The "No Shamus in Colt State" Hash

Run: #864, November18, 2002
Hares: EverReady SmellyBeaver 9, KNO
Scribe: Dr WHO
Location: Colt State Park, Bristol
Weather: 40’s, Clear
Present: EverReady, KNO (Hares), Bondo Jovi, The Slasher Dr W.H.O., Oozing Syphilitic Dicktaphone, Summer’s Eve Seven Year Bitch (Trail Hoover), Swallows My Pride, W.I.P.O.S., Ben, Jake, Mr. Peabody.
Visitors: Cockabooboo (JaxH3), Nuclear B’owjob (HeidelbergH3), Just Matt (nhn, just another travelling hashslut), Just State Trooper (Badge #69).
Commemorating: 247^th Anniversary of the worst earthquake in Massachusetts’s history, which killed no humans, but resulted in the beaching deaths of many confused Humpback and Blue Whales on multiple area salt marshes.

“Call me Ishmael. Some weeks ago--never mind how long precisely--having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me in Glendale, I thought I would hash about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen, and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off - then, I account it high time to get to a hash as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the trail. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards hashing with me.”

The Run:

The directions for this run appeared on the website with almost no time to spare. In fact, Async had to prod the recalcitrant hares by suggesting that the hashers forego the usual landmarks for Colt State Park (the notable bronze statues of Whales (Lions, Bulls?)) and meet at the Joggers parking lot off Poppasquash road. Bondo, Dr WHO, Swallows My Pride, Oozing and SESYB initially joined the hares EverReady and KNO. Instructions were given and promptly at 6:30 they were off.

Trail led briefly north into the park on the road. It then rapidly disintegrated. At the first check, scant flour led across a field into some contrived shrubberies, then back to Poppasquash road right next to the cars. It always pays to wait a bit at the start. Some crossed the road and tried to go for a swim in Bristol harbor. Perhaps they assumed (incorrectly) that the hares wouldn’t resort to pavement this early. Or perhaps they were attracted by the distant sounds of strange whistles, clicks, and scream-like pulses heard at the shoreline. Regardless, the true trail was eventually found by Dr WHO, leading south onto Poppasquash Neck. At least two unmistakable traces of flour were found on trail along with a strange, lemony scent and some less obvious Whale-spoor.

As SESYB and Oozing caught up, Dr WHO was nowhere to be found. Catching a glimpse of what he thought might be a falcate dorsal fin, WHO had turned into the Bristol Yacht club. But it was only a fluke.  At the same time Bondo turned back into the park proper, ignoring the absence of flour completely and lobtailing for the open water of Narragansett Bay. The rest of the transient pod continued on to the next check, at the access road to Coggeshall Farms.

True trail in fact led west towards the farm. On the road, the leader Oozing passed fields with strange and huge shadows moving majestically in the night. At first he thought that they were some sort of weird landbound cetacean creatures. But he soon recognized them as the models for the statues of Whales (lions, bulls) at the entrance to Colt State Park. He encountered the hare at a check marked “LC”. This stood for an Italian liqueur called Limonciello.  As SMP, SESYB and Dr WHO joined them, they passed around the sickly sweet lemon/vodka/sugar mixture. SESYB thought the stuff was fine, Oozing felt it going to his head, and Dr WHO privately thought it tasted like lemon-flavored ambergris left too long at room temperature. KNO also arrived and they waited for Bondo. They were waiting for Bondo! Suddenly realizing what they were doing, they hastily plunged on with a shudder. They crossed northeast through a stand of phragmites onto the Mill Gut.

The hares stayed back and said they would save some of the strange liqueur for Bondo (an apt revenge indeed for his "Honey Ale" experiments). Oozing now lemony-fresh, led through this salt marsh closely followed by SESYB, Dr WHO and SMP. The hashers spread over the marsh in a search pattern, noting a continued flour shortage and lemon excess. But there was basically only one way to go. So they went. The rare flour marks blended into imperceptibility amidst the marsh grass and Whale excrement. Finally, trail was found leading to a salt-water channel with a tidal gate crossing the deepest part (possibly designed to prevent access by Killer Whales into Colt State Park).

An overturned sign had been wedged at the near post of this gate to aid the hashers. Oozing soon found out that this misguided flotation device would not support his weight. He went in to his knees. He recovered quickly, and crawled over the metal gate, followed with little fuss, but immense lack of grace, by Dr WHO. SESYB negotiated the obstacle without incident. SMP however, came to the gate and was nonplussed. It required considerable encouragement to get her across, and after breaching several times she demonstrated a vocabulary of a much wider and earthier range than previously she had been thought capable of. [Her descriptions of the personal characteristics of the hares was worthy of Bondo Jovi and cannot be reproduced here for legal reasons.]

The hares in the meantime had turned back towards the start in search of Bondo. They encountered WIPOS and three visitors from the brachypelagic branch of the Armed Forces at Newport. These three, Cockabooboo, Nuclear BoJob, and Just Matt had all hashed in other areas of the world. They came this night with the common misconception that they would be met with a trail marked with flour. In fact, the entire evening would pass, and the only flour they would see would be on the Whale-burger buns at the restaurant later that evening. The hares directed them though, and they made it as far as the first moist patch in the salt marsh. This was too much for these manly Navy types, so WIPOS suggested they follow Bondo’s example. [Note for new RIH3 hashers: following Bondo's example can lead to dangerous and even life-threatening consequences. Remember the time Bondo told poor Ahab: "I always go after the white ones, it's so much easier." But I digress.] They turned back to the park to wander around aimlessly.

The four marsh rats continued to make slow progress up the flats, their excitement at the rare sighting of flour outweighed by the frequent false steps up to the waist into foul smelling quicksand. Finally, a mark led east out of the muck. They emerged into the park, picking soft-shelled clams out of their socks, and crabs and other benthic feeders out of their underwear. But the flour shortage persisted. Bondo was hanging out by the men’s room at a nearby picnic area. He could smell the group before he could see them, a bizarre combination of lemon and swamp gas (and perhaps other varieties) wafting pungently on the brisk southwesterly breeze. He called out “On On!” as if he were on trail even though he had not seen flour (or a Whale) for at least three weeks. They regrouped near the park entrance booths and discovered the hares setting a fire at the BC. This was just off the road in woods that provided no shelter from either the winds or curious eyes (although perfectly safe from Whale attacks).

The beer was broached and the occasional car seen at the entrance was happily ignored as the hashers told their tales of personal prowess on the run and waited for the latecomers (and Whales) to arrive. WIPOS, Cockabooboo, Nuclear BeauJob, and Just Matt, through a process of echolocation and blind luck came into olfactory range of the group and followed their noses to join the crowd. Introductions were made. Beer was consumed and KNO soon went off with a box of empties to get more beer. He was surprised in the woods by a menacing, shadowy figure with a blindingly bright torch. This was not a Whale at all. This was a State Trooper; one of Rhode Island’s finest on patrol checking out a report of adolescent hooligans carousing in the park. KNO claimed at first that the group was a “Save the Whales” bay cleanup that had gone late. The astute trooper did not buy this tale. It looked as if all was lost!

Fortunately, the policeman reached the fire and with one look at the aged and mature group, he was at least partly relaxed. Singling out the most suspicious member of the party, he sniffed Oozing’s breath. As far as he could tell, Oozing had only been drinking lemon-scented furniture cleaner. Hence he was not the menace to society that at first he appeared. A brief chorus of “Anchors Awhale!” from the naval visitors had the officer fully convinced, and he amiably assisted in the banking of the fire. He then walked with the hashers back to the on-in trail. Dr WHO noted how reasonable the trooper was. He thus spent some time trying to recruit him to the hash. [WHO obviously did not realize that most hashes fall within State Police jurisdiction. When and if the trooper participated, he would probably be duty-bound to arrest himself and any Whales involved at the end of the run. But I digress.]

After a brief jog south then east the hashers came together in the parking area. It was agreed that it was not worth risking the recently established good-relations with the State Police by chugging beer and singing “Has Anybody Seen My Whale?” in the parking lot. So after changing clothes, they packed up and headed to Warren to circle up in the Tinker’s Nest. Only Bondo demurred and headed for home to try and feed some razor blades to his dog Ben.

At Tinker’s, the management readily agreed to allow the use of the main stage for the circle after it was explained that it was in fact a religious ceremony, and involved entertaining singing, possibly including ancient Whaling songs. With the hares in the circle, ratings and comments were given: too short, not enough shiggy, weather too good. All scored it –6.9. Unfortunately, this resulted in the special case ruling that if any hash provokes this much whining, it is entitled to an automatic total of +69!

Hashit was next. Swallows My Pride was the early favorite for whining on the website and then denying it. But the visitor Cockabooboo found a flyer advertising the singing group “No Shamus”. [It appeared that Cockabooboo’s job in the Navy involves the top-secret training of Bottlenose Dolphins and Killer Whales to retrieve secrets from America’s enemies. His specialty suffered a great loss of funding when it was shown that Orcas were likely to die after no more than 30-40 meters of awkward travel on the desert road to Baghdad. And they aren't exactly inconspicuous. Cockabooboo thus bears a special grudge against these moderately inoffensive creatures.] He was inordinately and vocally amused by what he took as a prohibition against Odontoceti in a bar. A confused discussion about Killer Whales, St. Bernard puppies, Gaelic spelling and other related topics grew heated. The hashit was transferred to Cockabooboo. It was then noted that Swallows My Pride had changed shoes after the hash. Nuclear BeauJob pointed out that she appeared to be wearing new shoes! She compounded the offense with more denial, so beer was served to all in these fragrant vessels.

Finally, they swung low, and moved on to food. A special of $1 Cheeseburgers (guaranteed less than 10% whale meat), wings, and grilled cheese was available, and the hash ate well and by evening's end almost all had washed away the last traces of lemon from their palates. Unusual music choices from the jukebox by Just Matt and Swallows My Pride filled the air. Doesn't Barry Manilow constitute a hashit offence? At any rate, a fine time was had by all, with a lovely run, no Basket, the loss of Bondo afterwards, and not one whale-related injury. It doesn't get any better than that.

On On

The Whaler Dr W.H.O.