was seconds from beating his salesman into a small pile of bait chum when someone finally figured it out and explained the confusion to him.

In some circles this confusion on Herman's part only confirmed what they had been saying all along...that Herman was a typical product of the military. Not too bright and unable to do anything on his own without a direct order and step-by-step instructions.

Whenever someone has made this sort of suggestion within earshot of Herman, he has responded by bringing out a beautifully-crafted oriental rosewood box inset with jade and ebony. The box is about 12 inches by 18 inches and only about an inch thick. Herman lovingly sets the box in front of the offending person and says, "Open it up." As the person opens it, Herman proudly announces "Fifty-one days!"

Inside the box is a children's puzzle of Kermit the Frog, completely assembled and glued to the bottom. Herman then proudly announces, "It said on the box two to five years and it only took me 51 days."

Back to the present.. On this particular day, 60 pair of eyes were riveted to Herman's bow in fearful anticipation as Herman turned his dreaded dreadnought into the channel, gently and irresolutely creeping inch by inch as his warhorse nosed its way toward its own stable.

The tide and wind were cooperating‹so far‹and we were all foolishly beginning to believe that he was going to make it without causing any problems or devastation. Herman deftly slowed his engines at the outer dolphins to his slip and reversed thrust on his starboard screw, thus swinging the stern around to align with the slip.

Linehandlers on Herman's foredeck were standing nervously, boathooks in hand, while on the dock stood eight boathook-wielding neighbors resembling a band of Masei warriors waiting to attack trespassers in their sacred burial grounds.

Herman's son-in-law scrabbled at the spring line on top of the piling with his boathook and promptly dropped it in the water just ahead of the port-side propeller. As the port engine began to stall, Herman threw more power to the port throttle, thus reeling himself and his vessel into the slip SIDEWAYS at flank speed.

The stunned coterie on the dock leaped into action, looking somewhat less like Masei warriors and more like Keystone Kops, bumping into each other and then jumping madly aboard the two adjoining boats in hopes of fending off Herman's Leviathan before there was any damage.

Herman, confused by the sudden developments and unaware that his prop was fouled, started flipping switches and turning knobs on his boat's control panel in hopes of finding the magical switch that would return control of his vessel to him.

Fortunately, one switch killed both of his engines. Unfortunately, another switch released Herman's electric windlass, dropping a 40-pound plow anchor some five feet down to the deck of Pete's boat in the neighboring slip. Well, not QUITE to the deck, but to the top of Pete's boat shoe just above the laces. Even this might not have been so bad had Pete not been wearing the boat shoe at the time, but since he was, Pete made about two yelping hops and slid beneath the surface of the churned-up water between the two boats, all the while emitting virulent curses that were still audible from three feet under water!

Herman, still puzzled by all the bizarre behavior around him but proud and beaming that he had made it into his own slip without sinking any surrounding vessels or removing anyone's bowsprit or boomkin, stepped down from the flybridge and greeted his welcoming committee like Schwarztkopf returning from Kuwait.

Meanwhile, Sandbar Sam and I fished a still muttering and spluttering Pete out of the water and rushed him to the nearest trauma center for X-rays of his foot.

Herman was home again, and everyone felt safe again...until the next time.