Recently, an odd and random memory came to me. Now, my memory of the past is, by and large, shit. It’s extremely spotty. Usually when I become aware of something from my distant past, I’m fascinated because it’s like I’m recovering something lost, something so ancient that it feels like it doesn’t actually belong to me. So when this obscure memory arrived in my consciousness, I was semi-perplexed, as it seemed like a strange and inconsequential moment to remember. Or maybe it was more impactful than I was giving it credit…
Sometime between third and fifth grade, I went on a fieldtrip where we rode on a boat called a skipjack. If memory serves me correctly, these boats were used for dredging oysters in the Chesapeake Bay. Or crabbing. One or the other, or both. I really don’t remember. In fact the only thing I remember about this entire field trip is the captain of the boat. That fucking captain.
This was a special day. Yeah, I was not at school. That was nice, but that was not all. My mom had packed me a coke. 12 oz of glorious, sugary diabesity, all for the pleasure of my mouth hole. I remember standing there on the deck of the boat. The weather was shit. It was raining. Some people were miserable. Not me, I cracked my can open and was about to experience bliss, when all of a sudden…
That scraggily, redneck, son-of-a-bitch captain hollered at me and said something along the lines of, “Hey boy! Pour some of that coke here.” I don’t remember exactly what he said, but I remember vividly that he held out his empty Yoplait yogurt container that he’d just devoured with a butter knife and gestured for me to pour some of my coke into it. Being somewhere between 8-10 years old, I was taken aback by the request- in shock, I’d say. He proceeded to impatiently grunt and wave his Yoplait cup at me. I overcame the shock of the initial request and looked around to see if anyone else was witnessing this absurdity. No one, not a teacher or another student was in the immediate vicinity to call bullshit. Intimidated by this coke-jonesing ruffian, I caved and poured that hillbilly sack of shit some of my coke.
Now, I may be making these next details up, but as I recall it in my reconstruction of events, the captain shakily held that cup in front of me as I stingily and slowly poured my coke, trying to limit my losses. I looked at his face, trying to gauge the minimum volume that would appease him, but he stared at the coke with Smeagol-like eyes of desire. He would not be satisfied until the cup overfloweth. Though it nearly killed me, I poured until that brown foamy goodness crested the rim the yogurt cup. “Ahh, there we go,” he muttered, his desire now fulfilled. He, of course, didn’t say thank you.
I looked up the volume of a Yoplait cup, and it’s 6 oz. Accounting for the little bit of foamage, I was shaken down for at least 5 oz, nearly half my damn coke!
Hindsight is 20/20, and now that I’m an adult, it’s tempting to replay the situation and imagine handling it differently. If it happened now, I’d throw that bitch off his own boat just for asking. However, I undoubtedly should’ve been bolder back then. When pouring, I should’ve aggressively flipped that can over 180 degrees and foamed him out. Maybe I would’ve lost an ounce to foam, but maybe he only gets 3 oz, still a net improvement. Alternatively, if I had been a real elementary-grade gangster with nothing to lose, maybe upon the captain’s attempt to swindle me, I throw the whole coke into the bay, look him in the eye and say something like, ” Fuck your coke, motherfucker!” No coke for both of us, but man, that would’ve been legendary.
It’s all in the past though. I want to say I’ve moved past this trauma, but its impact remains undeniable. Surely, this event is the source of my perennial disdain for professional sailboat captains. They are slimy, and they cannot be trusted, and they cannot be rehabilitated! They are a scourge to society, and I will not be convinced otherwise.
To this day, every time I pop the top on a 12 oz aluminum can, my Coros Pace Pro smartwatch records a 20 bpm increase in my heart rate. Nervous excitement? Maybe partially. But I feel it down in my bones and in my loins too- a tension, an unease, a fear-the looming risk that my treasure may be plundered.
Sadly, my fears are not unfounded. There is a new shakedown artist in my life. He is three years old, and he loves seltzer (It’s 2025, we ain’t drinking Coke no more). He loves it as much as I do, and he has an ear that can hear the crack and fizz of a can opening from obscene distances. He doesn’t coerce me with brute force, but irresistible cuteness. His only kindnesses are that he’ll cheers me after his flimflam, and he usually limits his extortion to around 3 oz. However, I know his desire for more will only grow with time.
Thus, maybe that day on the boat was teaching me about life and preparing me for how things would and will always be. Nothing truly belongs to me, you, or anybody, for that matter. Do not get attached. It’s the loss of an attachment that brings suffering. If one is not attached, one cannot be hurt.
So for the trauma and the lesson, thank you, and fuck you, Captain.
Yolo 69 420 