Losing our Virginity

At age 66, I'm no longer virgin. I've done my first Hash. Now before Hank Schrader, the DEA agent on Breaking Bad, goes ballistic, let me explain. It's not that kind of hash. This is much more complicated.

When Meryl first started flying for Pan Am, fellow flight crew members shared fond (and many times weird) stories of running in Hash's in Asia. Since Meryl and I were both active runners at that time, we really wanted to try a Hash, but the opportunity never came up. So here we are some 45 years later and we start hearing stories about Hash's in Grenada.

The Hash's, held about every two weeks, are announced on the morning VHF 68 radio net. Since we've gotten very little aerobic exercise since we've been on the boat, we were a little reluctant to sign up. Images of struggling up muddy jungle slopes in the stifling heat also discouraged us, as did stories of the "rituals" following the race, especially for first time Hashers.

Shademan has the Hip-Hop cranked up on the stereo while we listen to 12 different conversations in French.

Running out of excuses, we finally called our friendly taxi driver, Shademan (named because he always parks his non-air conditioned van in the shade), and told him to sign us up for Saturday's Hash. We put two water bottles, a first aid kit, a SAM splint, and a bag of GORP in Meryl's backpack and dingied into Secret Cover at 2:00 pm to be picked up. For some strange cosmic reason the bus was packed to the brim with French men and women, all previously picked up from other anchorages. So much for small talk on the long ride to the Hash. We did have a young American couple sitting in front of us, one of whom was a medical student at St. Georges University here in Grenada.

They also had two dogs, a big one and a little one. The big one, a 6-month-old Rhodesian Ridgeback named Draper, which I remember were bred to hunt lions and used as guard dogs by the Rhodesian military, was comfortably wrapped around my left leg for most of the ride. As the van went up the hill, he slid back and wrapped around both of my legs to keep from sliding all the way to the back of the bus. He had feet like snowshoes. I kept remembering these dogs make German Shepherds look like Park Avenue Poodles, so I tried to stay on his good side with gentle scratches to the head. Nice doggie.

Mike Cowan, the Hash Master, calls for all Virgins to come forward. "Now don't all come down at once, no pushing."

The Hash was held on the east coast of Grenada about an hour and half north of Prickly Bay.

The Hash was about an hour and half north of Prickly Bay in the small village of La Poterie. As we arrived we saw a ramshackle collection of shacks, consisting of a rum shop, a small grocery, and a BBQ tent. About a 100 people were milling around on the street. We got out, left a spare set of clothes in the van, then found the check-in lady who pulled out a special clip board labeled "VIRGINS" and had us sign in. She said it was very important for us to also sign out when we finished, which got us to wondering about whether there are still people roaming the jungle after the last Hash. We also paid the exorbitant race fee of 2 EC (about 74 cents US) to another lady walking around shaking a small basket full of coins.

Close to race time, the Hash Master called for all the Virgins to come forward. Being a very rule-based person, I was the only one to step forward, but eventually about 15 others (including Meryl) showed up. We'd heard rumors about the initiation so I quietly took my glasses off and put them in my pocket. The Hash Master welcomed us, recited a brief set of cryptic instructions and kept asking if someone could hand him a beer (more about that later), but surprisingly, no beer could be found. He then talked about the two trails, a walker's version and a runner's version, and finally set us off behind the cook tent looking for the the walker's trail.

A word about Hash's. According to WikiPedia:

Hashing originated in December 1938 in Selayang Quarry, Malaysia, when a group of British colonial officers and expatriates began meeting on Monday evenings to run, in a fashion patterned after the traditional British paper chase or "hare and hounds", to rid themselves of the excesses of the previous weekend. A. S. Gispert, one of the founders, suggested the name "Hash House Harriers" after the Selangor Club Annex, where several of the original hashers happened to live, known as the "Hash House" where they also dined.

Apart from the excitement of chasing the hare and finding the trail, harriers reaching the end of the trail would partake of beer, ginger beer and cigarettes. The objectives of the Hash House Harriers as recorded on the club registration card dated 1950:

• To promote physical fitness among our members
• To get rid of weekend hangovers
• To acquire a good thirst and to satisfy it in beer
• To persuade the older members that they are not as old as they feel

Well, that pretty much sums it up.

For our Hash, the two hares had taken off early and left a trail marked by small clumps of shredded computer paper. Our job was 1) to follow that trail, 2) not get lost on any of the false trails that the hares can set, and 3) come back alive.

Clumps of shredded paper mark the correct trail.

Once we were sent off by the Hash Master, we noticed the walkers took off at a very brisk pace. So much for our idea of a casual stroll through the woods. The crowd was a mix of about 60% Grenadians and 40% yachties and ex-pats. Trying to keep up running or walking with most Grenadians is an exercise in futility (they are great athletes) so we set our own pace walking through a lightly forested section of foreshore and finally breaking out onto a beautiful long stretch of beach, all the while following the clumps of paper along the trail set at roughly every 10 - 20 ft.

Looking ahead we could see the crowd starting to disperse and someone yelling out "Paper, Paper?" which was a cry of "does anyone know where the trail is?" This is the tricky part. Hashing has a devious side and is not just a jaunt throughout the woods. Sometimes the trail is easy to find and sometimes not. If you are uncertain of the trail, you yell "Are you?" to other Hashers, who will respond with "On On" if they are on the trail, or "Checking" or "Looking" or the dreaded "Lost."

Beautiful stretch of normally secluded beach near Levera. "On-On."

Finally the crowd, like a pack of hounds who had been sniffing for the trail from side to side, centering in on some new paper clumps further ahead and off we went. The trail followed a beautiful, desolated stretch of beach that we would have never found on our own. We got passed by some, but we held our own fairly well (except for a pair of long-legged blonde Brit ladies who continued talking the entire Hash while passing us on cruise control).

After about an hour of walking along the beach the trail climbed a short headland and disappeared into an open bamboo forest area. We continued along a short stretch of river then slowly ascended a hillside up to an pasture area where we walked by several somewhat surprised cows. As other walkers passed us we heard strange bits of conversation ranging from physiology (the med students), epoxy (the cruisers), and local politics (the Grenadians).

Breaking out of the forest we came upon a small paved road with a split for the runners to continue on a trail to the right (that ironically went around the local rum distillery). Aside from the two talkative Brit ladies and a 10-year-old Grenadian girl who casually passed us like we were standing still, we pretty much had the road to ourselves.

The trails converged about one mile ahead with the runners charging in from the right hand side and disappearing up the road.  Coming over a short rise we could hear the din from the finish line. No plastic tape to burst through at the finish, but we did have to check our names off the Virgin list so none would have to go out searching for us.

Boxes and boxes of oil-down and BBQ chicken.

We quickly grabbed "three for two" Stag beers ($3.70) and found a chunk of concrete to sit down and rest. It was now approaching dusk and walkers kept pouring into the finish area. We headed over to the tent area and bought two local favorites, an oil-down (long, hard deep-fried dumplings, chicken, pig's somethings, and plantains) and BBQ chicken for $3.70 a piece.

As the majority of the walkers finally arrived, the Hash Master grabbed the microphone and thanked the hares for setting such a great course, then invited all the Virgins up to the podium area. This time more people showed, although I still took my glasses off and put them in my pocket. The Hash Master announced that we had "lost our virginity" and were now Hashers.  He asked us to gather in a group hug to congratulate ourselves, and that's when the shook-up beers came out. We kind of knew this was coming, but the cold beer actually felt good on our already sweat-soaked jerseys.  It was still about 85 degrees out, so anything to cool down was welcome. We did get our official Loss of Virginity certificates, so that was cool.

The festivities continued with the Hash Master asking two guys to come up and kneel before him. This is called a "down-down" and was admonishment for being SCB's (short-cutting bastards), having been seen taking a short cut on the trail. They had to drink something gross out of a pail and had the requisite beers poured over their heads.

These two are actually getting rewarded for something good they did; image what happens if you screw up?

Next a very tall girl and her friend were called up for something she had done well (it was very noisy so we're not sure what) but she still ended up with a toilet seat over her head and a beer shower.

Although it didn't happen on our Hash, we're heard if you show up in new running shoes you'll be forced to drink your beer out of your new shoes.  Naturally all this is done in fun and with a full dose of sardonic British tradition.

We ran into our buddy Travis from Tai Chi class and several yachties who we knew by sight. All in all it was a wonderful event. Fourteen of us, beer soaked and sweat covered, crammed back into Shademan's mini van for the hour plus ride back to our marinas.  I have to say the bus ride was way more physical than the walk. I sat further in the front this time on a very uncomfortable jump seat listened to two French ladies have a very animated discussion about something French and apparently important. I kind of missed the warmth of my buddy, Draper the 60-lb. Rhodesian Ridgeback, on my feet (he probably couldn't handle the smell).

But the important thing was "I was no longer a Virgin."