Chapter 29

I didn’t have a legitimate reason to be suspicious of my University. But they were up to something. Generally, when academics are up to something they aren’t saying ... it’s like waiting for tuition to go up.

Every time an athletic staff wants a raise ... tuition goes up. When tuition goes up, there are always a percentage of students who can’t come back. Without that percentage in attendance, there is a monetary short-fall. To make up for that short-fall, the administration feels it must raise tuition ... before one knows it ... the only students available are the rich and infamous.

They are up to no good.

I know it. Behind every conspiracy theorist are the lessons of history. Without the study of history we are doomed to make the same mistakes.

The Cat and I took advantage of the 14 bus ... Dunedin to Port Chalmers. The bus is reasonably convenient ... the Hotel is the last stop before turn around and return. Every 30 minutes a bus arrives and departs. Just enough time for a cold one.

It’s perfect for me ... I beach my Apex in front of the Hotel ... as long as I keep out of the way of the seaplane I’m fine. I stop at the Pub. I had moved out of the Hotel with the arrival of the Farr-48.

“Mr. Howard?”

“Yes Miss.”

It works every time ... the patrons dissolve in laughter when Howard is forced to acknowledge me as owner.

“Mr. Howard, you have your pub back. From this moment forward, I am a student at the university. When you see me again it will be as a customer.”

“I’ll miss you, Miss Flintkote.”

“I’d appreciate it if you kept the Hotel open.”

“No problem there, Miss. We’re at 100 percent occupancy. I can not fathom why the former owners closed the residence.”

“Good Bye, Mr. Howard.” I gave him a hug. The bastard sprung a woody.

“Good bye, Surprise.”

We were out the door. I confess that I may have released a tear.

The cat and I motored out to the 65 and did all that was necessary to make ready for a voyage.

Cat took a nap.

I checked for possible falling objects, put the dishes in the washer and secured the oven and refrigerator doors. I turned on the radar, the sonar and took the remote helm to the bows. I saw to the vents and buoy bridle, started both engines and moved out to the channel. The tide was turning.

“Last chance to split, girl.” I said it out-loud.

I turned at the Port Chalmers Yacht Club point and gently nosed the ramp ... just a light nudge.

I dropped the bow ladder and climbed down to the concrete ramp. I had minutes ... not hours. I ran to the club, told the bartender I was taking my Farr 3.7 and trailer and proceeded to do just that. Taking the boat with the trailer I moved it down the ramp. I had snubbed the anchor and unshackled it. I ran the chain over my homemade bow hoist and used the windlass to lift the boat over the bows and on to the trampoline. A couple of bungee cords to hold it down I backed away from the ramp. The tide was still on the rise. Navigating by the cable remote I moved out of the club and into the channel. I reshackled the anchor but left it snubbed. Staying at the bows to keep an eye out I commenced what would be the shortest voyage the CAT ever made.

Cat rubbed my ankle. He is a chore ... but I picked him up and cradled him all the way to the Otago Yacht Club.

My slip was taken.

I tied up to the grid and motored ashore.

The bar was open and crowded for the time of day.

“Honey, I’m home!” I shouted as I came through the door. “Some asshole is docked in my spot. I’ll have the fees if you please. Oh god ... smelly cigar smoke.”

I pretty much made a nuisance of myself.

“Start as you mean to go on,” was the motto of the last captain. So I did. I’d been paying 65 dollars a week for months and never used the slip. I was inconvenienced and not happy about it.

“How long has that monstrosity been tied up in my spot?”

And before the bartender could silence the crowd, some guy spoke up, “Two months.”

“What is it? 30 meters?”

And the same voice said. “30.48.”

“Hundred feet at a buck a foot a week. Somebody owes me 900 hundred bucks.” And I glared at the bartender. He was the one who collected slip fees.

Every eye in the place focused on him, and someone started a chant.

“Pay the girl! Pay the Girl! Pay the Girl! PAY THE GIRL!”

The police showed up. They thought they were responding to a riot.

I got my money. We had a new bartender.