Tales of Ringo Key - Southwinds, December 2001

- Local News for Southern Sailors - December 2001 Next Story

Tales of the Ringo Key Marina — Old George
By Allan Horn

Like most live-aboard marinas, Ringo Key has its share of retired people, although the vast majority of the people in this marina are still working to pay for their boats—or improvements in their boats—in preparation for the cruising life. Most of the retired people here have no intention of going cruising. They have already cruised or just want to live on the water where they can fish and enjoy nature. Old George was in the latter category, known as the "boat geezers."

At 5 feet 6 inches tall and around 250 pounds, George was a short and chubby Irishman. He was a retired boilermaker from the Philadelphia area. He had moved to Florida with his wife on his 58th birthday...taking an early pension and disability after a heart attack and a new pacemaker.

They had found a sprawling ranch-style house on the bay with beautiful gardens, a large yard, and no close neighbors. He really didn't care where they lived, just so long as he could fish from his own property. Madeleine wanted flowers and gardens she could tend.

For six years George and Madeleine had fished, tended their gardens, traveled throughout Florida's countless tourist traps, and taken cruises to Mexico and the Bahamas on cruise ships. They had a wonderful time.

One sunny Monday afternoon, while George fished from the dock, Madeleine suffered a massive stroke while mopping and waxing the kitchen floor. Doctor Peyson said she was probably dead before she hit the floor. She didn't feel a thing.

George was devastated. He had lived with and loved Madeleine for over 42 years and was totally lost without her. They had no children, and all of their friends and relatives had already passed on with the exception of a nephew in California and a niece in New Jersey.

George tried to keep Madeleine's gardens in the condition that she had always kept them, but it was no use. He just didn't have her green thumb. He said he must have had a brown thumb because every plant and tree in the yard was soon that color. He just couldn't face the place anymore.

One day he was wandering the waterfronts of Ringo Key as he and Madeleine used to do when he came upon a 34-foot houseboat with a "For Sale" sign in the window. He bought it.

Two weeks later, he had moved a few clothes, tools, kitchen utensils, and his fishing gear onboard, and moved the houseboat to a live-aboard slip at Ringo Key Marina.

George kept pretty much to himself, fishing from the back of his houseboat, carving dolphins and pelicans from basswood on cold or rainy days, eating in restaurants and diners, and going to the movies nearly every evening.

A few months after moving aboard his houseboat, George was experiencing a lot of trouble moving around and a shortness of breath. He went to the doctor and soon found himself under the knife for a new pacemaker and what George called a "roto-rooter" job on his prostate.

By the time we moved Island Lady in directly across the dock from him, Old George was a beaten man. He rarely spoke to anyone and usually kept his hearing aid turned off so that he couldn't hear anyone else speak to him. I would always speak to him when I saw him out and about and was somewhat puzzled by the fact that he seldom responded.

Then one day I saw him carving a small wooden dolphin and stopped to admire the work. As a ten-thumbed sculptor myself, I'm always ready to learn something new when the opportunity presents itself.

I stood on the dock watching, directly in front of George. He was so intent on his work that he didn't notice me right away, but when he did, he jumped and nearly cut himself with his Exacto knife.

I said, "Very nice!"

"Whaa..." he started, then fumbled in his shirt pocket and pulled out a hearing aid and stuffed it in his ear. "What did you say?" he growled.

"Very nice!" I repeated.

"What the hell you talkin' about?" he asked gruffly.

"Your carving...nice work," I said.

"Aw...it's pretty crummy!" he responded. "Jest passes the time I got left."

"I'm Al...," I said, holding out my hand.

"George Murphy," he replied, setting down his knife so he could shake hands. "You live over there, don'tcha?"

Following his gesture toward Island Lady, I told him that I did.

"Nice to meetcha..." he replied, then pulled out his earpiece. The audience was over.

"My pleasure..." I said, to no one in particular.

I went aboard our boat and found an old piece of wood that had been tucked among my art supplies.

A few minutes later, George looked up to see me again. This time, I handed him a relief carving of the sailing yacht America that I had done a year before.

He took it, looked it over, smiled, and plugged his hearing aid back in. "Not bad, but you need to make the definition more pronounced around the edges."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Like this," he said, holding out a relief of a lighthouse that he pulled from a cardboard box next to his chair.

I looked over the lighthouse, and noticed that he had cut deep edges along the outlines of the close figures—it really looked three dimensional. That's what was missing from my piece.

From that time on, Old George and I were friends. We had weekly show-and-tell sessions of our artwork and he would suggest ways that I could improve mine. Occasionally, I would give George a cold beer, go to breakfast at a nearby restaurant with him, or just joke around with him. We became good friends. Margo and I even took him out to dinner once or twice.

He could never get the outboard started on the old aluminum fishing boat he kept tied to the back of his houseboat so I helped him tune it up and get it going. We took it out for a boat ride.

From that time on, every once in a while George would invite me to go on a boat ride with him. And he'd always say,

"You drive. I can't ever get the damned thing started."

He was an interesting old coot when you could get him talking, but he wasn't one to interrupt you if you were working on a project or had company. He would just smile and wave if he caught my eye. He always gave me a near-perfect impression of Ho-Ti, the chubby little Japanese God of Joy.

After knowing George a year or so, I noticed that he seemed to be in failing health. I asked him if he was okay.

"My batteries are running down," he replied. I took this as an aphorism, smiled, and said, "Mine too. It's been a long week." George said, "No...I'm serious. I got a pacemaker for my heart, and my batteries are running down!" Stunned, I said, "I didn't realize that you had one."

"Don't usually advertise it."

"They can put in new batteries with a simple operation. I guess they can do it under local anesthetic in most cases...not a big deal," I offered.

"Yeah, I know. My doctor's been after me to do it for a year now...ain't gonna bother," he replied.

"George, you still have a lot of good years in you, you REALLY ought to have it done...and done soon!"

"Naw. Arthritis is gettin' real bad. My prostrate's been roto-rooted. The Mother Nature freaks have been getting the government to get rid of live-aboards all over the place, and I ain't goin' to no home. Don't worry about me...I just ain't gonna do it."

Shocked by Old George's vehemence and his stubbornness, I wandered off shaking my head, amazed by his determination to risk, and probably give up, his life with such a decision.

For the months to follow, our conversations eventually came around to my trying to persuade George to get his new pacemaker batteries installed. He said that the only reason he told me about his decision was so I wouldn't feel bad when he finally died.

I kept trying to get him to rest more and eat right. "George, if you eat enough roughage, you'll eventually pass wicker furniture."

He would just say no.

Then, one night as I was watching Letterman and his Stupid Pet Tricks, I heard someone outside yelling for help. I leaped up out of bed, pulled my Levis and boatshoes on, and flew out of the hatch.

The yell was coming from behind George's houseboat. I grabbed my boathook and squeezed down the narrow side deck of George's houseboat to the far end of the vessel.

John Smalley and his daughter Muriel were behind Old George's houseboat with the aluminum fishing boat. John was in the cold murky water, trying to shove as Muriel tried to pull Old George into the bow of the boat from the water.

Now George must have outweighed both of them put together, and they weren't getting very far. When they saw me, they brought the rowboat over to the back of George's houseboat. As they got to me, one of the new marina residents arrived on the scene. He and I pulled George up on the rear deck of the houseboat, while John ran to call the paramedics!

Muriel and I started CPR on George. She breathed while I did the compressions.

Ten minutes later, the paramedics and I watched the portable heart monitor as the final few erratic bursts came out of George's pacemaker. They pronounced him dead.

There was no way that the ambulance people could carry George down the 10-inch side decks of his houseboat without risking dropping him in the water. With tears in my eyes I used the rowboat with the stubborn outboard and gave Old George his last boat ride.

I took my time and rowed.