No Worries...

The temperature of burning gasoline: 1500 degrees. At 1400 degrees, fiberglass melts. No Worries. Australian slang for "you're welcome" or "no problem." I had used the expression since that '93 trip to Sydney and Queensland, and the Rock in the center. I preferred the latter interpretation: a boat far away from work, the city, the stress...no problems...No Worries. Except for the docking fees, storage, maintenance, fuel, yacht club dues, insurance, and that damn sandbar that took out the prop. It was a comprehensive policy wasn't it? No Worries. From the dock I stared vacantly at the name on the transom. I pulled the match head slowly across the striking strip, the yellow flame flared wide then settled into a timid glow. I cupped my hand to light the cigarette, drawing in a few quick breaths to bring the tobacco tip to a red hot glow. I inhaled once and then let my hand fall to the side, cigarette dangling. I stared at the boat and exhaled. The deductible's probably more than the new prop. I pulled the cigarette back to my lips, took one last drag, then threw it like a dart. Into the bay. I'll call the insurance guy tomorrow about that prop. No Worries.