Returning to Seattle, I have noticed that a few things have changed. Not surprising, given that many years have passed since I last called the Emerald City home. Perhaps the most surprising, however, is that Mark Christopher is hosting all these specials on Channel 9.
Mark and I go way back. We were pirates together back in my Seafair days. Initially, I wasn’t that thrilled that he joined the group, he being younger than I, stealing my thunder as the youngest pirate. Eventually, however, we became good friends and got into a lot of mischief together.
I’m not sure that he remembers all these adventures. It was many years ago. After years of being a radio personality, he’s now a TV guy and the years seem to have done him well. I can say this only because his hair is a lot grayer than mine.
Anyway, we were quite the wild ones back in the day. From the many good times we had at Bull Roar State Park to our roaming the bars of Seattle in search of vahines, it was rarely a dull moment for us.
Embarrassing yes, dull no. If you’re reading this Mark, fear not, this story isn’t about anything embarrassing you did. If you want to read those, buy my book, Memoirs of a Buccaneer.
Many years ago, the Seafair Pirates experienced a bit of a renaissance in town. For some reason, we fell back in favor. So much so that Seafair and the city would invite us to some really posh events so we could add “color” to the event, a strange thing to say about the group, since the only color in it was white back then.
The tourism folks in Seattle had invited thousands of travel agents to town to promote the city as a tourist destination. The city was putting on a real show that day. The event was held down at the waterfront and it was a warm, not too warm, sunny day with not a cloud in the sky.
The tourism bureau folks spared no expense. The major Washington wineries were in tow, pouring their finest reds and whites. There were trays of fresh smoked salmon. Quilcene oysters on the half shell. Dungeness crab stacked high and wide. No expense was spared.
For some reason, the powers that be thought it would be wise to invite the pirates to raid the event. We met at the Doghouse and boarded the Moby Duck, our landing craft/parade vehicle. At the appointed time we roared off to the waterfront, siren blazing.
Upon arrival, we did what we do best. We drank. OK, so we mingled, too. Most travel agents were women back then. So we had the perfect storm – free booze and pretty women.
Some of the guys sampled the microbrews by the tankard. Me, I was in love with wine by now and it was all the wine I could drink. Tankards of it. It was a simple drill. Drink some white. Slurp down an oyster or two. Change over to red. Flirt with guests. Try to convince one of them to sample us as well as the city.
While some of the pirates were loading up the plates of smoked salmon they had requisitioned, Cabin Boy Christopher (Mark’s pirate name – if you see him call him that to freak him out) and I had zeroed in on two really fun and very lovely travel agents.
Bear with me here, for things begin to get fuzzy soon after this. The sun eventually started to set and the event itself was over. Before we could ever leave an event, the captain had to “call the operation.” Once he did, we were on our own. Technically, we weren’t supposed to stay in costume, but what were we to do? Changing into our civilian clothes would have ruined the odds that these two agents would do a little traveling on us later on. They wanted pirates and pirates by God they would have.
Cabin Boy knew of a place nearby that was still open. A terrific Italian restaurant in Pioneer Square. It was Umberto’s Ristorante & Il Piccolo Bar. We settled in and ordered some drinks.
As the waiter fetched the drinks, I excused myself so I could use the head. I had a lot of wine to offload from the hold. I found the restroom without much problem. Unfortunately, things got even fuzzier after I opened the door to the men’s room.
It seems the oysters soaked in red sauce were in the midst of an argument with the white and red wine they were floating in. Finally, they had had enough of their close proximity and everyone decided to leave the premises at the same time. Of course, the left the same way they went in.
Before I knew it, I was puking my guts out in the urinal. Wow, that was horrible, I thought. I made my way to the sink to wipe off my pukified face. I soon learned this was just the calm before the next storm. As I walked across the floor, a second wave of oysters decided to exit, the wine right behind them in the hallway from my stomach to my mouth. I hurled on the floor, turned, hurled in the sink, then the floor again.
My once white shirt was now red. I turned to survey the damage. It was at this moment that an employee had innocently entered the restroom.
I guess he thought I had murdered someone. The entire restroom, from one end to the other, was a sea of red. He ran screaming down the hall.
Before I knew it, I was being dragged backwards down the back hall and out the door by Cabin Boy and a flustered waiter.
Hours later, I finally awoke. Somehow, I had made it home. Well, not exactly home. I was in the passenger seat of my Honda Accord, in the parking lot of the Doghouse, shivering from the cold of the dead of night.
I didn’t know what happened to the women. Or Cabin Boy for that matter. All I knew was that I had somehow survived the night. And though I could never show my face in Umbertos again, the Doghouse was still open and I was famished. And no, I didn’t order the oysters.
In the Emerald City, thinking it’s time to go back to the Doghouse (now, appropriately, the Hurricane Cafe).
– Robb