Land, ho.

I had one of my regs drop me off at the ferry dock the other day.  She didn't seem happy that I had to borrow $20 from her for a ferry ticket.  Now that you mention it- I might already owe her a couple hundred but I can't be sure.

Got on the ferry at Pt. Judith and made the one hour passage in just sixty minutes.  It could have been the enormous spliff I inhaled while hidden between the life preserver box and the trash can but I think I saw a shark from the top deck.  A guy next to me said it was a Sunfish.  That was no sunfish.

Pulled into the Old Harbor in the town of New Shoreham, Rhode Island.  It's a sleepy little place featuring a nice main street lined with little hotels, t-shirt shops and other quaint crap you'd expect to see on the coastline of New England.  It's all tourists in flip flops buzzing by on mopeds and college girls in bikinis licking ice cream cones.  You know- the usual.

I'll have to scope out the medical scene around here before I can even think of opening up another practice. Is there a hospital out here?  What do they do when someone gets sick or hurt?  They've probably got some Norman Rockwell-style doctor with a beat up black leather bag named Doc Higgins paying house calls to Ma and Pa Kettle.  That's the vibe I'm getting just stepping off the boat.

"Hey Fuck-O!  Watch where you're goin'!", screams the douchebag in a White Mercedes SUV with New York plates; his Dolce and Gabanas glistening in the sun.

"Yeah fuck you too man..."

He snorts and keeps driving.  So...they have those out here I guess.

I weave through the crowd and head towards a parking lot as a rickety old moped putts into the lot.  The guy on it looks almost as beat up as his moped.  His skin is orange, wrinkled leather that makes him look like something Wilt Chamberlin used to dunk.  A faded t-shirt bearing the words, "Eat Fish" flaps in the breeze where he's cut the sleeves off making it almost a tank top- but not really. His volleyball visor on upside-down and backwards forces his sun-bleached blond shag to the top of his head.  It looks like Laird Hamilton had sex with a Cocker Spaniel and the baby got a job as a toupe.  As he gets closer- some kid with a surfboard yells out to him, "Hey Boomer- you get out today"?

"Not yet grom- had some shit to take care of this mornin'.  See ya at Black Rock for sunset."

"Yeah.  Right", snarfs the grom.

As if he knew I was there, he turns and looks right at me.  I can't see his eyes behind the mirrored Oakley knock-offs but it's like a laser locking on a target.  He twists the throttle and heads straight for me, sliding in a patch of sand as the breaks screech.  He looks at the suitcase in my hand then lifts his shades.

"You the Dr."?

"Maybe".

He shakes his head and smirks as his Spicoli-brogue intones , "Look man- either you're him or you're not.  If you're not then I'm looking for another guy.  If you're him you'd better be sure about it bro cuz' there are people looking for you".

I stare him down for a good ten seconds in complete silence. He turns around and unstraps a helmet hanging off his empty surfboard rack then tosses the brain bucket at my chest...

"Get on.  Scortino sent me"...