CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT: GIANTS WIN! (AND WE RETURN TO CRUISING ON THE ICW)

CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT: GIANTS WIN! (AND WE RETURN TO CRUISING ON THE ICW)

As a San Francisco Giants fan since 1976, when I arrived in Northern California to start a new life, I am still not believing this team’s success this year, last year or in 2010. Once you get used to cheering for an underdog, it’s hard to make the transition to New York Yankee fan mentality – especially when your team wins by torturing its fans with “little ball” and specializes in come- from-behind one-run games, in extra innings. And more especially, when your friend, the Admiral, keeps calling your team “The Midgets”, a moniker that often sits well on their shoulders. I mean, I had a chance to bet on my Giants, a whole beer, and I turned it down, because I would never bet anybody that they would win anything. Somehow, I don’t think that’s how a New York Yankees fan, or even a St. Louis Cardinals fan, reacts to an offer of a bet. Where is the confidence that should have been building over the past three years? Is it shredded by the dreadful 2011 injury to Buster Posey, by the sudden demise of  the “Melkman” this year, or by the second Tommy John surgery on our closer, Brian Wilson, or by the inexplicable loss of form by two time Cy Young winner, “The Freak”? And speaking about loss of confidence, what’s with Timmy? He’s so focused in middle relief, but can’t start to save his life – do they give Cy Youngs to middle relievers? I think not.

It took an outsider like Hunter Pence (boy, was I mad when Philly got him last year, and the Giants didn’t even try to get him) to build this team’s confidence, to strengthen the heart of the team. It took another outsider like Marco Scutaro – thank you, A’s – to invigorate the bats, especially in the 1 through 4 positions. And we have a reliably hitting – young – first baseman in Brandon Belt, homegrown, who is only outdone on the field by another baby Giant, Brandon Crawford, the stunning shortstop. Remember the mid-seventies phrase: “You got to like these kids?” That was post “disaster Lemaster”. It was the beginning of Humm Baby (Roger Craig). Those kids hit more than 200 homers in one year, twenty at every position (even Brenly at catcher and Thompson at 2^nd base). This year, all of the Giants hit a grand total of 84 home runs, 37 at home in pitcher-friendly A T and T park. No one should predict that a team capable of hitting only 84 home runs in a full 162 game season would win the World Series. Not going to happen – BUT IT DID! And I’m so happy, so very happy. I watch the Wednesday parade photos over and over. I turn on the videos to hear the players answer the same stupid questions (“How does it feel?”). I revel in Sergio’s T shirt with the message “I Just Look Illegal”. And only in San Francisco would they call fans of Sergio “Romosexuals”. It must drive all the red staters crazy that San Francisco has won two of the last three World Series. And they must hate that the Giants came from behind (what other position would you expect in SF?) not once, but twice, to even get to the World Series. And talk about kismet – On Halloween the Giants’ victory was celebrated throughout SF, which was bathed in, naturally, black and orange. The freaks and geeks who support this team fit in perfectly. Those weren’t “costumes” – every day is Halloween at a Giants game.

So where was I when the Gigantes were sweeping Detroit in the freezing rain? Where was my best Giants buddy (since 3^rd grade), Alan? I was in North Carolina, hunkered down waiting for Sandy to pass, and Alan was winging his way to Shanghai to cover McElroy and Woods. Still, through the magic of texting, we shared a few of the Giants’ “un-f---ing” believable moments. Like the three run homer game of the Panda to start the World Series. I saw Reggie do this (on TV). I don’t remember watching Pujols – some day, mark my words, it will be revealed that he used steroids, human growth hormones and/or testosterone during his big stat years – because I don’t like him (or the Cards). But watching the Panda was different than watching Reggie. Nobody expected the Panda to hit one home run, let along three in a row – off the best pitcher in the Major Leagues. We have short memories, of course, since he did hit a bases clearing triple off the very same Master Verlander in this year’s All Star Game. What was so cool about watching Pablo (not Pedro, as he is often misnamed by non-SF sports media) was the look on his face – the sheer joy – of just hitting the ball hard. Pablo Sandoval makes me smile, even when he’s striking out, swinging at the most god-awful pitches outside the strike zone (almost outside the ball zone). And some of us have noticed that this year, with the help of none other than Marco Scutaro, Pablo has earned, really earned, more walks. Go Marco! If you can instill patience in free-swinging Pablo, anything’s possible. Maybe even another World Series!

For those of you who read this Blog for tales of the Intracoastal Waterway, I will now make a natural segue from San Francisco Bay on the Left Coast to Cape Fear River on the North Carolina Coast. Remember Nick Nolte and Robert DeNiro? “Counselor, Counselor, where are you?” I didn’t see the Robert Mitchum version; DeNiro was diabolical. Who can forget Blythe Danner and Julianne Lewis in their thankless roles as the terrified wife and daughter, respectively, of Attorney Nolte? If you haven’t guessed, Slow Motion arrived at the Cape Fear River entrance at Southport, NC today. It is sunny and still very windy. We cruised for four hours on the ICW from Wrightsville Beach to Southport, mostly without any other boating traffic. So we’re either ahead of the snowbirds, or they’re clumped together behind us. I suspect that many sun-seeking boaters have already reached Florida. This gives us a lot of peace and quiet as we motor along, watching the ibises, the herons, the pelicans, the egrets, the swans, the geese, the cormorants, the gulls, the ospreys, the terns, and all the birds we still can’t identify. They are so good at fishing, especially the pelicans who soar along, then “whoomp!”, crash into the water to snag a tasty noon time fish.

And those porpoises are back, so I’m running out onto the bow of the boat turning on the camera on my I phone, trying to catch some of their acrobatics. How graceful can one species be? Would I ever get tired of watching them? I doubt it. Sign me up, National Geographic, to a lifetime position of photographing porpoises. Their synchronicity is unparalleled. And they do it without makeup and costumes. Just saying, ladies, at the next Olympics take a few tips from the original synchronized swimmers. At least, try the routines without makeup. Ee-Yew!

What did we learn today on the 30 mile excursion from Mile Marker 283 to Mile Marker 311 on the ICW? We learned that you CAN steer Slow Motion too close to a green marker, to the point where the Admiral starts shouting at you to “move away from the green marker, now!” Never mind, that Slow Motion is still on the magenta line, which marks the middle of the channel on our Garmin electronic chart. You have to “use your eyes”, not just the chart. You would think that I had learned that a long time ago. Well, I did. But it wasn’t like I was going to hit the green marker, so there’s clearly a fine line between being too close to the green marker and not being too close to the green marker. I am bound and determined to learn where that line is. And not rely on the magenta line, or auto pilot, to make that determination for me.

We also learned that the Admiral continues to hone his skills at docking. Today, with strong winds and current affecting our docking at the South Harbor Village Marina, the Admiral smoothly pulled up to the dock, I threw out the forward spring line (like the lingo?) to the dock hand, and we proceeded to dock without scraping anything or letting any lines fall in the water. After the spring line, I threw out the bow line, then the stern line. The dock hand was proficient, so it wasn’t all the Admiral and me. However, I felt pretty good about this docking, until – until I later heard the Admiral shouting from outside the boat – “Ann, Ann, come to the bow!” Uh-oh – another chance to chide me for “not having my head in the game.” Sure enough, the bow line was not in its chock. My responsibility includes ensuring that the bow line is secured to its cleat on the boat, and also runs through a chock to prevent chafing of the line before I throw it ashore to be tied down to a dock cleat. I failed. There’s still room for improvement, especially on those days when I thought everything went perfectly. There is no room for smugness in boating. Some day, some day, I know it will come when I least expect it, I will handle every line and every fender with proficiency. That day will be reported in this Blog, and we will celebrate together. Then I would like some on-line comments like “Way to Go, Ann!” “We knew you could do it, Ann!” “It’s about time, you turkey!” Get ready with whatever sassy sayings you can think of, because that day will come, and we need to mark it with original celebratory phrases.

Tomorrow will be a tough day cruising. Lots of danger spots. This means shallow water, shoaling, underwater rocks, weird currents – every imaginable obstacle. Our goal is The Barefoot Marina at Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, in our relentless drive southward. The Admiral spent several hours last night writing out all the danger points, with their mile markers or red or green water markers. We have a swing bridge that won’t open if it’s too windy. The whole day should test our seafaring skills. Thank God, the Admiral knows what he’s doing. I’m learning at the side of a master. While the learning curve is long and high, I see myself improving with each day on the waterway. I know I wasn’t born to be a sailor, but with the proper nurturing (and the Admiral is a good nurturer), I am getting the hang of steering 18 tons of fiberglass, stainless steel and diesel engines along the eastern coast. Did I want to be in San Francisco yesterday to cheer the Giants in person? Of course, but, on the scale of enjoyability, one day of cheering for my favorite team cannot compare to the days of cruising with the Admiral on the waterway. So here I stay, and I’m loving it.