A little vomit never hurt anyone: surviving my first Gasparilla

Originally published 1/29/20

300,000 people 25 yards from our front door. Day drinking. Followed by day vomiting. Random fornicating. Property destruction. Restricted access. Surrender and escape, or stand and defend against this annual invasion of pirates? Decisions, decisions.

Parade goers dress for Gasparilla, at left, a pirate festival and parade in Tampa that started in 1904.

As soon as the Christmas decorations come down, South Tampanians hang pirate flags from their balconies and adorn their front doors with skull-and-cross bone wreaths to celebrate the legend of pirate Jose Gaspar, an apparently well-mannered pirate who terrorized the Gulf Coast in the 19th century and who reportedly left an as-yet undiscovered treasure buried on Florida's west coast. The festival - that now stretches across three months of Tampa's mild winter - kicks off with a tame children's parade on the 3rd Saturday of January, followed by what some call the "adult parade" on the following Saturday. The parade takes place on Bayshore Boulevard, the beautiful stretch of road that curves along the top of Hillsborough Bay, just a few steps from our front door. "Adult," of course, is code for "300,000 inappropriately dressed women (and men, by the way) consuming large quantities of alcohol within a relatively short period of time leading to regrettable acts on someone else's private property."

Fishnet tights were apparently big with pirate wenches, at right. I just can't.

As the city prepared the streets with parking restrictions (including ours, where upon we park, lacking a driveway), road closures, and port-a-potties every 25 yards, and as our neighbors erected temporary fencing and No Trespassing signs, and the stories of drunken revelers having sex in backyards, ringing doorbells to use the bathroom and letting themselves into unlocked homes escalated, I couldn't decide if I was excited or afraid. In stark contrast, our diocese offered a "Quiet Day" across the Bay in St. Petersburg, which I contemplated attending. As a recovering alcoholic, standing in the midst of 300,000 drunk people isn't my ideal Saturday. But as the day drew closer, and the anticipation grew, the old reporter in me couldn't look away from what I just knew was going to be a fantastic train wreck. On Friday I made one last trip to Publix to make sure we had enough meat and cheese and bread and Coca-cola products to make it through the onslaught of drunken pirate wannabes. We tucked the car into a secret parking space behind our church, just around the corner from our house, and hunkered down. Saturday was a perfect day. Not a cloud in the sky, and an ambient temperature around 73-ish. Warm in the sun, cool in the shade. Planes were skywriting, making happy faces and writing notes of love. Vats of fat heated up early, and the smell of funnel cakes and frying meat wafted through the air, carried by just the right amount of cool breeze. You couldn't ask for a better day for a parade, or day drinking, which is the essence of this particular parade. Around 10 a.m., a steady stream of pirates began to float by our house, heading out to the parade, which was began at 2 p.m. At noon we walked to a neighborhood brunch, another Gasparilla tradition for locals who live close to the parade route. The term "brunch," I learned, is used loosely here, on this particular day. While de rigueur brunch fare is served - deviled eggs, baked fruit and dainty sandwiches - the emphasis is on the red solo cup. We walked home, past many neighbors who were hosting liquid brunches that spilled out from front porches and onto sidewalks, excited conversations competing with music designed to amp up anticipation and preparation even more. Michael settled back into sermon prep - how he could concentrate on exegeting the Word of God as the very definition of worldly titillation was streaming past our window is beyond me - while I paced anxiously from window to window keeping an eye on the passers by. We live at an intersection, both roads of which head toward Bayshore and the parade route, making us vulnerable on two fronts, so my anxiety was maxed out. Eventually I couldn't stand it any longer. My curiosity got the best of me. I had go out into the masses of pirates and wenches to see what they were doing. Michael couldn't have cared less. He thought the Presidential impeachment hearings coupled with his explaining how we were to serve the Lord were both infinitely more interesting. I have a one-block snapshot of Gasparilla, which, in all fairness, is an incomplete picture of the parade, both in optics and spirit. There are more than 50 Krewes, social clubs that have floats in the parade, who also engage in community outreach throughout the year, so there is so much more to Gasparilla than what I saw. But limited to what was around me in this, my first Gasparilla, on the free side of the parade - $40-$60 tickets allowed one to cross the street and sit on bleachers that lined the northbound parade, whilst free attendees packed the southbound lanes, creating their own dramatic Gasparilla parade. This is the one I saw.

Not as dramatic as a double-decker float, but entertaining nonetheless.

I made three laps around our block, intermittently returning home to the safety of indoor plumbing and clean air. I gawked at the crowds, the pirate costumes - or lack thereof, and the hysteria of young drunk women and men. I'm not sure this crowd was there to see the parade, and I decided I wasn't either. From this side of alcoholism, I'm always torn between pity and jealousy in these moments. I see myself in them, back in the day, having what I thought was fun. At times it was, but most times, when I could be honest with myself, which was rarely, it wasn't fun. It was desperate, regrettable and embarrassing. I wanted to pull up a chair, soak in the January sun, and watch a parade. I wished for them, too, that they would pull up a chair and soberly enjoy this moment, and a beautiful day. But the parade in front of me was not going to let that happen.

On each subsequent trip to my parade grounds, the crowds got tighter and drunker. I managed to drag Michael out on my last trip, with the promise of parade food. We walked a couple of blocks, trying to catch a glimpse of the floats that were starting, and to maybe catch a string of beads, thrown Mardi-Gras style from the float Krewes. But the shoving of scantily clad post-pubescent girls and the increasing risk of a contact high convinced us that getting our funnel cake and iced tea to-go was probably the best idea. We returned home to a young woman sitting on our front stoop, vomiting in our bushes. Been there, sister, I thought. Her companion rounded the corner of our house, I'm assuming after after having relieved himself in relative privacy. We let them be, and went in the side door. Michael, in his priestly compassion, emptied his tea and refilled the plastic cup with water to offer our sick visitors. Once he opened the door, though, they had moved on.

Jesus healed a lot of sick people, and as his reputation for healing grew, so did the crowds. Eventually, there were too many for him alone to heal, even though he was the Son of God.

Jesus went through all the towns and villages, teaching in their synagogues, proclaiming the good news of the kingdom and healing every disease and sickness. When he saw the crowds, he had compassion on them, because they were harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd. Then he said to his disciples, “The harvest is plentiful but the workers are few. Ask the Lord of the harvest, therefore, to send out workers into his harvest field.” Matthew 9:25-38

So of course, we are called to heal in His name, to help Jesus heal those who are hurting. Not like a TV preacher, I don't think. I know that in the Bible there are stories of the disciples miraculously healing sick people, and I believe that healing miracles happen today. But I think that our healing has to be, sometimes, just standing sober in a crowd of drunk people, some of whom are going to make really bad decisions today. There were a couple of street preachers, yelling at the parade goers to repent right now, which would save them. I'm gonna say they weren't that successful - parade goers mostly ignored them, or shot them the bird, and a couple of girls french kissed in front of him. Maybe further down the route he saved someone, I don't know. But my healing effort was just to be a sober presence, for as long as I could stand it. I probably didn't save anyone either, but I don't know.

My curiosity was assuaged and my healing muscle flexed as much as I could stand it, and I felt like three laps around our block was enough for our first Gasparilla. Michael continued work on his sermon, while I managed a nap amidst CNN's impeachment commentary and the occasional firing of cannons outside our door.

Maybe next year someone will go sober, or I'll see an actual float. Odds are on the float sighting. I'm okay with that. My goal isn't to impose my will on someone, but to give them something to think about. It took me 17 years to think about it. There's still time.