Drunk as a Hollywood cowboy, Nelson had slipped off the bench and puked so many times they’d kicked him out and made him sit in the stern and hang his head over the transom. Charlie was curled up in the forward cabin, passed out, leaving Bobby, Dean, and Alex still at the table while Sally watched. Miraculously, the little radio picked up Wolfman Jack broadcasting nonstop rock and roll from Tijuana, Mexico, six hundred miles south. “That’s it, boys and girls, I know you love it, The Rockin’ Pneumonia and the Boogie Woogie Blues comin’ right atcha from XERB, the world’s most powerful radio station. Oh yeah. Now hold onto your hats and put on your dancin’ shoes, ’cause we got a request from Bonnie in San Diego for somethin’ real special now. My main man, the godfather of soul, the baddest of the bad, Jaaaaames Brown!” The galley deck was awash with beer foam and tin-plated steel cans that rattled with a timbre deeper and richer than aluminum, a hearty industrial tune that would soon disappear from the land.
