The short of it is, I've been promoted to deckhand. The long of it goes like this:
It's been almost a month on the water, and things had not exactly been pleasant. While I was (and continue to be) enamored by Maine as a whole, and am taking to the boat like--excuse the pun--a fish in the water, I've come to the conclusion that I've got an issue with chefs.
You see, Chef (as we'll call him) is one of those people you ought to hate despite the fact that they're pretty damn likable. He's something of a dick, but when he's cheerful it's so infectious that you can't be mad at him. For vaguely sanitary reasons that you ultimately can't define, you'd hesitate to drink from the same bottle as him, though he'll always offer a pull. His stories make you want to both vomit and hit him, rapidly instigating some kind of vomit-covered grappling-oriented slugfest.
At the same time, however, he always tries. Maybe he doesn't try not to be an asshole, but he tries to care about not being an asshole. And he did put in a good word for me to the Admiral, who owns the company and all three ships, because at the end of the day I did work my ass off in the galley for the last month--a month that oscillated between blunt hostility and begrudging enjoyment.
So this morning, after we made port (in style--ask me about it sometime), I was scampering around the galley with a broom and a dustpan when I see the Admiral come down the ladder. Oh, shit.
"Can you pass a drug test?" he asks. Loquacious, the Admiral is.
"Yessir." I respond, inwardly preparing my urine.
"Excellent. You've got a promotion." He extends his hand.
Dumbfounded, I shake it, hoping he doesn't notice that my palms are drenched in stove-black. You see, the previous deckhand on the Grace Bailey, the Merc's sister ship, went and skipped town without telling a soul. And, in the words of the Admiral, "you can sail without a mess-mate, but deckhands are pretty important."
"So you know how to do a bowline?" he asks, a matter of course.
"Um...not yet." I respond. Not much call for a bowline hitch when you're washing dishes.
"How about work the anchor?"
Well. I saw them do it once. Through a porthole. It was pretty neat. "Not much, but I know the basics."
"How about raise the sails?"
Finally, a break. "That one I know!" I said.
He seemed less than excited, but my brain finally kicked in. "I'll learn as I go, and I'm willing to work my ass off. Thank you so much for the opportunity."
He grinned, and headed back up.
So that's my day. On the bright side, I'm out of the galley--and away from Chef. I'm on payroll, I'm up in the sun, and I'm doing what I came here to do--learn the ship. On the downside, I've got a lot to learn and not a lot of time to do it. It's going to be intense, stressful, and not a small bit terrifying.
Wait, what am I saying? I love that shit! Catch you next week, folks.
It's been almost a month on the water, and things had not exactly been pleasant. While I was (and continue to be) enamored by Maine as a whole, and am taking to the boat like--excuse the pun--a fish in the water, I've come to the conclusion that I've got an issue with chefs.
You see, Chef (as we'll call him) is one of those people you ought to hate despite the fact that they're pretty damn likable. He's something of a dick, but when he's cheerful it's so infectious that you can't be mad at him. For vaguely sanitary reasons that you ultimately can't define, you'd hesitate to drink from the same bottle as him, though he'll always offer a pull. His stories make you want to both vomit and hit him, rapidly instigating some kind of vomit-covered grappling-oriented slugfest.
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| I really didn't want to image search that. Here's a kitty instead. |
So this morning, after we made port (in style--ask me about it sometime), I was scampering around the galley with a broom and a dustpan when I see the Admiral come down the ladder. Oh, shit.
"Can you pass a drug test?" he asks. Loquacious, the Admiral is.
"Yessir." I respond, inwardly preparing my urine.
"Excellent. You've got a promotion." He extends his hand.
Dumbfounded, I shake it, hoping he doesn't notice that my palms are drenched in stove-black. You see, the previous deckhand on the Grace Bailey, the Merc's sister ship, went and skipped town without telling a soul. And, in the words of the Admiral, "you can sail without a mess-mate, but deckhands are pretty important."
"So you know how to do a bowline?" he asks, a matter of course.
"Um...not yet." I respond. Not much call for a bowline hitch when you're washing dishes.
"How about work the anchor?"
Well. I saw them do it once. Through a porthole. It was pretty neat. "Not much, but I know the basics."
"How about raise the sails?"
Finally, a break. "That one I know!" I said.
He seemed less than excited, but my brain finally kicked in. "I'll learn as I go, and I'm willing to work my ass off. Thank you so much for the opportunity."
He grinned, and headed back up.
So that's my day. On the bright side, I'm out of the galley--and away from Chef. I'm on payroll, I'm up in the sun, and I'm doing what I came here to do--learn the ship. On the downside, I've got a lot to learn and not a lot of time to do it. It's going to be intense, stressful, and not a small bit terrifying.
Wait, what am I saying? I love that shit! Catch you next week, folks.
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