Doctor Dave

my early medical education

I’ve been called lots of things over the years.  My three favorites are, Doctor, Sensei and Captain.  I’ve got a black belt in jiujitsu, so students once called me Sensei, or Master.  My Captain’s license is called an Ocean Operator’s Permit, which came in handy when I owned marinas in the 1970s.  It’s fancier than a normal fishing guide’s license, and I often answered to “Captain.”  But it really does me good to be greeted by old friends as “Doctor Dave.”  They know the real story of my medical background.

I earned the Doctor appellation at Walker’s Cay in the northern Abaco Islands some years back, before hurricanes demolished the club and closed the hotel.  Walker’s is about 120 miles from Fort Pierce, my hometown on the southeast coast of Florida.  It’s known for extraordinary deep sea fishing. The diving’s great in the area too, and the light-tackle fishing for bonefish and yellowtail snappers and bottom fish like groupers and snappers is world class.  There’s a small airstrip, but most of the anglers come in their own boats, banging across the Gulfstream, which can get very rough in a hurry.  The main idea is fishing.  Close behind that activity in popularity is drinking, which is called “having a good time.”

I went to Walker’s with a group of pals on a private sport fishing boat.  The ocean was calm on our ride from Fort Pierce to Walkers.  On the first afternoon, after we’d cleaned the boat and our fish—a couple of yellow fin tunas and a monster fifty pound black grouper-- I was relaxing by the club pool with a big glass of scotch and water, when a blonde girl maybe twenty years old, wearing a tiny yellow bikini, walked close by my lounge chair, spread a towel on a chaise close-by and proceeded to lather oil on herself. I was stunned!  Here was a Bo Derek right out of the movie, 10, a living breathing sex machine, the most gorgeous woman I’d ever seen I person.  I’m talking flawless here, killer!  I managed to maintain my composure, sneaking looks as best I could.  After all, though I was miles from home, I was a married man.  After a while I ran out of ice and headed up to the bar to tell my pals what I’d seen. 

Not long after I arrived at the bar the 10 came in and went to join two men and a woman at another table in the cocktail lounge.  My buddies couldn’t believe their eyes, even though she’d added one of those semi-transparent bathing suit cover-ups.

Cut to dinner a few hours later.  We’re standing at the bar, all of the guys on the trip, drinking rum drinks and bullshitting like experts about life and fishing.  A man walked up to order a drink, wedging himself between me and one of my pals at the bar.  I noticed that he was the guy with the 10, but paid no attention to him. 

My friend sitting on the guy’s other side, is a professional spear fishermen, one of those watermen who makes his living with the sharks and groupers off the coast of Florida.  Though not a big man, he’s known to be fearless, and I’d heard many tales of his free-diving capabilities and crazy underwater exploits.  It wasn’t long before he and the 10’s man were arguing about diving.  Seems that the 10 man had just won a diving contest near Tampa, and considered himself to be the best around.  Both men were drunk, and one taunt led to another until my buddy said, “I’ll tell you what, asshole.  Let’s go right fuckin’ now!  I’ll put up ten grand cash says I’ll bring back more groupers than you will!”  To which the 10 man said, “It’s dark out.”  My buddy said, “I don’t give a shit if it’s dark!  Oh, fuck!  Forget it, you pussy.  YOU’RE JUST AN ASSHOLE!”

At that last cussin’ the 10 man decided my friend was nuts.  He backed down muttering and turned his back on my buddy at the bar and said to me, trying to regain some composure, “Hey.  What do you do for a living?”  Having heard him just called an asshole, I said, “I’m a proctologist.”  He didn’t realize I was taunting him, so I let it slide. Then we talked for a few minutes about Walker’s, and the tone of the bar fight dissolved.  My drunk friend came over and apologized, and all was forgiven. 

An hour or so later I felt a pat on my shoulder, and the Tampa man asked me if he could talk to me in private for a minute.  I said, “Sure,” and we walked out onto a nearby porch.

Here’s what he said:  “Doc, we crossed the Stream in my Cigarette today, and it got rough in the Gulfstream.  My wife—the 10 was his fuckin’ wife!—suffers from hemmorhoids, and she’s in a lot of pain.  We’re thinking about having her flown back to the states in the morning.  What do you think?  Can you help her?  Maybe at least examine her and see how urgent the situation is?”

I replied that I’d be happy to help.  Yes, I assured him, an examination was indicated. I said that these things happen sometimes, and usually the hemorrhoids retract after a few hours bed rest.

I rejoined my friends at the bar and told them the story sotto voce.  They were thrilled for me.  We laughed our asses off.

As we were talking the 10 entered the dining room near the bar and joined her husband and the other couple.  She walked a little stiffly, but otherwise looked to be in fine form, dressed in short white shorts I’ll never forget, and a halter top.  I couldn’t buy another drink.  I was DOCTOR DAVE.  Once I looked over at the 10 and she actually smiled at me timidly.  It was obvious that I’d been pointed out as the DOCTOR who might be able to ease her pain.  I gave her a sympathetic smile and nodded in understanding.

I got the restaurant manager aside and told him that one of the guys had cut himself slightly, and asked if he had any Betadine solution, the purple antiseptic.  In a few minutes he came back with a small mason jar full of medicine, for which I thanked him profusely.  My plan was to get her nude up on her hands and knees on the bed and paint her from high on her hips to below her ass cheeks, so she’d be tainted for all to see the next day.

The hours wore on and the drinking and fun continued.

The next morning, all of us savagely hung over, we were walking up to the dining room for coffee, and who did we almost run into on the clubhouse path but the party of four including, in a pink bikini, the 10, who said, in the friendliest voice you can imagine, “Good morning, Doc!”

My friends were so shocked they nearly fell off the path.  Full of drink, they’d forgotten my planned examination.  Quite naturally, they immediately wanted the details, to know if I’d gone through with it.  Over breakfast they threatened to leave me on the island if I didn’t spill the beans, but I’m a very sensitive man, stubborn about matters of honor.  I have not disclosed what occurred between me and the 10 in all these many years.  Doctor-patient relationship, you understand.  It’s enough just to be quiet, to be recognized as “Doctor Dave.”

I do get a Christmas card from Sue every year.