Where should I start the tale of my life a life devoted to Chasing the Horizon? Im an individual almost entirely satiated by mere physical movement, if it is upon the sea. How did this happen?

Adventure? Oh, yes. Plenty. Ive been through eight tropical hurricanes aboard various sailing craft within the last forty years. I survived them all, though twice the boats didnt. Pity. Its so difficult to dog-paddle around in the water in the midst of a hurricane as your vessel founders and maintain any sort of personal dignity.

Ive been shot at, arrested, kidnapped, beat up, glorified, and spat upon. Ive been held up to public ridicule; and Ive even lectured at the better Universities. Ive attended a total of about five years of school (too many!), and have been involved in some misguided endeavors which I hope will never see the light of day.

Yes, I believe Ive led a rather adventurous life. Ive loved enough women to have forgotten many of their names. Ive lived with mud-caked Third World friends Ive had to nonchalantly rub with a damp wash cloth to determine skin color (curiosity, not prejudice). I once overheard a dozen crewmen calmly discussing knocking me overboard in the middle of the night because they suspected Id secretly hidden some fish guts in my cabin instead of properly sharing them (we were hungry; Id caught a large dolphin, quickly cleaned it, and then stupidly thrown its best parts overboard).

Maybe I should begin my tale by telling you, dear reader, about the people; the barnacle-encrusted actors which will stroll across my sandy, water-colored stage.

The title of this book could just as easily be Seadogs, Clowns and Gypsies. Or Wonderful Waterfront Wackos. Or Lush Tropical Vegetables.

Certainly, the characters are at the very core of any tale worth telling.

Or perhaps I should begin my tale in the present tense, though there is nothing very tense about my present.

Lets try.

Im sitting at the nav table of a small black fiberglass sloop anchored by a small hot island off the coast of Venezuela. The boat is named Wild Card and she is a 38 S&S designed, Hughes built racer/cruiser. St. John, USVI is her hailing port.

We are hiding out from hurricane season here at Latitude 11 North, Longitude 64 West. Pampatar, Isla Margarita an ideal place to play Jimmy Buffets Wasted Away Again in Margaritaville song at full volume on the cockpit speakers. I do; often.

Living (and life) is cheap here. Most of the people are friendly. Many of the boat boys, beggars and thieves know me. They know Im broke; hell, I cage drinks from them when possible. They steal mostly from wealthy Americans wearing too much tasteless jewelry. Yes, even the Boat Boys of Beanerville have certain professional criteria.

A frosty cold beer (Polar) ashore on the beach here is 22 cents, and I feel that I am losing money if Im not drunk.

I have no shirt on as I write these airless words, and sweat rolls down my nut-brown body. It pools in the folds of my belly. My armpits reek. The sun is fat and boiling and merciless this far south. Not a breath of wind is upon the sea, and a glassy, sickening swell is rolling in from the east.

Oh well. Paradise is no more perfect than anywhere else, and thats a difficult lesson to learn.

All my life I have been both blessed and bedeviled by a curious sort of internal third eye a perpetual camera within my twitching brain. Click! Any experience which has touched my heart, stirred my dick, or twisted up my guts Ive captured forever. My mind is filled with a million pulsating images pure slices of juicy life.

After all, memories are compact, waterproof, and easily stowed; the perfect collectable for the seafaring man.

I am here now at this miserable nav table scribbling these stiflingly clumsy words because all my life there has been only two things which interest me, two things which motivate me.

Sailing and The Stories.

Ive spent nearly all my time engaged in both. By this measure, I am a successful man. By any other, Im an abject failure perhaps to the point of pity.

Just cause everybody says that you are wrong doesnt mean that you are right but it usually is a good indication that you are.. my father often advised me.

Good advise.