It didn’t take me long to discover that Brunswick was a Port City with international merchant ships from all over the world docking in town. Goods of the most diverse description funneled through the Port of Brunswick all year round. A lot of the sailors from those ships found their way to The Bank Saloon in Downtown Brunswick to unwind on their shore leave. I struck up many a friendly conversation with Oriental, European, South American and many other sailors from far reaching points on planet earth. Port security in those days wasn’t what it is now, and merchant seamen were pretty much able to come and go as they pleased and as much as their ship command allowed.

On one association with British sailors, I was invited back to visit their ship and jumped at the chance to board one the big sailing vessels that I had only seen from afar. On the ship, they offered up a strong Chinese beer that they had on hand in their ship’s lounge. The Chinese variety was about 8.4 percent, by volume alcohol, as opposed to the 3.2 percent domestic variety allowed in Georgia that I was accustomed to. My merchant hosts were so generous with their hospitality that it knocked me out. Literally.

I awoke to the ship’s horn at 4:30 am in the lounge. I sprang up and looked out the porthole window to see them pulling the gangway away from the dock! From there, it was a sprint up the stairs to the deck yelling loudly “Stop, wait! I have to get off this ship!” The fellows weighing anchor determined that I wasn’t a sailor and returned the gangway to the dock so I could get off the ship. Whew, that was close, I thought. Then, looking at my watch, my next realization was that I had less than an hour to get to the station for my Morning Show. There was no time to stop home and change, just a mad dash for 101Q and the hope that I could make the drawbridge in the closed position.

I don’t know what would have happened if I had slept through the ship’s departure. Would they have turned around to take me back? Could I have been deemed a stowaway and jailed on board or pressed into indentured service swabbing decks? This was 1981 and nobody had a mobile phone, except for Frank Cannon. What would have happened if I didn’t have contact back on the mainland and was deemed missing by work and my friends? If I ended up in England, how would I get back? Would I be held by the authorities without a passport? What would I have said to Eric and Dick? All those thoughts were scarier than the moment I saw them pulling the gangway up.

All I know is that from that time forward, I made a point to remain on dry land and stay a land lubber. The only boat I was boarding would be my 1972 Pontiac Catalina. She was a fine sailing machine.