Captain Incompetent

By Bob Hoelzle

Captain Incompetent is about the nine times the author, Bob Hoelzle, nearly lost his life on the water.  Included are other dumb things the author has done, making this non-fiction book 27 short chapters.  Those snafus include incidents other than those that almost cost him his life at sea.  Most of the action took place on the Forgotten Coast of Florida, which is in the panhandle south of Tallahassee.  If you decide to go fishing with the author, Captain Incompetent, please be sure your life insurance policy is up to date!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bob Hoelzle
• Release date: Jun 20, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223158844

Bob Hoelzle

Bob Hoelzle lives on Alligator Point along Florida’s Forgotten Coast. He fishes local tournaments, and walks the white sand beaches of Alligator Point peninsula on Turtle Patrol. "A Pirate Treasure Weekend" is a fictional account of an adventure on Florida's Forgotten Coast.  "Captain Incompetent" is a non-fiction account of harrowing near-death experiences at sea.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

The Great South Bay

Speeding out of the parking lot of the Knights of Columbus on my brand new 10-speed bicycle, no worries in the world, amazed at how fast I was flying on the skinny-tired bike, I failed to see the car.  It was approaching fast, turning in my path from Reid Avenue.  We saw each other at the same time.  Tires screeched.  Doom was rearing its ugly head and this 13-year old was about to die.  By some miracle, the car skidded to a halt inches from my front tire.  The driver yelled something at me, maybe advice to be more careful.  Should have taken that lesson to heart!

And I did.  Riding that bike from that day on, I always looked both ways before crossing a street.  Unfortunately for me, that caution did not carry over to my marine endeavors.

Four years later, this wild and adventurous teenager decided it was a good idea to cross the Great South Bay in the township of Babylon, New York, and buy beer at the bait and tackle shop that sat on the state channel.  Since the only way to access the shop was by boat, they didn’t care who they sold beer to, and we were a year away from buying it legally at 18.

One hot summer day, Charlie and I took my mother’s car to my brother’s house, located on a canal in Babylon.  Neither he nor his newlywed wife Carol were home, but the boat my father and I had restored floated peacefully against the bulwark in his backyard. 

The year before, my friend Frankie asked me if I wanted a wood boat that his grandparents had given up on, and wanted to get out of their yard.  The plywood 13-foot skiff was in sad shape.  Gaping holes where the bottom met the stern seemed unrepairable, but I wanted a boat so bad, I gladly accepted the challenge.  My father became my teammate, and traded an old shotgun that had been sitting in our basement for years, for a 5-horsepower ancient outboard that came to us without a cover.  My dad got it running, despite having to wrap a rope around the top and pull it hard to get it started.  Having no recoil, the rope had to be wrapped around the top for each attempt at starting. 

My dad and I sanded 13 coats of old paint off of the bottom during the winter.  It seemed to take forever.  Then we patched the transom holes, and fiberglassed the whole bottom and up the transom and sides.  It worked!  The little boat never leaked a drop.

Checking the gas in the little outboard, and finding it full, with the extra 2-gallon gas can also full, I told Charlie to hop in.  Charlie was all of 6 foot 3 and weighed 200 pounds, and my skinny 6 foot frame held a tawny 160 pounds, so we didn’t have a lot of freeboard in the little skiff.  The outboard sputtered to life after the third wrap and pull of the cord, and off we went to buy the forbidden fruit across the bay. 

A slight sea breeze from the east rippled the waters of the often shallow bay, and we cruised comfortably at a whopping 5 miles an hour toward our goal.  Having fished the bay on various friends’ boats, I knew the entrance to the state channel was two miles south of my brother’s canal, and the bait shop was only a quarter mile from there.  The sun shone on our faces, and reflected off the clean but murky surface that held so much life beneath; clams abounded in the soft sandy bottom, home to fluke (summer flounder), bluefish, blowfish, sea robins and the occasional weakfish and striped bass.  I loved nothing more than fishing these familiar waters, yet the stress of my teenage years drove me to drinking on this glorious summer day.

We pulled up to the barnacle encrusted dock after an uneventful crossing, and I hopped off the skiff as Charlie held it tight to the pilings.  The crusty old seafaring man behind the counter didn’t think twice about selling us youngsters two six-packs of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer, and we were on our way.  Between the mouth of the state channel and the bait and tackle shop was a sandy island with a large dune that rose fifteen feet above the water, sheltering the south side of the little island.  It was there that we set about getting drunk, and talking about the girls we knew at Lindenhurst High, basketball, and whatever came to mind as we swigged our way to oblivion, sitting cross legged in the soft sand behind the dune.

Before long we were feeling no pain, laughing and cutting up, skimming clam shells across the water of the deep channel.  An hour later we heard a distant rumble, and looked at each other as if to say, What the hell was that?  Jumping up, climbing the dune, my heart sunk.  To the northeast the sky was jet black, the wind had picked up, and I knew we were in trouble.

Charlie!  Get in the boat.  We have to get our butts out of here now!

He lazily stretched his big frame off the sand, and looked over the dune. 

Oh shit!  he exclaimed, running for the skiff, as another thunder clap shook us to the core. 

Leaving the rest of the beer and empty cans right where they were, I ran after him and jumped in the stern while he took his seat on the bench near the bow.  The little outboard sputtered and started on the second pull, and we were off to the races.  Adrenaline coursing through our bodies sobered us up like nothing else could have.  We knew we were in deep trouble!  Would the little outboard even run in the rain without its cover?  Would a lightning bolt fry us before we reached safety? 

The calm water of the channel gave way to a slight chop on the bay as we headed north toward my brother’s canal.  The deadly dark atmosphere heading our way was now over the mainland of Long Island and headed our way fast.  The breeze picked up, now coming at us from the northeast at 15, then 20 miles an hour.  White caps were forming and foaming the bay waters, and the only way to keep the ever increasing waves from coming over the bow was to quarter them, keeping the bow heading toward the canal and the waves off the starboard quarter.  The mainland disappeared in darkness, and I said a prayer, hoping God would intervene and get us back safely.  We were halfway across the bay when the pelting rain began.  Charlie, pale and shaken, had tucked himself head first under the plywood covered bow, but it only covered a third of his tall body. 

Waves now broke occasionally over the starboard gunwale, and I steered the outboard with one hand while bailing water with the other.  Waves built to 3 feet and smashed into our small craft with fury.  We were in dire straits as I filled the bailing jug up time after time and threw the rain and bay water over the side as fast as I could.  Visibility was only 20 yards, and my eyes stung as I tried to navigate using the direction of the waves, hoping to get us close enough to my brother’s canal entrance to recognize it.  Minutes passed that felt like hours.  Both of us were shaking cold, and the hard driving rain soaked us head to toe.  We both could swim, and we had two floating cushions with us, but I knew if the boat sunk that we were goners. 

Unable to see anything to mark our location, but still heading toward where I thought the canal opening was, I finally caught a glimpse of something pink out of the corner of my eye.  It was the Babylon city pool building!  Knowing we were in the right vicinity, I kept searching the approaching shoreline for the canal entrance.  And there it was!  We were heading in the right direction.  But relief turned to horror as I realized what lay ahead.  With 4 foot waves buffeting the little skiff, the 15 foot canal opening could be our downfall.  If the waves pushed us too far east or west, we’d crash into the bulwark, smashing the wood boat to pieces and killing the both of us, ripping our skin against the sharp barnacles of the seawall.

Now within 10 feet of the narrow opening, rain pelting my eyes, waves relentlessly battering the boat, I aimed the bow directly to the east bulwark as a wave heaved the bow to the west and pushed us into the womb of the calm canal. 

Thank you God!  I shouted.  Charlie, you can get up now. 

Captain Incompetent and Charlie survived.  CHECK THE WEATHER BEFORE YOU GO OUT! 

If only I had taken that lesson to heart!

One close call down, eight to go.

CHAPTER TWO

Lily White Meets Florida Sun

My parents were fairly strict with me growing up, but as I approached my 18th birthday, they eased off some.  I was surprised and thrilled that they agreed to let me travel to Daytona for Spring Break 1968!

Jimmy had a brand new Pontiac GTO with more horsepower than was needed for a semi truck engine.  This shiny blue macho machine was meant for the race track, it seems.  My good friends Marty and Jimmy worked at the local Kentucky Fried