On the Scene

On the Scene: Making Waves

Bob Cullinane Joins NJPPC For His First Poker Run

Published in the Asbury Park Press 6/11/00
By BOB CULLINANE
STAFF WRITER

They seemed so civilized at the start. They had bagels and Danish and coffee. They wore attractive nautical duds. They sat and chatted politely. To anyone who wandered onto the patio deck of the Wharfside Restaurant in Point Pleasant Beach on a recent Saturday morning, the members of the New Jersey Performance Powerboat Club would have looked like any group of average, sensible, mentally balanced individuals, out enjoying themselves on a pleasant June day.

But then these seemingly normal people jumped aboard their gigantic powerboats, which were docked at the marina, and cruised out the inlet to the sea.

Riding aboard one of those enormous boats as it approached open water, I could sense that, like werewolves under a full moon, these people were slowly undergoing an amazing and weird transformation. (No, they didn't get hairy, at least not right away.)

Maybe it was the sea air; maybe it was the hot sun; maybe it was the knowledge that their large, powerful boats could easily scare the Danish and coffee right out of unsuspecting journalists.

Whatever it was that was causing this odd transformation, one thing was becoming clear to me: I WAS STUCK WITH THEM! AAARGH!!!!!!!!!!
"Ready?" Pete Mazzo, the werewolf captain of my boat, turned and asked me as he revved the giant, twin engines. Pete's eyes were wide with anticipation and his hair DID seem just a wee bit longer than it was a few minutes ago.
I gulped and said, "I guess so."

Of course, it didn't matter if I was ready or not. It didn't matter to Pete or to the other three wild, speed-hungry maniacs on my boat if I suddenly exploded with fear or jumped in the ocean screaming, "I WANT MY MOMMY!"
We were about to go racing across the ocean in Pete's boat -- a $450,000, 42-foot Outerlimits race boat named No Discipline -- and no amount of blubbering on my part was going to stop us.

Then suddenly, just as I was searching for my rosary beads, the engines roared behind me, the nose of the boat lifted into the air, I grabbed for something to hold onto, and we began our heart-pounding, butt-pounding, journalist-pounding run from Point Pleasant Beach to Atlantic City.

At least I THINK that's what happened. My eyes were closed and my head was tucked between my knees, so I really couldn't see too much.

Holding on for dear life

I have bungee-jumped from 150 feet; I have become lost in the folds of a 728-pound sumo wrestler; I have worn a diaper in public. But nothing has frightened me quite so much as riding in the back of this growling powerboat as it screams across the ocean at 80 to 85 mph, spraying water high in the air behind it.

Actually, it's not the speed that has me holding on for dear life; it's the constant BAM!, BAM!, BAM! as the boat slams down from atop wave after wave, threatening to pitch me right into a deep blue grave.

After only two or three minutes, this violent pounding has forced me into a rather odd, defensive posture that I know the pack of maniac werewolves on the boat finds extremely humorous.

I am standing bent over, with my rear end tucked into one of the padded seats. My hands are outstretched, gripping two of the grab bars. My face is pointing directly at the floor.
With each pounding wave, my butt bounces in and out of the seat, which I also believe everyone finds extremely humorous.

"Stand up," one of the guys on the boat screams at me over the sound of the violent, ripping wind, the loud humming engines, the pounding of the boat and the thunderous beating of my bony, little backside. "It's easier if you stand up!"

Nice try, fellas, but I am not about to stand up and risk being thrown from this speeding boat. I will stay like this the whole way, if necessary, providing you with continuous, hilarious entertainment for the entire trip.

"You doin' OK?" Pete turns back to ask again, his face now fully covered in hair, his teeth much, much longer and his right paw holding the throttle down.
Up to this point, the only sound I have made is a loud "UH!" as the boat performs a maritime version of the Heimlich maneuver on me every time it hits a wave.

I look at Pete through the goofy goggles I'm wearing (meant to keep my eyeballs from being pushed through the back of my head by the wind, I suppose) and respond:
"You . . . UH! . . . guys . . . UH! . . . really . . . UH! . . . find . . . UH! . . . this . . . UH! . . . to . . . UH! . . . be . . . UH! . . . fun?"

The fact is, they do find this fun. Right now, there are 23 gigantic boats filled with all manner of werewolf, bouncing and pounding and spraying their way to Atlantic City.

They are the formerly sane members of the New Jersey Performance Powerboat Club, transformed into speed demons and journalist torturers, taking part in an event they call a "poker run."

The object of the event, besides turning me numerous shades of green, is to drive the boats to Atlantic City, where a series of playing cards are distributed to each driver.

A total of 50 boats, traveling in two stages, make the trip; the cards they receive in Atlantic City make a poker hand, and the best hand wins. The winner gets $1,250; second place is $750; third gets $500. Everyone else is rewarded with the knowledge that they scared the living daylights out of Bob.

Faster than a casino bus

"You're going to have a great time," is what club president Dave Patnaude said to lure me from my safe, cozy bed on a Saturday morning.
"And don't worry," he added. "We are extremely safe. We have yet to have an accident."

This was all very reassuring to me BEFORE I found myself out in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, entertaining the crew with a solo performance of "butt bongo" to the pounding rhythm of the waves.

And I'm sure Dave was talking about a BOATING accident, not the kind of accident I was very close to experiencing as the boat picked up speed.

"You doin' OK?" Pete turned back to ask again.

"You . . . UH! . . . guys . . . UH! . . . are . . . UH! . . . NUTS!" I replied.

To which Pete responded by handing the controls over to Mike Fiore, the guy who built the boat and whose sole purpose today was to "see what she can do."

Oh, great! As though reducing me to a trembling, sweaty mound of fear was not enough of an achievement. Now Mike, bless his hairy little heart, is going to see what she can do!

Somehow, Mike managed to push the throttle even further, increasing the speed of the boat, which resulted in an incredibly thunderous BOOM! as we broke the sound barrier.

But then again, that might have been my rear end smacking the seat yet again. Ouch!

A.C. a welcome sight

After about 15 minutes aboard No Discipline, I decide to pick my head up and look around like a frightened baby bird.

The ocean is racing by on both sides; the water is spraying behind us like a rooster's tail; the crew is chatting and joking as if they they were having a wonderful time! What the heck is wrong with them? I think.

And then, like a miracle, the boat slows down.

"Where is everyone else?" Pete asks, looking back through the wake to a horizon empty of boats.

It seems that Mr. Speedy has managed to drive fast enough to put us far ahead of the rest of the pack and he is now considering turning around to find them.

"Let's not," I said sternly. "Let's keep going."

The next thing I knew, my butt is back in the saddle, bouncing wildly as this gigantic boat makes a sharp right turn. I feel like I am on an amusement ride with nothing strapping me in.

Alas, there is no one behind us, so we make another sharp turn, and we are back on the route to Atlantic City.

After about 40 minutes at sea, the lovely, marvelous skyline of Atlantic City rises like heaven in the distance. The sight emboldens me, and I stand like the other guys as the boat cruises into Trump Marina, where there is, thank goodness, an actual speed limit.

"How'd you like it?" a calm, clean-shaven Pete turns and asks me.

"Oh, I had a great time," I lie. "It was fantastic. It was terrific. And, by the way, you guys are NUTS!"

After the adventure

I am happy to report that, besides my tender tenderloin, the NJPPC Poker Run was completed without any mishaps. (But just in case, all the club's "poker runs" carry a crew of MONOC paramedics and a dive team. Also, everyone on the trip is required to wear a life jacket.)

And I am also happy to report that the event concluded with a well-deserved cocktail party and scrumptious buffet at Trump Marina, during which all the maniac boat racers reverted back to the lovely, friendly people they really are.

But I am most pleased to report that, only a few days after my boating adventure, I was once again able to sit comfortably in a chair.

For a moment, anyway.

(Photo - Chris Polk POLK IMAGING)

AT THE CONTROLS: Pete Mazzo (right), the owner of the boat No Discipline, shows Bob (left) all the buttons and gauges that Bob is not allowed to touch on the boat. Club president Dave Patnaude looks on as the boat is docked at Trump Marina in Atlantic City.