Pier Pressure: A Serious Problem in Coastal Communities
But lately, pier pressure has gotten out of hand.
What began as lighthearted boasting about who could pull in the biggest flounder has escalated into an arms race of nautical nonsense. Pier A insists they once saw a dolphin nod in approval at their craftsmanship, while Pier B swears that Ernest Hemingway himself ghosted their bait shop and muttered, "This is the one." Pier C doesn't even have a bait shop, but they keep bragging about their "historical significance," which appears to be nothing more than having lost the most fishermen's hats to sudden gusts of wind.
Soon the competition spreads. Pier A accuses Pier B of waxing their planks with a suspiciously slippery sheen, making tourists fall in comedic ways that "generate sympathy business." Pier B fires back by suggesting that Pier A's pilings have been chemically enhanced to resist barnacles—an unfair advantage in the ancient art of sea crud accumulation.
The seagulls, once neutral, begin to take sides. Entire flocks form partisan squadrons, strafing rival piers with "aerial commentary." Locals who once threw bread to the gulls now find themselves interrogated: "Which pier do you support, ma'am? Be honest."
Things come to a head when Pier A introduces "competitive crab counting" on weekends. Dozens of tourists crowd around buckets of scuttling crabs, debating whether a sideways shuffle constitutes an escape attempt or simply "expressive crustacean movement." Pier B retaliates with a midnight plank-walking contest, where pier captains swagger out into the moonlight daring anyone to walk further toward the end without whimpering about splinters. The bravest, of course, is always someone's grandmother in a sunhat who hasn't been intimidated by anything since Prohibition.
The situation finally gets so heated that the town calls an emergency meeting at the VFW hall. Folding chairs are set up, coffee is served in Styrofoam cups, and an overhead projector is wheeled in—because nothing says "serious municipal conflict" like a blurry pie chart projected onto a cinderblock wall.
The mayor, trying to appear neutral, clears his throat. "We're here tonight to discuss excessive pier pressure. Let's keep this civil. Remember, we're all one community—tied together by the same tide." (This pun does not land well, because everyone is still glaring at each other.)
A fisherman from Pier A demands mandatory inspections for rival piers' "questionable pylon integrity." Pier B counters by proposing a tax on "unearned seagull loyalty." Pier C, not to be outdone, proposes declaring itself a UNESCO World Heritage Site, citing the "centuries-old tradition of dropping car keys between the slats."
By the end of the evening, a compromise is reached: once a year, the town will host a Pier Pressure Festival. Each pier will be judged in a series of categories including "Best Smell of Fish," "Most Photographed Seagull," and "Least Likely to Collapse During a Polka Band Performance." The winning pier will get bragging rights and a hand-painted sign reading, Pier of the Year.
Of course, this will not solve the problem. By the next morning, Pier A will accuse Pier B of "bribing the judges with hushpuppies," Pier B will claim Pier A "rigged the tide schedule," and Pier C will file a formal complaint that their historical hat-loss record was not given proper consideration.
Such is the curse of pier pressure.
But perhaps, in a way, it's not so bad. For in every fishing town, a little rivalry keeps the piers strong, the gulls sharp, and the townsfolk endlessly entertained. And if you ever visit and hear a fisherman mutter, "We've got the best pier around here," just nod politely. Trust me—there's no safe answer.
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"Wisdom begins with wonder." - Socrates
"Learning happens thru gentleness."
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