Under the Eyes of the Bar Bunch
Sitting quietly at the bar of a local yacht club, I gaze out over a rambunctious Lake Michigan on a sunny but blustery spring afternoon. I am enjoying watching a small sloop approaching the marina and recognize it as belonging to one of our newest members. “Pretty little thing. Nice lines,” I think to myself. Moments later, though, my reverie is interrupted by a raucous hoot from one of the “Bar Bunch” to be immediately taken up by several other members of that auspicious group.
You know who I mean. Every yacht club has a Bar Bunch. They can be found on the same barstools commenting on the boathandling of anyone who comes within their purview. Of course, their collective memories harbor no recollection of any missteps of their own. They are all Master Mariners, a title collectively conferred under the impetus of copious amounts of alcohol.
Their obnoxious hooting is in reference to the skipper of the pretty little sloop having slightly misjudged his entry while sailing into his slip. The result was a small but noticeable bump. Certainly, no
