Charley, the fellow who took the plunge in the parking lot pond
wasn't the first person to become 'immersed' in the festivalities. In
fact, an individual who once took a late-night long walk off a short
dock posterior the YTB can feel free to identify his or herself
now--- or not.

Ah, yes, Mystic rain stories. It seems most years have been quite
lucky--- the rain most often happens before the Festival, or
after. Or worst case, at night when only the die-hards suffer.

As many of you know, I have in past years spent a few days
before the Festival in the Seaport to help with organization.
So I've gotten to enjoy many of those 'almost got the festival'
rain days.

It came home to me rather vividly that among other things
authentically 19th century about the Mystic Seaport village
is what happens when it rains. The streets and sidewalks
grow puddles and mud-holes just like in the old days. And just
like in the old days, your primary means of transport are your
own two feet.

The first time I went there in the rain, I tried to use California
style shore-going rain gear. Which soaked through on the first trip
between the old education building and the Cliff Block.

So, next time 'round I brought my trusty seagoing foul-weather
jacket. I skipped on the pants and bib because I thought it would
look pretentious.

During the ensuing downpour I learned what an elegant water-line on
the front of your blue jeans you end up with for the rest of the
day, just about an inch below where the coat sheds the water
each time your thigh rises to take a step.

The next rainy year, I was better equipped, so I thought. I
swallowed my pride over appearances, and when the downpour came
I had both foulie top and bottom. I have good ones, ones that you
can 'live' in for days at a time without growing tomatoes down
your trouser-legs.

And I had my US Marine Corps issue WW2 vintage hobnail boots, judiciously treated with SnoSeal to keep my feet and socks dry. I thought that bringing my trusty sea boots would look too pretentious.

Well, those gen-u-ine government issue (judiciously treated with
SnoSeal) hobnail boots probably worked for the first mile or so I
walked each day. After that I meditated on how 'trench foot' came
about.

I swore to myself--- no more half-measures where rain is concerned
at MSM.

Since that time, I have NEVER gone to Mystic Seaport, and especially
to the Festival, without the same foul-weather duffel that I take
to go big-boat sailing. With good socks, my Topsider mid-rise boots
are like walking deck shoes anyway, only my feet stay dry. And I don't
hesitate to 'suit up.' The only problem I've had since that decision
was getting the foulies to dry in 'sloop' cabins on the Mystic
Whaler, when staying aboard that dear vessel, if it was too wet
to leave the port hole open.

I also carry in my instrument cases a 'backpacker' style poncho,
one with room enough to cover me and an accordion in each hand,
so that I can become a 'walking tent' if I have to take an instrument
or two from here to there in a downpour.

Anybody remember the shanty session one night at Trader Jacks
when the sky opened up just about time to leave? I caught a ride
back to the Seaport with Bonnie Milner; not only did I have my
foulies, but I brought a giant golf-umbrella that kept the both
of us from drowning!

Then there was the night (maybe that same Festival) where some
rum-soaked denizen of the Mystic Whaler noisily went on deck
every 30 minutes or so between one and three in the morning to
(noisily) hurl up the dregs of his drinks. I have to say that
when he awoke me for maybe the fourth or fifth (and I emphasize
'fifth') time stomping about on my head and shouting for his long
lost friend 'Huey' I had me a good chuckle as the skies opened
up for another deluge and gave him his comeuppance as things
came up. Put him in the scuppers with God's own hose-pipe on
him, it did.