Fort George

Alana is now moored at the Morningstar Fort George Marina on the west bank of the St. Johns river. I came in this morning to top off water and stock up on groceries so that I can continue waiting out in the anchorage in relative comfort. It is now looking like Saturday may be the day I can finally continue on toward Savannah.

I was originally supposed to be mooring in Mayport, on the other side of the river, but it turned out that there was a butthead in Alana's assigned spot. He was to have moved forward to make room, but refused to do so, saying that it would be "impossible" to get out if Alana were astern of his boat. The other Morningstar facility, located almost directly across the river, had plenty of space so I quickly agreed to tie up there instead. This was a mistake. The marina is brand new, the staff and manager couldn't be friendlier or more accommodating, but there is nothing nearby. It was a $60 cab ride to Publix. This side of the river is little more than swamp.

Today's real adventure was the cab ride. I called Jacksonville Yellow Cab and arranged for a pickup. The dispatcher assured me that someone would be here to pick me up within 20 minutes. This sounded reasonable, considering the remoteness of the location, and I continued puttering about the boat. A few minutes later I received a call from what sounded like a middle-eastern gentleman. He sounded, I assume, like most of the far off voices intercepted by the NSA planning bombings and other nefarious acts. I assured him that I was indeed the infidel that had called for a ride and he told me, I think, that he would be here in 10 minutes. I stationed myself out by the main drag in order to make myself as easy as possible to spot, and waited. After about 10 minutes I saw a cab. I was about to wave it down when I observed that the driver was an older, blond lady bearing no resemblance whatsoever to Osama bin Laden. She had a pink bunny on her dash saying "Jessus Loves Me" with no mention of Allah, so I felt confident in concluding that this was not my cab. After another 5 or 10 minutes the same cab returned, stopped beside me and the driver, who reminded me more than a little of Agnes Skinner (The Simpsons), asked if I had called for a cab. I told her that I had, but that I was expecting a male driver. She told me that since she was there I should just go with her. I demurred initially, feeling that it was only right to wait for they guy that was supposedly on his way. She told me something to the effect of, "He may be coming or he may not be. All you owe him is a call to cancel. That's how it works in this business." As someone that respects my elders and someone without an insider's knowledge of the cabbie code of ethics, I hopped in her cab and immediately called Osama bin Drivin' to cancel. He was understandably angry and told me, I think, that he had driven a long way to get me and was close. I apologized again and hung up the phone. No sooner had I hung up than we spotted another cab, a minivan, coming toward up in the opposite direction. This second cab, also festooned in Yellow Cab livery, screeched to a stop, honked its horn and did a u-turn to give chase. Agnes of God kept driving, monitored her mirrors and shared her opinions on, "that Arab pri*#." It was looking like we might be able to make a clean getaway when we were trapped by a drawbridge. Sensing danger, Agnes of God called her dispatcher to apprise them of the situation. The dispatcher, who had apparently told Osama that he had no beef as long as the customer cancelled before being picked up, was treated to a play by play of the situation. Agnes described how Osama had leaped from his van and was pounding on our windows, yelling and waving his arms wildly. Why neither Agnes nor I thought to lock the doors I don't know, but the next thing I knew Osama had the rear door open and was attempting to extract me from the cab, screaming, "He's my fare, he's my fare." Agnes unleashed a torrent of profanity, several phrases of which almost certainly constituted hate crimes, and punched the gas. Simultaneously, I wrenched my arm from Osama's clammy grasp and he tumbled out the door and the door slammed shut. Agnes expertly locked the doors and braked hard to avoid rear-ending the car in front of us, never for a moment letting up her play by play with the dispatcher. Realizing that his jihad had failed, Osama slunk back to his cab, vowing vengeance. The bridge opened and we went on our not-so-merry way to Publix. We parked in one of the designated handicapped parking spots (Agnes, who showed no sign of any disability beyond chronic racial insensitivity) had a handy placard which she hung from the mirror, then we both went shopping.

Osama has tried to call me since I returned to Alana. I don't know what he wants, and am not really inclined to chat with him, but if he persists, I may just be forced to. I just hope he doesn't return to the marina and slash my throat as I sleep. At least I can take comfort in the fact that his are not a vengeful people.