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Multi-colored dawn crept into our cabin and lit the overhead with rosy hues. Droopy-eyed, I awoke with the Neanderthal grin I always wear to greet the morning. God I hate mornings!
"Bob, we've got a problem," chirped Jane.
"Uuuuuuuh," I growled drunkenly, riveting her with a squinty stare.
"Here's some coffee dear." Jane giggled as she handed me the plastic snoopy cup I've had since I was a kid. "There's something in the head."
My wife is a short, slim, red-headed Irish lass, a good cook, a wonderful friend and all, but has not learned the art of shutting her face until I've had at least three cups of coffee.
"Uhhh," I grumbled, attempting to focus on the word "head".
"He's stuck."
After I drained the cup, my head fog began to lift. Stuck...? He...? Being on a sailboat in the middle of Boot Key Harbor alone with my wife sort of precludes a "he." Were we boarded?
"Come see."
"More... coffee...," I slurred, stamping out the words in grunted syllables, refusing to move.
A cup later, the need to relieve myself surfaced and I stumbled to the head. "How the...? What the...?" I muttered.
She smirked. "I told you."
Inside the bowl was an amorphous mass nearly the color of the porcelain, eyeing me with suspicion. Several thoughts formed. How the hell did an octopus get in there? Was it dangerous? More pressingly, how could I pee? I grasped the handle to pump him out.
"Already tried that. Those tentacles hold like super glue against porcelain. Here use this." Jane handed me a bucket to take care of my immediate need. Our guest stared with naked interest. I turned around.
"Give me my shorts," I ordered, rubbing my night's growth while trying to appear unconcerned. I could just hear it now, "Bob's so modest that..." You just can't give an Irish gal a weapon like that.
"Get me a knife, Jane."
"Don't even THINK about it!"
"But he's just a clam without a shell."
"A super intelligent clam without a shell! Now don't you hurt Charlie."
"Charlie...? Charlie...?"
"Everyone has a name and that's his."
I scratched my ear, turning my head so she wouldn't see my bemused smile. You just can't be too careful.
By evening I had tried everything but had only succeeded in separating Charlie from one of his tentacles. Jane wailed her concern and warned me again with each fresh assault not to hurt Charlie. I assured her that an octopus can grow back a missing tentacle. They can, can't they?
Later that evening, we were sipping Manhattans in the cockpit when Jane remarked, "Ought to invite our guest for cocktails."
I stared at her thoughtfully. "I wonder," I mused.
Anticipating me she said, "I'll fix Charlie one."
Charlie was bathing happily in the center of his partially filled bowl when Jane gave him his Manhattan. He flashed indigo, scarlet, then slowly settled on mauve. He floated lazily to the surface with head turgid, his tentacles beating out a slow fluttering tattoo.
Head tilted, brows raised and a self-satisfied smile on her lips, Jane pronounced, "I think he liked it."
I swear to God Charlie was singing, "Show me the way to go home," while I stroked the pump.
Epilogue: The next morning Charlie was glued to the bowl with a cool look of anticipation in his eye.
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