Viking Superstars

Last week we were enjoying a beer at a local watering hole . . .

. . . as one does, especially when this is the view out the window . . .

. . . and a couple of guys I recognized from serving at the Tavern earlier in the day walked by.

We got chatting . . .

. . . as one does, inspired, as we lucky New Londoners are, by the Hygienic Art's gorgeous columns, watching over us all.

The boys joined us, and we spent the afternoon downing sipping cocktails. (Get this: they were drinking white Russians -- drinks with milk -- together with shots of tequila. I know!) and yakking. They were catching an 8 o'clock ferry to Montauk and had the day to kill in New London, which is not the worst thing in the world.

They're swordfishermen out of North Carolina who had been fishing -- successfully -- up in these parts. They'd been out for 20 days and then there was some story about an engine on a borrowed boat blowing up which meant taking a ferry from Orient Point to New London or maybe from Orient Point to Bridgeport to New London. . .

. . . I don't know; I wasn't listening. Clearly. Instead I was looking at Steve's photos of 335-pound swordfish and tuna, and him cleaning them on the boat wearing only his oilers. I know!

Anyway, we had a great day. Captain Chris kept saying "We can't miss that ferry," and I kept replying, "Dude, the ferry's at 8! It's only 5! I mean 6! You're going to be fine!"

And then all of a sudden it was 7:30, and they had to go. Even though their fourth crew member was still MIA.

Chris, Steve and Jason weren't missing that 8:00 ferry, though. No way, no how. We said our good-byes, and watched them head off down Bank Street.

But then we thought to ourselves, "Well, that's not very neighborly, is it? We should see them off, wish them a bon voyage, crack champagne on the boat or something."

And so we did. We had a joyous reunion at the ferry terminal. Poor ol' what's his name never did show up, though. Nor did he have his phone on. Hey, who can blame him, really? Who wants to leave New London?

Well these guys did. Twenty days is a long time to be away from home, hauling in giant fish and cleaning them wearing only oilers . . .

Ahem. Anyway, and so the boys were off . . .

. . . Oh wait! Not yet! I asked Jason if we could see the tattoo he got during his day in New London, so we could record it for prosperity posterity.

Salt Life. The outline done by the boys right across the street at Whaling City Tattoo Museum. To be filled in later by some lesser North Carolinian tattoo artist.

I bandaged Jason back up. Mistah told him I was half-nurse.

He bought it.

And then finally, finally, they boarded the ferry. This time they really meant it.

Just like that, as if they didn't have their boat blow up and their car stranded in Montauk and their friend left behind lurking in the shadows of New London, they were off.

Um, not so fast, Kowolsky.

There was, naturally, a medical emergency. An elderly woman fell off a ladder and hit her head and cut her leg and had to be taken off the boat. She was okay, but terribly embarrassed. And her Fourth of July plans in Montauk were squelched.

But then? Well, then they were really off . . .

Our favorite North Carolina fishermen . . .

. . . our young Viking Superstars . . .

. . . our three boys back in the Salt Life, right back where they belong. Back to continue their circuitous voyage home.

Bye salty boys. New London misses you already.