Fail

The gas dock was closed by the time I got my ailing motor evaluated but not repaired last night. – Fail.

My phone, which is not supposed to burn minutes while I am on the internet as I have an internet plan consumed all of my minutes so I couldn't make a phone call. - Fail

Not enough gas to get to town. - Fail

The people I was to meet to resume the efforts to pull a Chinese Junk off a sandbar were running late. - Fail

The gas station and the gas dock are both out of gas. - Fail

While waiting for the crew to find a source of gas the nasty gash in my left hand, sliced to the bone, popped open between the excessive spaces between the stitches. - Fail

I stopped to get breakfast, an omelette with holahandra, but they were out, no potatoes – Fail.

I kept walking. I'll have a burger with mustard. Out of mustard? - Fail

I volunteered to go all the way across the street to buy more. That shamed the proprietor into going. The store was out of mustard. - Fail

My departing boat left while I was in the hospital. - Fail

We spent the day attaching 143 ninety pound lift bags, securing chains around skegs. The boat weighs 40 tons, draws 8 feet and is in 3 to 4 feet of water. This effort is bound to – Fail

The fact that I have not kept my faithful readers of some very interesting activity - Fail

Water Separator

Nary a day passes when there is not something to be fixed on the boat.

Today, I had reinstall the water separator which for some reason had been bypassed by the moron to whom I had charged with removing the foam from my boat.  I docked her near the Rip Tide decided to change out my fuel lines, which were aging, drying out, cracking, sucking air.

An endless stream of people came and went from the Rip Tide, a retired shrimping boat, now a bar, that takes on 3,000 gallons an hour. Locals, surfers, pretty girls in bikinis.

One last hose, behind the filter.  I guess I'll just cut this one off.  I took out a utility knife and sliced the hose along the flares and continued into the flesh of my left index finger down to the bone.  Shit!

Blood was pouring down my arm, dripping off my elbow and coagulating on the deck as I continued to work.  Gawkers gawked.  "You better get to the hospital." "Ahh, they're open all night, I need to get this done while there is still daylight."
Here's my Facebook post:

I cut my finger to the bone. I was continuing to work on my boat as I had to finish my fuel lines before dark. Blood was gushing out of my fingers and dripping down my elbow pooling up on the floor of the boat. Gawkers gawked. "You need to get to the hospital." 

Finally, one guy who knows me well said, "The sooner that heals the faster you can get back in the water." That did it. Off to the hospital.

I walked half a mile entered the emergency room, the front desk clerk looked at it and sent me directly to a treatment room. A nurse was there within half a minute washing and prepping the wound. As soon as he was done the doctor came in and stitched me up while the nurse asked about 5 questions, my name, date of birth, age, place of residence and my passport number.

No long list of tedious questions about former illnesses or family history of diseases, it's a cut finger. After the doctor put seven stitches into me and wrote out prescriptions, I was given a tetanus shot.

Fifteen minutes after I walked in the door, I was told I could leave. I asked where I go to pay. "Donde pagar?" The women obviously convinced that I would not comprehend her answer wagged her finger at me and I walked out the door without a charge. Not the type of hospital I would like to treat a major problem but for what it is, the service and price were right.

A friend finished off the job while I was in the hospital