So varsity was done. After stretching a 3 year Bcomm into 4 years of Law, BA and finally something resembling a business degree it was time to take off into the great not-so unknown. I decided to head West against romantic ideas of the Far East, as well as my better judgement. Destination; Fort Lauderdale, FL. The plan was to join the luxury yachting industry which held promises of easy work that would take me around the world. While this idea proved to be a bit short-sighted it still provided one massive joll, a couple of arrests and some awesome memories.
America. Forget the land of the free and home of the brave bit. This was the land of gas stations that have cooler boxes of beer behind the counter. In a country that lets you drive at 16, drink at 21 and has drive-though bottle stores it doesn’t come as a surprise that things have fallen a little out of sync.
Our home was a 2.5-star motel called The Bridge. For some reason it had become famous, or infamous, I still can’t put my finger on it. It was ground zero for yachties from all over the world. It looked like the kind of place that you’d see on CNN being bust for drug, human and any other type of trafficking you can think of it. At the helm was Jorge, a Mexican whose proud smile while checking you in made you think you were in a Grand Hyatt. He had two rules. No drugs, and don’t bring the cops in to the hotel. A cynic could draw some contradictions to this ideology, but Jorge’s seasoned grin seemed to put one’s mind at ease.
The hostel held about 50 people at any time. The majority of these were stragglers like me, looking to get into the yachting industry. There were, of course a few low-income yanks who had stumbled onto the opportunity to pay minimum rent while taking a shot at the Brazilian stewardesses. My roommate was one of these. An TSA baggage handler who insisted that he was a pivotal part of national security- a word that would be drummed into me more than once during my time in the states.
It became a common understanding within the bridge that the process of finding a job came in at a distant second to that of finding the next watering hole. Over a couple of weeks we built up a crew of “yachties” who lived only for the next night. We even became regulars at the local gay club (where we found a mascot, see picture). Drinks, for some reason, were free. Payment seemed to come in the sense that we were fresh meat, and we did had a couple of close calls. One mate of ours, Jimmy took his shirt off one night. It was seconds before he was surrounded by a group of grinding half naked Maori’s looking to score. He was helpless. It was animal. I think he still feels like he owes us his life for getting him out of there.
By the end of the Fort Lauderdale stint very few of the team had landed jobs, and nobody was surprised. I’d like to think that we left with our dignity intact, but this was not the case. It was a dogshow. Those of us who had survived without being deported, molested or robbed counted ourselves lucky. We headed for the Caribbean with hopes of toning down the madness. We were wrong. Next stop: Saint Maartin.
NB Tip – Don’t drink too much at gay clubs. You’ll be surprised how liberal you can become.
