If you want to start from the beginning of this series, start here.

After leaving Mattias’ house, we closed our loop back to Luderitz. It had been ten days, and we were receiving word that while Matt aboard S/V Florence used love cats, he is reconsidering his position after one particular calico shredded his papertowels and kept him up after midnight.

“We’ll be back tonight before dark,” Andrew promised with our last dribs of internet before casting off from Windoek.

A Small Bump In The Road

We we were on track to meet that mark until the only other car we passed on our entire ten-hour drive happened to be one that had slid off the road about an hour and a half outside of Luderitz. We zoomed past one man waving his arms over his head, and a younger man looking after us with a measure of sorrow. Our guilt followed us in the cloud of dust billowing from our tires.

“Should we go back?” we asked each other.

“What if its an axe murderer?”

“It’s awfully cold out there."

“The weather is scheduled to dip to freezing tonight.”

“There probably won't be other cars to help them all night."

We both sigh. I slow the truck to a stop and make a three point turn to reverse course.

The two gentlemen had been trying to make the same drive as us from Windoek to Luderitz “for a business meeting.” Due to extreme fatigue (or inebriation) the car had floated atop a pile of sand on this particular curve and went flying into the desert. (Could happen to anyone!) With luck, it did not roll, but the front wheel was destroyed.

“Help us, Mommy? Will you please help us?” The older man said to me. This is literally the very first time in my entire existence I have been referred to as “mommy.”

I sigh again.

“Please mommy!”

We concluded there was nothing to be done except to drive these two back to Luderitz where Jabrome from Zimbabwe can arrange a tow truck and drag this thing back for repair. When I suggest as much, however, Jabrome insists that he must leave his traveling mate here to protect the car while he takes his spare tire into Luderitz to be repaired (it was flat, too). “I’ll bring it back here and drive the car the car the rest of the way.”

“Is he your son?” I ask.

“No, he is a hitch hiker. I picked him up on my way here.”

Oh lord. The kid looked to be about 17. I'm uncomfortable leaving a 17 year old kid to fend off desert pirates from Jabrome’s mangled early 90s Acura. But, Jabrome is insistent, and I apparently don't have my stern “mommy” glare up to par.

He prevails upon me, and soon Jabrome is in the back seat chattering away about how surprised he is I am driving. I speed on down the road and watch the younger man in my rear view mirror take up camp on the hood of the car. I resign myself to making a couple laps this evening.

“Wow, I'm so drunk...I mean tierd!" Jabrome repeats from the back seat, “No, no, mommy, I mean tired! I am not drunk. I fell asleep and we slid off the road, I can't believe it!"

Marge Simpson grumble.

We pull into the first gas station in Luderitz just as the street lights are beginning to glow. The gas station attendants peer into our windows with curiosity, first because Mommy is driving and then more so when Jabrome pours himself out of the back seat.

We explain Jaborme's plight and the gas station attendants rub their foreheads and say, “Yes, in Namibia we help each other.” Having done our part, they are elected to do theirs.

They pump up Jabrome's tire, but the rim of the wheel seems to be mishapen and the tire is blowing air right out the side. They grab sledge hammers and start pounding away on the tire in an attempt to get the tire to seat to the rim. Jabrome, meanwhile, is calling his girlfriend. Leaning over the gas station attendant's handiwork in progress, Jabrome pulls out two bills that equated to about $2.00 US and offer it to the gas station attendants who growl and roll their eyes at him.

The girlfriend arrives wearng her robe, slippers and a hair wrap, looking for all the world like she'd rather ring Jabrome's neck. Jabrome introduces us, repeating "Thank you, Mommy!” over and over again.

Marge Simpson grumble.

At this point, Jabrome is telling us we are free to go, that he will ride back to his car in his girlfriend's car. “Do you promise? You will go get your friend?”

“Yes, yes, yes, Mommy. I promise."

I had some concern, but Jabrome's car is out there and I am pretty sure he wants it back. So, we tuck a more appropriate amount of cash into the gas station attendants’ hands to say thanks for letting us unload Jabrome upon them. Then, we complete our adventure by returning to a mischieveous Katherine Hepburn and the ever reliable, Sonrisa.

Sleeping in our own bed is always nice.

Attending our home-bar is also always nice.

Where Everyone Knows Your Name

The next day, the internet still wasn't working in Luderitz, so I returned to my home-town internet circuit: the coffee shop from morning until it closes, and then the back corner perch at the yacht club bar.

In his early television days, Anthony Bourdain did an episode about what makes a great bar. His list of requisites were as follows:

a welcoming atmosphere;
a friendly bartender;
local culture;
authenticity; and of course,
good drinks.

The Luderitz Yacht Club Bar had all of this in spades.

A Welcoming Atmosphere

I had a good feeling about the place the very first night we pieced Grin together and puttered our way from Sonrisa to shore. The west setting sun had fallen in the sky, and it glowed through a wall of windows facing the harbor. Sonrisa bobbed in the calm sea, just beyond the long pier that offered all-tide access to shore (and the bar) for Grin and his occupants. Warm compared to Luderitz's chilly breeze, we spied fellow sailors from South Africa who had been achored next door to us earlier that day, Kiga. We pulled our bar stools next to theirs.

Within seconds, the bar tender, Paul, arrived to offer us a beverage. We ordered two Windoak drafts, and with only two shakes of Kiga's puppy dog's tail - who happened to be waiting at my feet - Paul returned with frosty mugs full of beer. "Wow, that was quick, and a frosted mug? Thank you!" I said as Paul smiled and handed me my mug.

In the early afternoon, the Yacht Club is pleasantly quiet. The pool table and dart board await competitors, and the bar stools are all perfectly alined next to the bar waiting for their regulars. I eventually became a regular owing to the inopearble internet out there and the just barely operable internet in here.

A Friendly Bar Tender

The first day we lost internet, I said “Paul, do you have wifi here?” He smiled and gave me the password. He guided me to a bar stool around the furthest back corner of the bar (right next to the bathroom) where the wifi signal would be the strongest. He reached across the bar and plugged my computer into the outlets just behind his blender. Soon, I was “assigned" this seat, and it was invariably left free waiting for my return. (Maybe this is because it was next to the bathroom.)

Here, I would plug away at legal briefs and discovery requests in relative quiet until about 5:30 p.m. when the first off-work crowd would appear for their evening tipple. Things would really get going about 7:30 p.m. - about the same time my team in the US would wake up and need to schedule phone calls! No matter, from my quietish corner through a pair of noise cancelling ear buds, I would do my best to drown out the good natured pool-game barbs, political debate set in Afrikaans, and challenges to dart games. It was only when the singing started, that I was forced to give up and admire the scene.

Local Culture and Authenticity

Strands of yacht club burgees hang overhead, each one left by a sailor passing through. Paul’s polished oak bar glows under the lights that glisten through hanging glasses and liquor bottles mounted on dispensers. He was always quick to slide a protective coaster under a sweating mug of beer left unattended. From my vantage point, I could watch men dressed in overalls and fishing slicks hovering over their beer mugs, elbows atop the bar. This regular case of characters included the Commodore and the Diamond Miner.

The Commodore is a fixture in Luderitz. I seem to run into him everywhere. He has lunch at my work cafe, and he turns up at the yacht club most nights. When we first arrived, he shook my hand with a big meaty paw and introduced himself as the Commodore.

“Anything you need while you are in town, you just let me know." He said. I agreed we would.

Once in a while, a young lady passing through would stop, wrap one arm around the shoulder of the Commodore, and call out a song request for Paul to play over the speakers. Then, a sonorous mezzo soprano would combine with the Commodore's deep baritone in performance of country-American style duets in Afrikaans. George Straight, in Africa.

A few other regulars would get curious about me, too. The night before we were scheduled to leave to hike Fish River Canyon I was hailed by a group wondering where I was from, why I am here, and what we are doing next. I explain myself, with my own Captain absent and tending to his cat aboard. Looks of disbelief circulate around the bar. “You sailed here... from the US?" There must be many cruiser who stops in here, but I think it might be polite to at least pretend to be impressed. Eventually, they shrugged and took me at my word.

Good Drinks

Day after day, evening after evening, this perfect bar scene played out. I watched Paul work - scanning, always scanning - to ensure he snatched your mug from beneath your hand just as you drained the last drop from your cup, not a moment later, to replace it with your drink of choice.

I was a constant source of challenge for him, because you could never tell what I would want next. Coke Zero? A cider? A beer? A bubble water? Eventually, Paul realized I was working and could predict the extent of my work day. He took to guessing, quite accurately, my sequence. He knew to start with bubble water, and deliver a coke zero whenever I looked like I needed something more cheerful. A cider would arrive a half hour before quitting time. And, he knew exactly when I was about to fold up shop and request a frosty beer and a pizza. He never forced anything upon me, but was always on his toes to provide his best guess.

He'd top up the beer, with just the right amount of foam.

He'd always provide a glass with ice next to the cider - a lemon wedge added for the dry.

And when the team would ring the drink bell, he would cheerfully pour a whole bar's worth of tiny frosty mugs filled with “the Black Cabernet" - Jagermeister. While the team might accept my order of bubble water while work was still pending, I was never exempt from a round of communal Jagermeister.

After our road trip through Namibia, it felt good to be “home.”