The Mayor of River City

The Lake region doesn't take too kindly to winter boaters - the last remaining harbors are closing their docks, shutting off their water, making it generally impossible for somebody to stay all year if they choose. River City just south of the loop is one of the last homes for the winter boaters - those few renegades whose love of boating goes beyond drinking and riding the waves and getting sunburned. The diehards. The Live Aboards.

River City is not as pretty as Monroe or Belmont harbors. The lakefront is much more regal, much cleaner thanks to all the zebra mussels. People dump all kinds of shit into the river, even though Friends of the River has a plan that it be swimmable by 2015. (It's almost 2007 and you're not supposed to let the river water touch your skin.) As my friend Kathy pointed out, "You could dump a body back here and nobody would know." And I'm sure they do, in between the dark docks and mysterious lines, along with all kinds of industrial waste and other impossible-to-place-garbage. Last spring I saw floating the small carcass of an unidentifiable animal - was it a lizard? an oversized tadpole?

This winter, River City is housing eight boats with Live Aboards.

We are an ecclectic crew: a suburban PE teacher, an NPR addict, a City of Chicago union worker and his girlfriend, an IRS employee, a dentist, an engineer planning for retirement and sailing the world, and overseeing us all, the unofficial mayor: Stan the Man.

Stan the Man is Irish, usually drunk, though you'd never know it if you stayed out of breath-shot. He worked as a handyman with travelling carnivals for a while amidst other unknown careers. How he ended up in Chicago living on a nameless Chris-Craft I don't know. He is the kind of guy who lives under the radar, always attached somehow to the main action; the kind of guy you believe has connections to politicians and mobsters, if only because he's willing to do the dirty work at the last minute and take the cash without asking questions.

He's also kind, friendly, and warm, keeps Rice Krispies on his boat, along with mirrored letters on his door that spell out STN. When we had to move Mark's boat in subzero temperatures last January, Stan was the first to arrive to help. When a boat arrives in River City, he is right there to take your lines. When we returned recently from a trip and sent Mark's brother ahead with some things for the boat, Stan was right there asking him who he was and why he was aboard Mazurka.

One night after midnight Mark and I came home to a quiet River City. We rounded the gates and passed noiselessly along the dock's corridor (though making enough noise to scare away any rats). The water was quiet and still; the only sound was a subtle steam coming from the post office across the river. As we passed Stan's Chris-Craft, there was the sudden unmistakable howl of Roger Daltrey, followed by Stan's cry: Won't get fooled again!

Every neighborhood has its unofficial mayor: the old Japanese painter who sits on his front porch and chats it up; the retired black gentleman who sweeps his walk and smokes cigars; the Irishman who always magically appears whenever you need to slide into a slip and tie up your home.

What we all need is a mayor who's rocking on out to The Who.