Epimone

Epimone (e-pi’-mo-nee): Persistent repetition of the same plea in much the same words.

“Give it to me! Hand it over! Come on! It’s mine! At least let’s share the damn thing.”

Charlie’s piece of shit cabin cruiser’s hull had split and we sank somewhere in the middle of the ocean between Florida and Bimini. We were fugitives. We had left our wives. We filed for divorce and jumped on “Ball Joint” and sailed off to paradise. Charle repaired cars’ front ends for a living so he named the piece of shit boat “Ball Joint.” He had taken it in trade from a guy who couldn’t pay his repair bill. The boat was tied up at the marina and Charlie never had it checked for seaworthiness. The Coast Guard had never inspected it it because Charlie had left it registered to the previous owner.

I realized the boat was sinking when I looked below and saw a bunch of stuff floating around. We had to abandon ship with a couple of bottles of water and a fishing pole. The “lifeboat” was the size of a bathtub and was powered by oars. Luckily, I had rowed a boat before at the lake at the Jacksonville City Park. It was when my wife and I had first started dating. How ironic!

The fishing pole belonged to Charlie’s kid, Devon. It was literally a Mickey Mouse rig. The push-button reel was shaped like Mickey’s head. The rod was around three feet long and it was light blue. The lure was a silver jig with red and yellow feathers. I had to retie it. Basically, Devon had tied a slip knot!

We were hungry. I yelled “Sushi!” and cast the lure out into the ocean. Bam! Something hit the lure. I set the hook and started reeling. The little rod was bent double. Despite that, I could tell the fish wasn’t very big. But it was something to eat. I hauled it in and flipped it over the gunwale. Charlie caught it one-handed. It was a Speckled Sea Trout. I had caught 100s of them in my life. I knew they ran in schools and we could probably catch more. Charlie wouldn’t let go of the fish.

He pulled a flare gun out from behind his back, aimed it at me, and yelled “Fu*k off or I’ll burn a hole in you!” He started eating the fish right off the hook. He hooked himself. He tried to twist the hook out of his lip and it got even worse and hooked into his gums.

“Why didn’t you tell me we had a flare gun, asshole?” He was crying and saying “God forgive me!” Over and over again. What he did next shocked me. It was totally unexpected—he shot himself in the head with the flare gun. He almost missed! He blew the corner off his head and the flare kept going. It was seen by a Coast Guard vessel and I was rescued.

When they saw Charlie, they shook their heads and frowned. “How did he manage that?” said the Coast Guard skipper. I told the skipper that it started when we were in high school: “He always took more than he deserved and panicked for no good reason. For example, we were playing “Hide and Go Seek” one night. His flashlight battery went dead and he kept hearing noises. He freaked out and grabbed my flashlight and ran straight into a huge cactus. He had to go to the Emergency Room and spend the night having cactus needles pulled out. This is just one example of many I could cite.” The Skipper said to me: “Yeah, I know. A lot of people in the Coast Guard are like Charlie.”

He asked me if I wanted to continue on to Bimini and I said “Hell yes.”

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).

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