If
you crew change in New Orleans, instead of my favorite place to crew
change EVER, you are treated with being able to grab a bite to eat
just across the street from the Louis Armstrong International Airport
at the local Denny's establishment. Not only can you have a stack of
pancakes or a handful of bacon (some say I have an obsession with
bacon), but if you are over 21 years of age, this particular Denny's
also has a fully stocked bar. Now after a 2-week forced sobriety,
commonly referred in maritime circles as “sea-tox”, one might be
tempted to indulge in a cold beer or a cocktail or two, or three, or
four, etc. You can imagine how tempting it would be after pulling a 6
week hitch, as one of our crew members had just done. Well, no one
wants to drink alone. And what kind of shipmates would we be to let
that happen? Bottoms Up!
 |
| "You take one down, pass it around..." |
And
so began our night/morning in the bar at Denny's waiting for our
early morning flights. Now I'm not much of a drinker. A six pack in
my house can last for months. Others seem to take drinking as a
challenge akin to some sort of Olympic sport. It seems as though the
Olympic spirit had inspired two of our crew and the gauntlet was laid
down. The rest of us pulled up a chair, and as any good Olympic
spectator would have, we just watched, cheered, and egged the
contestants on. It really started to get serious when both of the contenders
had exhausted their supplies of petty cash and resorted to paying
with plastic. I lost count of the number of beers that were consumed
early on. They then moved on to shots. Not your typical size shots.
Big Shots. Wine glass sized shots. Any football fan can tell you that
a wide receiver, going across the middle of the field to catch a pass,
with a massive safety lining him up in the cross hairs, isn't going to
end well for the receiver. A similar type train wreck was unfolding
before us. It wasn't going to end well. Yet there was no way any of
us were going to look away. As the rest of us snacked on breakfast
burritos and scrambled eggs, the two alcohol athletes were locked in
a game of one-upmanship.
Eventually,
it was time to walk across the street and meet up with our departing
flights. Our two contestants were perfectly content on having “just one
more”. And so we bid them a fair adieu.
As
the sun began to light the morning sky our compatriots were still
nowhere to be found. A quick text message was sent to one of them in
order to hasten their departure from the bar.
In
response we received, “Help Me”.
If
there was ever an understated call to arms, this was it.
I
may be a sick bastard, but that simple little statement made me smile, just
a little bit. It still does.
It
was one of those “you reap what you sow” kind of moments.
So
off went part of the crew to try to round up our lost sheep.
How
the two of them made it across the busy street by themselves is a
mystery to all of us. I was impressed they even found the airport. I
was not witness to them trying to get through airport security. But
imagine trying to get two highly intoxicated people to take of their
shoes, and put them back on again, and not have them topple over as
they go through the scanner had to be quite an experience. My first sight
of our intrepid adventurers was of them stumbling down the corridor
towards our boarding gate. No extra points were awarded
for being able to maintain a straight line. Upon them reaching us, one of them
was coherent enough to ask where his gate was. I kindly pointed him
to the right, so as to go towards gate #5, as we were all the way down at gate #15. He
put his ticket away and then continued his wavering walk to the left. He may have been coherent enough to know that he was actually
in the airport, but not so much to know which direction was left or
right. Hey, I tried. Eventually, a nice ticket agent was able to
steer him in the right direction. I think she may have used a cattle
prod on him. If I had one, I would have as well.
Our
second not-so-ship-shape shipmate was being guided down the corridor
by the Chief. His eyes were bloodshot and glazed over. But he was
smiling. Perhaps just happy that his "Help Me” message had been
answered. He had seen better days. He was then unceremoniously dumped
into one of the most uncomfortable seats on the planet (as all of the
chairs in the New Orleans airport are) and told, in no uncertain
terms, “Sit! I'm going to get you some water!”. And sit he did.
Kind of. It was kind of a bobbing and weaving type of sitting.
Sometimes almost falling. At one point he decided to lean over to try
to get something out of his backpack. I expect a “thank you” note
any day now for catching him and preventing him from smashing his
face into the ground and breaking his nose and knocking out all of
his front teeth. It is possible he may have had one too many.
Getting
onto the plane was a similar guiding/catching/steering type of
exercise. It was like dealing with a 1 year old. But heavier. He was
in no shape to carry any of his bags. He couldn't read his boarding
pass if his life depended on it. The chance of him finding his seat
on his own were between zero and not-a-chance-in-hell. At least I
wasn't the one who had to help him put his seat belt on.
And all of
this was accomplished with our help.
In contrast, our
first contestant was forced to fend for himself, as he was flying with a different airline. How he was even allowed on board the plane will forever remain
one of the great unsolved mysteries. We weren't there to witness it and he was
in absolutely no shape to ever be able to recall it. So I guess we will never
know.
We
had hoped that a 2 hour plane ride would have given our intoxicated
friend a little bit of time to sober up. He did manage to remove his
seat belt by himself. Aside from that, it wasn't looking much better.
So the Chief bought him a coffee. Which he inexplicably decided to
remove the lid off of. Which led to some anxiety for us as he stumbled
around with a full, scalding hot cup of coffee just destined to burn
him into an instant case of sobriety. After another case of
guiding/steering onto plane #2, he was able to manipulate the seat belt enough to not require any help. We were making progress. Upon our arrival, more than 6 hours after leaving the bar, he had finally managed to regain some
of his faculties.
My babysitting duties expired as soon as we arrived
at our destination. Last I heard, they both survived to tell the tale
(what they remember of it).
Sometimes
I think us mariners should be forced to come with some sort of
warning.
“Warning:
Drunk as a sailor”
Or
has that already been done?
How
the two of them made it across the busy street by themselves is a
mystery to all of us. I was impressed they even found the airport. I
was not witness to them trying to get through airport security. But
imagine trying to get two highly intoxicated people to take of their
shoes, and put them back on again, and not have them topple over as
they go through the scanner had to be quite an experience. My first sight
of our intrepid adventurers was of them stumbling down the corridor
towards our boarding gate. No extra points were awarded
for being able to maintain a straight line. Upon them reaching us, one of them
was coherent enough to ask where his gate was. I kindly pointed him
to the right, so as to go towards gate #5, as we were all the way down at gate #15. He
put his ticket away and then continued his wavering walk to the left. He may have been coherent enough to know that he was actually
in the airport, but not so much to know which direction was left or
right. Hey, I tried. Eventually, a nice ticket agent was able to
steer him in the right direction. I think she may have used a cattle
prod on him. If I had one, I would have as well. 