Petey the Penguin
A cheap, plastic garden decoration turned beer-bong carryon and travel companion for international ski adventures
“What is it?” Pat Sewell answered the Denver International Airport Officer’s question with a question. “Well… it’s kind of a beer bong. You pour beer through the hole in its butt and then you suck the beer out through this hole in its nose.”
Pat paused—for effect. I held my breath while Tats snorted out a laugh that snuck through his clenched teeth.
“Cool,” the DIA TSA rep eventually said, he was bedecked in a freshly starched uniform. “Like this?” He held Petey the Penguin upside down and put the plastic garden decoration’s nose near his lips.
“Exactly,” said Sewell.
“Have a good trip, guys.” The TSA agent waved us through the metal detector and we stepped onto the escalator wearing avy packs as carryons and passing Petey between us to free up a hand for a Cinnabon, espresso or to flip through a magazine (that’s how long ago this was).
The four of us—Pat Sewell, Chris Tatsuno, me, and Petey the Penguin—were headed to the Tirol in Austria and the Dolomites in Italy. We were going skiing!
The travel itinerary: Denver to Toronto before a long-haul trans-Atlantic red-eye to Frankfurt and then a quick bump to Salzburg.
In Toronto, our layover coincided with apres. We found a bar in the international terminal. It would’ve been rude not to.
I ordered a round of beers for us.
“We’ll have three each,” interjected Tats.
This was going to be a long, fun trip.
Eventually, our group grew in Toronto’s airport as we dumped Canadian beers into Petey’s ass and guzzled them from his face. Girls gathered around. They gawked. Dads covered their kids’ eyes. The dads watched. One Canadian hockey player strutted up and asked to try. He hammered that beer quicker than I.
Our departure was getting close. Normally I travel very loose, trusting it will all work out. In Toronto a long time ago with Pat and Tats and Petey, however, I was nervous. Like a single parent ushering three young kids to their gate, I was solely responsible. I was also getting drunk.
“Will Chris Tatsuno please report to your departure gate?” The terminal echoed with his name. I quickly grabbed my backcountry pack to shuffle closer towards the Tirol.
Tats pulled Petey from his lips. “Do you think that’s us they’re talking about?” He asked as if there was another Chris Tatsuno in Toronto.
We stumbled onto the plane as the doors shut. Petey dripped in the aisle. Blurry-eyed, I led the crew to our row. We passed Frank Shine, Blizzard’s do-everything marketing director, in his airplane seat. He managed the team, shot the imagery, produced the films, introduced Blizzard to the feet of American skiers, beckoned like-minded skiers from distant mountain towns together, showed a lot of us how to pick a comp line, took Cochise to market eventually, and skied better than most us (aside from Marcus, Keeley, and maybe Johan).
“You’re ridiculous,” Frank said. He had a book on his lap, a blanket wrapped around his waste, two water bottles in the seat pocket in front of him and nose-canceling headphones at the ready. His trip was going to be different than ours, without question.