"CABANA BOB"
 

Bob and Trish Meredith

If you spend any time at all around us sailors you will soon realize that none of us have last names.  We are all known by our boat name and our first name.  As examples here at Mario’s Marina we speak of Dragon Heart Mike, Gitani Mike, Haliai Mike, and Suenos Mike.  Sometimes the format changes slightly to Roy on Lyric, Beth on Up Jinks, Linda on Carina, or George on Deja Vu who is also known as “Dave, the Jew” because of a misunderstood transmission over the VHF radio.  And, others of us earn names that have nothing to do with our boat’s name.  This is my story. 
 
Upon our arrival at Mario’s Marina here on the Rio Dulce in Guatemala I quickly became known as Barnacle Bob.  I liked this salty sounding name with its catchy alliteration and took no offense when I was sometimes addressed as simply Barnacle.  But then, then the “Sweet River Band” was formed.  I agreed to bang along on a borrowed set of bongo drums and Bongo Bob was born.  It was predestined; Bongo Bob, how perfect.  I was going to be a star!
 
Several months passed and proud of my toughened fingers that could now not only keep time with the most complicated rhythms of Creedence Clearwater Revival but could do so without aching by the second set, I was ready to debut my own bongo drum solo when the inevitable happened – the lender wanted his bongos back.  There was some excuse about him and his wife sailing off to Columbia or somewhere but I suspect he was simply worried that the speed and intensity with which I was beating his bongos with my flailing fingers would set them ablaze reminiscent of Jimi Hendrix setting a Stratocaster on fire.  Anyway, the bongos were gone.
 
I was down, but I was not out.  Drawing on the strength of the many “down on their luck” musicians who had marched those many miles before me, I searched for an answer – a solution to my problem.  And, there it was, right in front of my eyes.  It was a traditional Guatemalan percussion instrument made of bamboo.
 
Like a phoenix flapping his wings to the fevered beat of the bamboo while rising from its own ashes, Bongo Bob was gone and Bamboo Bob bowed in.  Like many new things it was fun for awhile but the “Sweet River Band” played little Latin music and Bamboo Bob was not meant to be.  Eventually he was replaced by the electronic beat of a “black box”.
 
First Barnacle Bob, then Bongo Bob, and then Bamboo Bob, poor Bob was beginning to lose his sense of identity but he refused to become known as Broken Bob. 
 
And then it happened.  It all began innocently enough and it involved only a single incident; but that afternoon when a friend observed me exiting the marina cabana I was renamed.  Courageously throwing off the restraints of alliteration and moving on to the next letter, C – Debi christened me Cabana Bob.
 
Debi is the wife of Roy on Lyric and they are friends of ours as well as of Dragon Heart Mike and his wife, Cindy.  Mike and Cindy, and Trish and I used to sort of run the Marina when the need arose and it was during one of those times that I was given my new name.  More about that will follow.
 
Close friendships are formed seemingly instantly in a marina and in “no time at all” “good taste” is “thrown out the door” and nothing is “off limits”.  If it involves politics we sometimes try and change the subject, if it involves religion we pray the subject will change, but no matter what the subject, if there is the slightest chance of a sexual innuendo the whole group - even though all of us are sort of educated, respectable people like bankers and lawyers and doctors and nurses and military officers and teachers and stuff – all of us, dive head first into the gutter and are off and running like it is “off color” audition night for the Howard Stern Show.  Jerry Springer would be embarrassed by what sometimes goes on.  Such is the friendship that exists between crews of the sailing vessels Barnacle, Dragon Heart, Lyric, Up Jinks, Déjà Vu, and Antares along with a few other brave souls from other boats.  Now, most of us have known each other for at least two years so you can imagine how we all have a “little fuel for the fire” when it comes time to start having fun at one another’s expense. 
 
I am sure most new arrivals at the marina have a hard time understanding why anyone would name their boat Cabana when they are introduced to me but so far no one has asked that question.  But then, when they realize Trish and I live on a boat named Barnacle, some do become curious about my name, Cabana Bob.  Usually there is one or more of the group present and more than willing to tell the story.
 
Everyone there knew that there was something going on that afternoon as they could not help but notice hushed conversations.  The owners of the marina were back in the USA and Cindy and Mike plus Trish and I were trying to address a situation which required a bit of discretion and confidentiality.  The marina office is open to walk-in traffic and because we needed a private meeting place we all decided to meet in the thatched roof cabana which is located in a somewhat secluded area of the marina grounds.
 
A hot summer afternoon sun had warmed the cabana and as the four of us, feeling the heat and humidity, discussed our business we began to perspire and, I suppose, become a little flushed.  After our having reached a decision, Mike excused himself leaving Cindy, Trish, and me behind.  After a few minutes of conversation while straightening the chairs and table, the three of us also left the cabana.
 
First, Cindy walked out of the door.  Her slightly damp, thin cotton pullover clung to the contours of her full breasts as she raised her hand to wipe her glistening brow.  Trish followed closely behind, striding forward on long tanned legs while adjusting the waistband of her shorts.  Barefoot, wearing shorts, and with my shirt completely unbuttoned, I followed behind the two women.
 
I had just closed the cabana door when Cindy, six feet ahead, turned toward Trish and me saying, “I’m glad we met like this; it was good for us all”.
 
And then, turning back around, she found herself face to face with Debi who, unnoticed by us, had not seen Mike leave but had watched the three of us exit the cabana, and was now standing there with a look of astonishment and disbelief on her face. 
 
Before poor Debi could say a word, quick-witted Cindy gave her a wicked smile and said, “Oh, you’ve caught us; please don’t tell anyone. Please don’t tell Mike”.  And she continued walking.
 
“Really Debi, no one needs to know; please don’t say a word.  You know how this marina is”, echoed Trish as she passed by Debi.
 
Following the ladies with a big smile on my face, I said, “Hi Debi, please tell everyone you know”!  And I just kept walking.
 
She did; and at that evening’s telling of the story in the Cayuco Club I became Cabana Bob.
 
Bob Meredith

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