I lay there in the dark, praying that a small wisp of fresh air will find it’s way down to my sweat-soaked face, into my lungs. It’s hot, the air is still and I feel like I’m trapped in some peculiar, v-shaped sauna with an assortment of sailing gear. Sweet Joe – anything, a single flap from a butterfly’s wing – please.
This sweltering nightmare of V-berth barbecue took place about 2:00 a.m. at Beer Can Island in Tampa Bay, [click to read more…]
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