Tales of the Brass Bottle Opener
Short Stories by Tom Smedley
Adventure has always come in many forms. When one lived in northern Europe the winters could be hard. Daylight hours were short and sometimes sunlight became shrouded by clouds for weeks at a time. Spring trips to the Costa Brava brought pangs of longing months in advance. When the day finally arrived the twelve-hour bus trips filled our souls with anticipation of great diving, sunshine, fantastic food, and fellowship with wonderful friends. You see, in Spain the beer required an opener. Twist off caps and aluminum cans were nowhere to be found. When we finally spotted the castle high on the mountain and smelled the salty breeze from the sea, we knew LEstartit was near.
In the old days we stayed at a place called the Don Quixote Apartments. The Ritz Carleton it was not. After traveling all night, we checked into our rooms and went straight to the pier for the first dive. We usually carried some students from winter classes and spent the first day doing open water checkouts. I have always and always will cherish the facial expressions of novice divers when they discovered the wonders of my underwater world. Those bright colored soft corals and sponges accented with varieties of fishes too numerous to count were Natures gifts to those of us with courage to venture beneath the sea. An old adage said, Viewing the ocean from above the surface is like watching a circus from outside the tent. Truer words have never been spoken.
The diving was primo but equally as great was the anticipation of our first night in town. Just before dark we stopped at the pub owned by Peter, the dive operator. The bartender found a new recipe and was anxious to try it on us. The Black Mamba, it turned out, was a mixture of cognac, rum, and chocolate milk. The drinker couldnt taste the generous liquor in the smooth concoction and after the fourth one I knew that Dennis would soon be in trouble. I started over to coax him to stop when a rather malodorous flower child with a four carat ruby stickpin in her nose distracted me. The Mamba had already bitten her and the giant jewel glistened as she explained the evils of American Capitalism. I listened to her rant for a few minutes, blamed it on the Canadians, and excused myself to head Dennis off from ordering his sixth Mamba in less than an hour.
It was getting late and I was tired after a long day of diving. We left Peters bar and headed back to the hotel. I smelled a whiff of cigarette smoke mixed with stale beer and heard music and voices coming from the cellar of a large building. I want to check this place out, Muttered Dennis. The cellar turned out to be a family oriented club with folks of all ages milling about and doing the Chicken Dance. Dennis sat enthralled with the crowd. I tried to talk him into going back to the hotel but he adamantly refused and ordered a beer.
I left him with a warning and started walking back to the hotel. I met up with two girls who were part of our group and chatted with them during the slow and relaxing walk. The cool night air felt good and the two Black Mambas from a couple of hours ago had me at just the right stage of relaxation. One of the girls tried to talk me out of my Mantas Staff sweatshirt. I told her that it was rather sweaty from wearing it all day and I would give her a clean one when we got home. She gave me the lecture about how the donor must wear souvenir-clothing items for them to have meaning. She wanted the shirt right away but I was too tired to argue or barter. I told her no and discretely admired her long tanned legs as she climbed the stairs to her room.
Short Stories by Tom Smedley
Adventure has always come in many forms. When one lived in northern Europe the winters could be hard. Daylight hours were short and sometimes sunlight became shrouded by clouds for weeks at a time. Spring trips to the Costa Brava brought pangs of longing months in advance. When the day finally arrived the twelve-hour bus trips filled our souls with anticipation of great diving, sunshine, fantastic food, and fellowship with wonderful friends. You see, in Spain the beer required an opener. Twist off caps and aluminum cans were nowhere to be found. When we finally spotted the castle high on the mountain and smelled the salty breeze from the sea, we knew LEstartit was near.
In the old days we stayed at a place called the Don Quixote Apartments. The Ritz Carleton it was not. After traveling all night, we checked into our rooms and went straight to the pier for the first dive. We usually carried some students from winter classes and spent the first day doing open water checkouts. I have always and always will cherish the facial expressions of novice divers when they discovered the wonders of my underwater world. Those bright colored soft corals and sponges accented with varieties of fishes too numerous to count were Natures gifts to those of us with courage to venture beneath the sea. An old adage said, Viewing the ocean from above the surface is like watching a circus from outside the tent. Truer words have never been spoken.
The diving was primo but equally as great was the anticipation of our first night in town. Just before dark we stopped at the pub owned by Peter, the dive operator. The bartender found a new recipe and was anxious to try it on us. The Black Mamba, it turned out, was a mixture of cognac, rum, and chocolate milk. The drinker couldnt taste the generous liquor in the smooth concoction and after the fourth one I knew that Dennis would soon be in trouble. I started over to coax him to stop when a rather malodorous flower child with a four carat ruby stickpin in her nose distracted me. The Mamba had already bitten her and the giant jewel glistened as she explained the evils of American Capitalism. I listened to her rant for a few minutes, blamed it on the Canadians, and excused myself to head Dennis off from ordering his sixth Mamba in less than an hour.
It was getting late and I was tired after a long day of diving. We left Peters bar and headed back to the hotel. I smelled a whiff of cigarette smoke mixed with stale beer and heard music and voices coming from the cellar of a large building. I want to check this place out, Muttered Dennis. The cellar turned out to be a family oriented club with folks of all ages milling about and doing the Chicken Dance. Dennis sat enthralled with the crowd. I tried to talk him into going back to the hotel but he adamantly refused and ordered a beer.
I left him with a warning and started walking back to the hotel. I met up with two girls who were part of our group and chatted with them during the slow and relaxing walk. The cool night air felt good and the two Black Mambas from a couple of hours ago had me at just the right stage of relaxation. One of the girls tried to talk me out of my Mantas Staff sweatshirt. I told her that it was rather sweaty from wearing it all day and I would give her a clean one when we got home. She gave me the lecture about how the donor must wear souvenir-clothing items for them to have meaning. She wanted the shirt right away but I was too tired to argue or barter. I told her no and discretely admired her long tanned legs as she climbed the stairs to her room.
