Alphabrewski

Sailing has a history of being closely linked to superstition. I suppose this stems from the belief that there are reasons behind trauma at sea. Perhaps it's easier to believe that a vengeful deity sees fit to punish us for the things we've done (bringing clergy on board, for example), rather than for simply being on the water - a place where there's a fantastic statistical probability for things to go dramatically wrong. Maybe the root of this problem is that we as cruisers are just gluttons for punishment. Why else would we opt to plod around the world so ridiculously slow? Sure, we can laugh at the Old Salts and their superstitions, but sometimes we must examine more closely what makes us suffer:

•Never bring women on board - This, I think, was made up by sailors who couldn't get any women aboard regardless of circumstance. This, however, is diametrically opposed to a remedy for a gale, namely: a female baring her breasts before the wind. This, in turn, is probably the only way the sailors of yore could "peep the hooters" claiming this was the only possible way to survive a storm at sea. I'm sure it's just as successful today. Unfortunately, we on Project Mayhem suffered more than our fair share of storms for lack of breasts to bare. •Never whistle for wind - You might get way more than you bargained for, which is a sure way to get your ass handed to you, and whistling might lead crew to burst into show tunes, which can be significantly more frightful than a gale. •Never bring bananas aboard - Okay, this one doesn¡¦t sound too ominous. However, Project Mayhem left the Marquesas with two full not-quite-ripe stalks of delicious bananas. Upon reaching the Tuamotus, we had to eat something like 70 bananas per meal to keep from wasting food. By the end we were having banana pancakes made of 14 bananas and a spoonful of Bisquik. The weather was fine, but our potassium levels were off the charts. •Never leave on Friday - Not only does this mean that you stand to miss out on the Friday night parties, it also means that you could be subject to the dubious navigational practices of the weekend crowd. Project Mayhem had her own terrible experience when leaving on a Friday. Leaving Tahiti for the nearby island of Moorea, we made the quick sail to Cook's Bay, Moorea, and dropped the hook in the fantastically beautiful anchorage. As often happens when cruising, there happened to be many friends sharing the anchorage, and as it was a Friday evening, a party ensued aboard Project Mayhem. Let's quickly digress to the topic of Tahitian beer. It's called Hinano, it's wildly popular, has a cute girl on the bottle, though not baring her breasts, and comes conveniently by the liter. Long into the night, liter after liter of Hinano were consumed, and following the Law of Horizontal Surfaces, large empty brown bottles were all over every available surface of Project Mayhem. This was fine in the calm anchorage, but we didn't count on the Ono Ono. The Ono Ono is the large passenger ferry, about one hundred and eighty feet long, that comes screaming into Cook's Bay at 4:00 in the morning. The demented captain, who must have been wronged somehow by cruisers, found it amusing to go as close as possible and as fast as possible by the anchored boats. Perhaps he thought it was funny seeing spreaders touch the water, but the occupants of Project Mayhem, passed out and sleeping like only the morbidly drunk can sleep, thought the world was coming to the end. As the four foot waves rolled beneath the boat, the sound of the bottles on board matched the sound the horses of the Apocalypse would make tap dancing across your skull. All things considered, never leave on a Friday. This might be a moot point for cruisers, for to us, every day is a Saturday. •Never change your boat's name, and never name it something which may bring misfortune - Right, Project Mayhem lives up to her name, and never fails to bring wind regardless if her occupants whistle or not. The Baring the Titties thing comes to mind, but again an area we in which we seemed sadly lacking, no matter how much money we offered. My next boat is going to be named something like Force Two. I'm pretty sure that means winds under 30 knots.

So we've determined that it's a good idea to adhere to superstitious beliefs. But another annoying facet of cruising life is the use of antiquated verbiages. Americans, for example, say "Roger" in acknowledgement of comprehension on the radio. For the rest of the planet, this has an entirely different connotation. Aussies, for instance, will use "Roger" like: "I gave me old lady a good rogering last night." We'll leave it to the readers imagination to figure out it's meaning. I'm not going to ask you to stop rogering, it's just too funny to listen to your friends rogering this and rogering that on the air. But I propose a change in something else: The Phonetic Alphabet. Okay, I can hear the harrumphs all the way over here on my boat. But think about it! What is all this Alpha, Bravo, uhh, I forget what C is, stuff? Now, what I propose is something a little more innovative. Don't close the magazine yet, I think you might like my proposition. So here it is, as we've already talked at great length about beer today, we use it for the new Alphabet! Beer? You're wondering: How the hell are we going to use beer as an alphabet, throw it at each other? Try to get someone's attention with a quick bonk on the head or shower of suds? No, no, no, that would be a flagrant abuse of alcohol. We only use the beer's name. See, it's simple, when you're talking on the radio and you have to spell out your name, instead of saying Bravo, India, ahh L, L, I don't know what L is in the current phonetic alphabet, but in beer talk it's easy: Becks, Ikale, Labatt, Labatt. (Keep in mind this only works if your name is indeed "Bill.") So, you get to learn about new beers. In this example, we are representing beers from Germany, Tonga, and Canada, so it's very international. I don't know about you, but I would much rather learn beers names than Alpha Tango Whatever. God help me to avoid getting screwed by Mother Ocean again for messing with a time honored tradition. But you know, every time I cross the Equator, I share a libation with her so I think she just might appreciate the concept. Think of the fun you could have when the Coast Guard decides to do a "Safety Inspection" a thousand miles out at sea: "Please spell the name of your vessel." And you can glibly answer: "Sapporo, Corona, Raineer, Elephant, Waikato, Youngs, Oranjeboom, Usher." It's also a good learning tool. You could have your kids learn the Phonetic Alphabet by collecting beers from all over the World, and then trying to spell words with them. Better yet, you could try a specimen from each letter and see if you could spell anything at all. See what a great role model you could be? You would be giving them something to strive for when they come of age. We could also keep it a little loose. For instance, if you like another beer, like Coors (Heaven help us), instead of Corona, we could adjust the Alphabet accordingly, or even use it to honor the country you're in by using local beers. A personal benchmark could be to circumnavigate and get a representative example from each country. We have here a versatile, interesting new alphabet. So let's throw off the shackles of our forefathers and do something original. If nothing else, it¡¦s also a great excuse to drink, like we need one. Well, that's a big Roger from Project Mayhem to you, out there somewhere you wish you were, but not getting there by leaving on a Friday, and having no breasts whatsoever on board. Damn!

Originally published in Latitudes & Attitudes Magazine