Vic Socotra

15 September 2008

Arrrgh, Matey

Considering that the top investment bank in the United States, Lehma n Brothers, decided to file for bankruptcy protection over the weekend and Merrill-Lynch sold itself at apple-cart rates to the Bank of America and Michigan lost to Notre Dame, it wasn't a bad weekend.

The Feds declined to save Lehman, for reasons best known to themselves, though all parties worked Saturday and Sunday. In fact, the more I think about it, it was a fabulous weekend, all things considered, even if AIG and two or three other major financial institutions are on the verge of tanking and the foundations of the world market system might hang in the balance.

I have traditionally not paid much attention to the markets, but that is where the 401k is, and I have trusted T Rowe Price to do the best in bundling my investments. I have had to watch like a hawk of late, since the Court-ordered Domestic Relations Order was signed, stripping me of more thousands of dollars than I want to think about.

In fact, the settlement is everything I have worked for since I gave everything away, and conveniently almost exactly the total amount of the account. That is the key to my interest in the daily fluctuation of the market- a steep daily decline takes me below the agreed amount.

Every rebound takes me a couple hundred bucks ahead. I committed to making up the difference in cash, so you can imagine my interest. The balance in the account leaves me around $300.00 to retire on, if it is transferred at Friday's market closing value. If the global financial system collapses today, and the stock markets around the world start to spiral into the dirt, I am going to be caught a little short. Accordingly, it was an excellent weekend to not think about the wide world.

There is power-sharing in Zimbabwe, and maybe hope for those hardy beleaguered people. Jiggs and I were practicing our growls to get ready for International Talk Like a Pirate's Day, which is coming up Friday. We are both old salts, so “Avast! scurvy lubber! Arrrgh, Matey” comes naturally enough. We had been talking about how challenging it is to operate a ship off the Horn of Africa these days, what with the astonishing increase in piracy in those waters.

Those scurvy lubbers are increasingly bold, and are holding ships and crewmen hostage, just like the scurvy Corsairs of the Bay of Algiers did back in the old days. “Arrrgh,” I said to Jiggs over a cocktail in the dying light of the very last day of the pool season. “Methinks the main brace of the world is starting to fray. We could be undone.” “Jibe ho,” he growled in response, eyes hooded.

The pool glittered under the dying sun. Mary Margaret was cementing her place in the Pool Awards First and Last category. She had the very first party of the season on Joe's deck, and we were seated at the very last. It was a sad moment. I had tanned with Ms. Hamilton earlier, during Prime Ray Time.

We marveled at the beauty of the day. A fresh breeze was rising, and there were high thin cirrus clouds that seemed to enhance the burn. The hard-core crowd was all there. Mrs. Hitler was at her usual place in the north east corner. Montana held down the shade with her special cushions in the cool cranny at the north end.

The cool guys were in place on the west side, yellow couchettes clustered together. The Professor had his very smallest Speedos on, much to the dismay of Sarah One and the rest of the ladies. “Argh,” said Sarah One, scrunching her face is distaste and he walked by. “Avast that ! Ick.” Most sentences on the west side of the pool started with “I can't believe,” since the reality of the situation. The pool really was closing, despite the comforting warmth. Our tans were never going to be better than they were at that very moment. There was not going to be another poolside bit of gossip for another eight months.

Christie Sylvestre was soaking it up. She moved into Mardy Two's unit a couple weeks ago, and her muscular husband Jake and daughter and Maxima the dog. They were sleeping on the floor, hoping their furniture would arrived from their last duty station down in the Carolinas. It is the culmination of a season of transitions.

The Sylvetres are moving in, soaking up our little culture. Old Jack Malarky is in the ground . Mardy Two has moved on, for health and a change of scenery. The worst of it was that Ms Hamilton and her handsome Ramon really were pulling the plug on this pool, and heading for the Big Apple. She was retiring the Tanning Trophy, and we would be down a quart on fabulous bikinis for the foreseeable future. Arrrgh! Bummer , Mate. That was the occasion for the smashing last party.

The President of the International Concrete Workers threw open his patio for the occasion, and everyone who was everyone gathered to wish the happy couple our collective best. There was wine and food and laughter, though tinged with a little regret. It was too nice to let go of, this season.

The sun went down and we looked at our watches. I went upstairs and poured a thermos of travelers to forward deploy to the pool deck for the last hour. Death Junior arrived, having been on call at the funeral home for embalming all day.

Jiggs and DJ and I set up shop near the shallow end, and Mary Margaret took pictures to document the event. We roared with laughter at the antics of the summer, and considered high explosives as the means to really celebrate the end of things.

Jiggs had some fireworks left over from the 4 th in his ordnance locket, and we contemplated which direction would be best to shoot them off. “Arrrgh,” said Jiggs, noticing Jim and his giant poodles coming up the walkway. “That scurvy lubber said that the next time we blew something up here he would call the cops and have us all clapped in the brig.” “Arrrgh,” I said. “No bread and water. I have to work tomorrow.”

Jim stopped to talk to the Empress of All Dogs at her end unit, and kept a weather eye on us as we leaped into the deep end. He was clearly expecting trouble. Jiggs got the Last Bib Splash, andm the President got the Last Racing Dive. All these things count. We paddled in a ring, watching the clock tick down to eight o'clock, just like the crowd in Times Square at Midnight.

The second hand came around to twelve, and Jakob the Czech cleared this throat. The season was over. We slowly paddled south to the shallow end where we could walk, and we got out, one by one. The Doc wanted to be the second-to-last out, and she spent a lot of time in the water this year. I watched her clear the water and dragged my left foot through the azure water.

When I stepped out, that was it. We shook hands with Jakob as we passed out the gate. I stepped forward to ensure that Montana was the last on the pool deck. I don't know if she ever got in the pool or not this year, but she is the Queen of the

Concrete, I stood by the gate, wary that someone would try to storm the pool at the last moment, while Jakob put away the back-board for the last time and pulled his bike out. I waited until the padlock clicked on the hefty chain, and Jakob peddled off toward the Czech Republic in the darkness. Hell of a year.

Arrrgh.

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