|So, . . .
||[Sep. 6th, 2017|11:57 pm]
Phrembah (a potato-like mystery)
. . . I cut the mooring lines with my Bowie knife, pissing myself off in the process because I had just the week before replaced the pre-WWII hemp ropes with high-tech polypropylene, but I was damned if I was going to borrow a boat and go undo them from the other end to save the ropes. That exercise smacked of not letting it go. It needed to be let go. So, I sliced the lines at the loops,let them fall into the dirty water and walked away. But . . . on my way to get coffee and a newspaper the next morning, I saw that the scow had not sunk because the shore-power cord that ran the bilge pump was still plugged in and now mooring the "craft" as well as keeping it afloat. The wind or tide would have certainly pulled the plug sooner or later, but I wasn't going to wait. I couldn't reach the plug without going two or three steps down the ladder and possibly getting my shoes wet with foul harbor water, so I reached down with the tip of my knife and pried the plug out of the socket and, in the process, putting a knick in the tip of the knife where it momentarily touched both sides of the electrical circuit. Finally, the plug fell into the water, the pump stopped and I left, making a point of not walking by there ever again. If you're going to leave, you have to just fuckin' leave.