The Night Before Christmas

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the town,
Not a creature was stirring, not even Jeff Brown;
The wet Atlantis gear was hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that The Curmudgeon soon would be there.

The junior sailors were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of Harken blocks danced in their heads;
And mamma and me tangled in New England Rope,
Had just settled down for a long evening grope.

When out on the docks there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed, and mamma less so.
To see what sailed in on the nor easterly blow,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below,
When, what to my wondering eyes should arose,
But a Melges 32, and eight hiking pros.

Up on a plane, the boat so well led,
I instantly knew it was the Scuttlebutt ed.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;

"Now, Ullman! now, Dana! now, Doyle and Johnstone!
On, Reynolds! on Carroll! on, Craig and Gladstone!
I style you in Kaenons! You are wearing Camet!
Now get it together as the kite must be set"

With Interlux paint, the hull was so clean,
A coating of McLube providing the sheen,
So out to the pier end the coursers they flew,
With the boat full of swag, and The Curmudgeon too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard from a far,
The stumbling and bumbling of this internet rock star.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
In the door came The ‘Mudge with a bound.

His kit was complete, nothing to sort,
Pimped out with the best from Team One Newport;
No shortage of gifts he had flung on his back,
The elves at APS had filled up his pack.

His eyes -- a bit red! his dimples quite scary!
His cheeks, they were sagging; his nose -- a big cherry!
His loud little mouth, drawn up like a bow,
And his unshaven face was as white as the snow;

A Mount Gay and Tonic he held tight in his hand,
Already wearing his Key West Race Week wrist band;
Emptying his drink, he focused his stare,
On the shirts he had screened from The Pirates Lair.

The Flexofold prop had been straining his back.
Out came the Laser from his oversized sack;
With a wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Out came the O’Pen BIC that the Optis so dread;

He spoke not a word, sorting it all,
The rigging and carbon from Southern and Hall,
Stacks of gift cards came from West Marine,
Another great calendar from shooter Sharon Green;

His cocktail now gone, the gifts now dispersed,
Down the dock he went, at the crew now he cursed.
But to the ‘Buttheads he screamed as he planned out of sight,
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night."