According to Wikipedia, Upon reaching maturity the lovebug spends almost its entire adult life coupled (in copulation) with its mate, hence its romantic nicknames. The male and female attach themselves at the rear of the abdomen and remain that way at all times, even in flight.
They were making love on every surface: the boat, our hair, between my toes, the empty water bottles. Perhaps a little BBQ would help? But where was the BBQ? It wasn't in the fore cabin or the bins in the stern. It turned up much later tangled up with a life jacket. But no propane tank. It appeared under the spinnaker, stuffed beneath the bow. Searching, needless to say, is not an easy task with love bugs in your eye lashes.
Finally, with wine glasses in hand, we sailed up into a warm wind to the sound of burgers sizzling on the grill. A sailboat barbecue is a beautiful - yet precarious - sight: a small metal sphere suspended off the edge of the boat, attached by a small fist gripping the rail. Salty wind adds flavour. A touch of ocean spray adds spice.
As I brushed a love bug out of my lip gloss and took a sip of wine, I heard that tell-tale sound of sailing equipment malfunction - plop! The propane tank bobbed only for second before it sunk beneath the surface of the Gulf. Then it was gone. Lonely, raw burgers sat abandoned on the grill. We weren't feeling like tare tare.
Our fine captain finished the burgers off that night on the stove in the kitchen down below. We ate them at dusk as the boat motored towards the St. Pete Beach draw bridge. Our berth was just on the other side, and the last opening was minutes away. Needless to say we had given up on the overnight expedition. No toilet, no water, no propane and too much love drove us away.
But it was the best twice-cooked burger I had ever tasted. And a little love-protein never hurts.
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