Based on a few unfortunate encounters –– oh, let's give in to the cliché and call them "run-ins*" shall we? –– a few awkward run-ins with The Law, Mr. Linton is not taking any chances with Spawn. At 22 feet in length, even sans an outboard, the boat is supposed to sport those blocky, unstylish Florida registration numbers on the bow.
The nice lady at the AAA tag-office desk provided additional pages of forms and the list: he'd be needing a title (or in this case an application for a title), as well as a Vessel Statement of Builder (q.e.d.) and –– the big one –– a Certificate of Inspection from the Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission.
Any fans of Catch-22 among the audience? Joseph Heller wrote about a group of soldiers in WWII just trying to survive their time in the service. The book's title comes from an Air Force rule that says more or less that you aren't required to fly if you are crazy, but if you are attempting not to fly, you are clearly in possession of your faculties.
The phrase has come to mean a double bind. An insurmountable bureaucratic tangle.
That's what I found when turning to the Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission webpage. Go ahead, check it out, I double dog-fish dare you to find a way to get a Certificate of Inspection for your vessel from that site.
Using his radical skills with a phone, Captain TwoBeers did reach a human bean –– one ready to dispense advice and information. Even if the next bureaucratic step seems a little (forgive me Florida) Mickey-Mouse: Inspections are done by Fish and Wildlife Officers on their own time.
Makes one wonder if we should offer a little sweetener to the poor after-hours moonlighting-to-finish-his-own-damn-job bastid.
*The run-ins to which I refer? There have been a few.
One example? Okay, I don't want to speak unkindly of coppers, but when I got the van-and-trailer rig into the wrong lane on a Tampa Bay Lightning home game-night, one of our friendly finest threatened to put Jeff into jail for the night for moving one of the copper's orange traffic cones. For moving a traffic cone so that I could regain the correct lane –– and by the way, he put the cone back. A night in jail.
Yeah, we are still pretty sure that officer was having an irrational and irritable night. But with a badge and sidearm, bless his angry little civil servant heart.
About the Blog
A lot of ground gets covered on this blog -- from sailboat racing to book suggestions to plain old piffle.
Trying to keep track? Follow me on Facebook or Twitter or if you use an aggregator, click the RSS option below.
Old school? Sign up for the newsletter and I'll shoot you a short e-mail when there's something new.