Caution the following fable is actually a story. Rest assured the names haven't changed (just created). Take from this what you will, but again, rest assured the facts are true. It was hot and humid night. The air was nearly still, just a light gust of wind from the Southeast. The moon was full and spilled gloriously accross the waters of Port Charlotte like pearls ... ... got a hankering to chugg-down a few draft beers and brag awhile at the local watering hole. So I sets my sights on Cabbage Cay Inn on Cabbage Cay. I checked my speed and found I was barely scrapping 2kts with a wind gust that barely measured the same. Yes, even though the winds were light, my MAC26 could hold course and make way nicely. Rounding the southermost tip of Pine Island, on an western heading, I spun the wheel hard right and slipped easily into Wing on Wing and my S/V Insagal took flight as if heading for the moon. Speed lunged to an even 4kts. However nice this was, mind you, I had 12 miles to go and a calculated 2 hours 36 minutes to get there. That is if I maintain speed that long. That saying kept ringing in my head; "A stinkpotter is always in a hurry to get somewhere. A sailor on the other hand, is already there." Well there comes a time in all sailors' lives when the 'hair of the dog' howls and tonight was just that night. So I hurried below decks (where I could run around without banging my head in the 6 foot headroom), put on a Jimmy Buffet cd and clammoured back up to the cockpit wheel. At the helm, I pushed a button and listened to the purring noise of the 75 Horsepower Evinrude Etech lower her prop into the water. Dropped a spinhandle into the winch for the Daggerboard and raise it up fully in just a few seconds I was back in the pilot seat, sails still flying on wing. I was sailing with ballasted stability and yet drafted only 23 inches of water! A slight twist of the wrist on the key and the Evinrude Etech purred to life. A soft push on the throttle lever, I watched the rpm raise to 2k while at the same time, seeing the speed indicate 6kts. I eased off the throttle just a bit and watch the rpm settle at just below 2kts. Knowing anything above 6kts of speed would destroy my rudders, I kept it at 6kts. Otherwise I would have to dowse the sails and raise rudders. Raising rudders and dumping ballast could bring Insagal up on a plane capable of upwards of 20kts of speed (with mast up!). Of course I could lower the mast by myself easily using the mast raising rig from the factory. In just minutes I can duck under a small span only 10 foot high and be back to stepping the mast before you finish drinking down a bottle of beer. Same goes when breaking-down and setting up for trailering. Faster than a boyscout setting up and breaking down camp! My ETA was trimmed by nearly an hour which was good. But that isn't the reason I'm smiling. I am in awe at the power of the Etech outboard. You can barely hear it running. Moreover, I don't have to turn up Jimmy Buffet just because I am motorsailing. Whats more, I don't worry about Jimmy Buffet draining my batteries. The Etech as the low-end torque to deliver a 10amp flow of recharge current to the batteries. By the time I reach Cabbage Cay, I will be recharged completely. ... wait a minute ...WHOAAAA! I didn't see him there! Whew that was close! Nearly ran up the back end of a Pearson 26 sailing in the dark! Mmmm ... His batteries must be dead. I am only nervously laughing because of the look on his face while I swept by him. Probably wondering where I got the extra wind! I slowed down and then shut off the Evinrude. Deciding to run with him because of him not having any lights and all. Shouting back and forth I learned he was having engine trouble and all batteries were drained. I offered to tow him but he graciously declined. Though, I got the feeling he was glad to have me run with him. Awhile later I signaled to him my intentions of tying-up at Cabbage Cay and he followed doing the same. "Boy that was a close shave!" the Pearson owner said stroking his chin with a smile. I returned the smile, "My name is MAC26 but most just call me MAC" "Pearson26 here," he chuckled. "Call me Pearson. What the heck kinda boat is that?" "I'll explain, but lets go up to the lodge and get a beer," I said. Pearson piped up with a renewed happiness that showed in the laughter lines in his weathered face. "MAC, I'll buy the first round!" Just as we shook hands and began to turn around, came a loud rumble of a big stinkpotter. We both gasped in terror as he came about dangerously fast to the cross-dock where we both were tied to. It was a 29 foot LARSON CABRIO. Loaded-Twin Volvo GMC 220HP Generator, all extras. Probably around 70+ grand depending on the 'bells and whistles'. We stood watching as the skipper rail-hopped onto the dock, tied up and then without a word strut past us only to give us a 'smug grin'. "Gimme a break," said Pearson. "Yeah," I agreed, "you still buying?" "Has a seabass got ass?" laughed Pearson The night didn't shake-down long when at the bar we were on our 12th round of brew, that is, Pearson, Larson and I. Yeah, that's right Larson. He came into the picture sometime around the 6th round and he's been buying them ever since <chuckle>. Let me tellya about Larson. Yeah yeah, he's a braggard. The best I ever saw. Always telling us sailor guys that he can get there before we do and that life is to sweet to be spent floundering around chasing the wind. Et cetra ... and so on. Now it was Pearson (I suspected he was at his beer-tipping limit) when he said this, but here goes; "Larson," Pearson began, "Lemmee tellya somethin laddy!" Yep, Pearson was winding up for the pitch. Sounded like Pearson was ante'ing up a wager. "Now come now," I warned. "No no ..." Pearson interrupted me. He had this glint in is eye, and I can't really tell if it was a drunkards wager or one of wisdom over all the sailing years this old boy had. "LARSON," Pearson began puffing up his chest, "I will wager the title on your ship to mine, that I can get somewhere quicker than you in my boat!" Larson drew a snarled snort, then cleared his voice with a raspiness of a file over teakwood. "PEARSON yur on! Name the place" he howled while shaking Pearsons hand. Pearson drew a smooth stroke of a tiller's arm to the west. Yes the west out over the Gulf of Mexico. "To Cancun!" Pearson replied. "To Mexico it is!" MMmmm ... I know I was drunk. But that was about a 900 mile run. Mmmm, let me seeee if the winds are good to Pearson, he might make it there in about 10 to 12 days. Larson on the other hand ... well, from the look on his face. Well as you might expect, in all Larson's folly, he was a man of his word. Stinkpotter that he was, he had to travel the coastlands up and around the way to Mexico 3X the distance Pearson had to go. And while Pearson burned up 12 gallons of gasoline, Larson drank 100X that amount. I'm not sure if Larso tried as hard as he could but he was hauling butt when we met in Cancun. Oh yes, I was there too. Wouldn't have missed it for the world. Got there a few days before the both of them in my MAC26. Boys, if this story isn't true .... Well, it oughta be! Tom