Up on the Jersey Shore, the day after Labor Day is celebrated as “When the Coast is Clear.” This is in honor of Jimmy Buffet, who in 1986 came out with the song by that name. It seemed to fit in so well with our situation that we adopted it as our anthem and celebrated it as our holiday. All the kids are back in school, and all the tourists have gone home, taking their beer cans, trash, loud car music and all the other obnoxious touristy things with them. The miles of white sandy beaches are deserted, and the water is still warm enough for swimming. It’s too early to start hauling boats out of the water for the winter, but the evenings are cool enough to have a fire in the fireplace at the bar at my brother’s marina, where the “irregulars” all gather and talk about crazy things that happened over the summer.

The marina is situated right where the river opens out into the bay, so all the big power boats that have been going slowly through the “No Wake Zone” see the wide-open water, and hit the throttles, leaving a two- or three-foot-high wake behind them. This plays havoc with all the boats tied up at the marina, bouncing them into docks or each other, or at a minimum, spilling drinks. No amount of yelling or fist shaking did any good until Archie, one of the irregulars, came up with a plan. He built a “catapult,” like a giant sling shot with about 30 feet of bungee cord. This he fastened to a couple of tall pilings at the end of the dock. It would toss a water balloon about 50 yards and was surprisingly accurate.

When a spotter would call out “incoming,” Archie would cock the thing and let fly, most of the time overshooting the target, but the sight of a water balloon flying by was usually enough to make the big boat slow down, at least for the next couple of hundred yards.

We enjoyed this spectacle for a couple of weeks until I pointed out that it was illegal to introduce any form of plastic into any waterway of the U.S., so he decommissioned the catapult. But this was when paint ball guns were becoming popular, and several of the guys at the marina bought them, so one diversion was replaced by another.

At that time, the song “Karma Chameleon” by Boy George and the Culture Club was popular and it was one of my brother’s favorites. However, Harry, one of our bartenders, couldn’t stand it, and referred to them as the “Vulture Club.” One night, after listening to it for the umpteenth time, he took the CD out of the player, announced “No more Vulture Club” and broke it in half! Everyone was waiting to see what my brother would do. He didn’t say a word but walked out the back door. I followed him to make sure everything was OK. He quietly started up the forklift, picked up Harry’s car (a Ford Fiesta) and carefully placed it on top of the walk-in cooler. At closing time Harry couldn’t find his car. After the usual questions, everyone went out into the half empty parking lot to double check that it was gone. Someone pointed to the top of the walk-in and asked, “Um, is that it?”

Then came Harry’s apologies, and pleas to get it down, but my brother wouldn’t budge. He said as soon as a new CD appeared, he’d get the car down. Of course, all the stores were closed by then, so Harry had to beg for a ride home, and first thing the next morning he showed up in his mother’s car with a new CD. After that, everyone knew not to mess with the music, no matter what!

Once in a while, a guy would come into the bar who thought he was totally “cool.” You know the type, wearing a wife beater undershirt, showing off his “tats” and what muscles he had for anyone who would notice. Pretty soon someone would steer the conversation around to working-out and body building, and eventually the subject would get to “arm wrestling.” They would let him go on a bit and finally someone would say, “I bet you couldn’t even beat a little girl.” At once bets were being made and then they would introduce him to Bonnie.

Now Bonnie was one of our waitresses and she was a cute little thing about 120 pounds, with long blonde hair halfway down her back, usually kept in a braid. She didn’t look at all threatening, but anyone who had ever seen her coming out the walk-in cooler, balancing a case of beer on each hand, as easily as if they were two empty trays, would know better than to mess with her! She was also the first runner up in the NJ State Women’s Arm-Wrestling Championships two years in a row.

When all the bets were down and referee was agreed upon, the match began. Now arm wrestling depends not only on strength, but also timing. Once the referee says “go,” you must go and not be just thinking about it. Most amateurs don’t know this and depend only on strength to win a match, which works OK with other amateurs.

You can imagine the excitement of the crowd gathered around as the referee said “Ready … Steady … Go!” Bam! The look on the guy’s face was priceless when he realized that his arm was back flat on the table and the match was over. Bets paid off and the humbled challenger quickly disappeared never to be seen again.

I think the best (i.e. most bizarre) prank was performed by Frannie, a hypno-therapist who worked with a physical trainer and a chiropractor, helping people to quit smoking or lose weight or other bad habits when every other method failed.

One night a guy was sitting next to her making unwanted advances, such as casually rubbing his hand up and down her leg and other annoying things. She decided that instead of pouring a drink in his lap, she’d have some fun. He had made light of her being a hypno-therapist with the challenge “I bet you can’t hypnotize me.”

Now early on in hypno-therapy training there’s an exercise taught where you lock a person’s hands together. This is easily done and wears off after five or 10 minutes. It’s also harmless because part of hypno-therapy is that you cannot use it to harm anyone.

She had him intertwine his fingers, then convinced him that they locked together, and he couldn’t get them apart. Sure enough, he couldn’t. Then she simply got up and walked out!

He was going crazy trying to get his hands apart, then asking people to dial 911 for him, but no one had any sympathy as they had all been watching his entire performance. Finally, after unsuccessfully trying to dial with his knuckles, he realized that his fingers were gradually coming apart until he could use them again. After being in a near panic state for about 20 minutes, he couldn’t get out of there fast enough!

These are just a few of the stories that would come out and be told and retold, and never seemed to get old. And if they did, this eclectic group of irregulars would soon come up with a bunch of new ones!