Captain Shrimp

The Dry Tortugas are a group of small islands about 70 miles west of the Florida Keys. I camped on its beaches with some friends in February of 1996. It was a nice place to get away from the cold. The snorkeling and kayaking were great and I played lots of guitar on the beach.

After a few days, we were down to some warm Schlitz and a few energy bars. We were sunburned, hungry and bracing ourselves for a liquid diet until the next ship out. Then came luck. A shrimping boat sailed into harbor carrying a rowdy crew. I noticed other campers racing up to them then returning with something in their hands. I went to investigate.

As I approached, I saw a woman hand a guy - who turned out to be the Captain - a brand new bottle of Rum. He smiled and waved her to a giant container filled with large, succulent pink shrimp from the Keys. She hurried to fill her bucket with the tasty catch. Hmm...give booze, get shrimp. Ah yes, I understand. Starving, I raced back to camp to inventory our supply of warm Schlitz. It didn't look good - only seven cans left. Determined, I wrapped them in my shirt and returned to barter or bust.

Captain (drunk): Whatcha got?

Me (desperate): Beer

Captain: Cold?

Me: No

Captain (laughing): Forget it...next

Me (proud): It's Schlitz

Captain (in hysterics): I'd rather drink my own piss.

Well...I was offended. Warm Schlitz was far better than warm piss - any flatlander knew that, but I was dealing with a sailor - a drunken one. A drunken one with a giant glowing basket of pink mouth watering shrimp snagged fresh only minutes ago from the very waters lapping at my tent on the beach. What to do...what to do? I lingered - me and the Seagulls jockeyed for position.

The Captain went to pee (a brew that had already been establish as better than my offer). Another guy manned the basket. More people came. - spirits offered, Shrimp received. Supply dwindled. I fretted, "Where the hell were they coming from"? How'd all these people have so much booze? My currency in this market was worthless. I went to the guy - the Captain's stand-in - and said this and only this, "six pack?" He nodded, then pointed to put it with the other liquid booty and looked away. I set down six disconnected sandy cans of warm Schlitz, but slipped the seventh in the back of my swim trunks. Like a Pirate on gold doubloons, I stuffed my shirt with shrimp terrified the Captain would return to have my head. I ran.

Back at camp we immediately boiled them up. The garlic, the shrimp, the one can of Schlitz...a triumphant feast for sunburned warriors. Later, with bellies full, but still plucking the Shrimp like grapes on a vine, I played guitar as the sun started to set. I was strumming Marley's "No Woman, No Cry" nightly during this trip - a tonic for troubles I was having with a certain woman.

Then the Shrimp boat set out along our shore. On deck a loud fight broke out. Lots of shouting and bodies colliding. A single body fell over board. It was the Captain in plain site bobbing in the water. He shook his fist and shouted a trail of obscenities that would have made any Salty Dog proud. They scooped him up and headed into open waters. I ate more shrimp and continued strumming feeling the eyes of Bob Marley looking down approvingly upon us.

Now I know what you're thinking. I'm not saying the fight was about the Schlitz, but I can't help but wonder.