February 3, 2013

• The old guy still has it

  

   

  About ten years ago, our boat was holding up for weather, alongside another of the company boats in Theodore, Alabama. I had just come back from a week at home, and made up my bunk and took a nap in the afternoon. I woke up a few hours later,  dressed, and walked downstairs into a galley full of rowdy sailors. Someone had bought adult beverages, two half-gallons of Canadian whiskey, and a brisk taste-test was in full swing. I proceeded to join in the judging, and soon we were all singing to an AC/DC concert DVD one of the deckhands had thoughtfully provided. However, that I held my own with some world-class imbibers isn't the point of pride to which the title refers.

  At some point, an arm-wrestling contest started. Clint, the captain from the other boat was taking all comers. Aside from me, He was the oldest present, at 49. He put my captain down first, then Carl, the deckhand on my watch. That surprised me, as our deckhands are a fit bunch, but Clint has some shoulders on him, and arms like Popeye's. Then the captain's son, who is the youngest on either boat at 29, tried Clint. I just knew it was over for Clint, but down went John's arm in short order.

  It was up to me to save our boat's honor. Now, I occasionally help tighten down ratcheted wires on the barges that we push, but a bad rotator cuff in my right arm had kept me off deck for a few months, now, so I begged off. "Hell, let's go left-handed" Clint urged. So I sat down across from him, and we clasped hands. Everyone gathered around, Peanut adjusted my arm, placing my elbow closer to my opponent's, and stepped back. The theme from "High Noon" played quietly in the background (not really, but it should have). We tensed, and on the count of three, went at it.

  Clint started to put me down, but I brought us back to neutral, and there we sat, red-faced and straining while my guys cheered me on. My arm was quivering, and I could feel Clint waver, but neither gained advantage for what seemed like minutes. Then we both relaxed simultaneously;  Clint looked at me with new respect. We rested for ten seconds, still in position. I said "Are you ready?". he said "Go! And this time there was no mercy. We grunted, we groaned, the  crowd went wild. I pulled up my last ounce of strength, and brought his arm down to a 45-degree angle, and he gave in.

  If we had been outside, I think I would have been hoisted onto shoulders and ticker-tape would have miraculously started falling from the sky. I was back-patted, hugged and praised. I told Clint that on a different day, with his own cheering section,  he would have won, but he was having none of that. He said it was fair and square, and we hugged like boxers.  Indeed, I felt like Rocky Balboa. The drinking resumed, and I got to sit in the captain's chair the rest of the night. It was definitely my greatest athletic moment, and the thrill lasted through the next day's hangover.

  Note: the picture is from that night, but it is of Carl versus Craig, Clint's deckhand. Craig won.  Later, Craig and I went at it, until a draw was declared.

   

  • 10:59 am
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