Another Friday, another weekend trip. We board the passengers as per usual. Frantic, rushed. We try to keep the ice from melting under a sweltering sun as we try to raise our awning through whipping wind. Wolfman reads off the passenger list, and I hear the name "Dragan."
Huh. That rings a bell.
The trip commences, and as I'm pumping the bilge, I see him walk by. We strike up a conversation, and to my incomparable delight, Dragan is from New Belgrade! I tell him that I used to live and study in the Balkans, and when he hears that I studied conflict resolution, he nods sagely.
"You know," he says, as a matter of course, "the Americans started that war."
Ooooh boy.
Which is how in conceivably the last place I'd expected, I became embroiled in the knock-down, drag-out, strangely, pleasantly familiar conversation of who-the-hell-started-the-Yugoslav-War. My personal favorite part was when I brought up the involvement of paramilitary war criminal Arkan (in concurrence with the thirty page paper I wrote comprising most of my last semester in college). Dragan brightened up and said, "Ah, Zeliko! I taught him to box when he was fifteen!"
Well, shit. Where was this guy a few months ago?
Aside from meeting the primary source of my dreams, this trip was unique in that we were wracked with one of the most formidable storms I've ever had the pleasure of sitting through. Storms are great on porches, even better in skyscrapers--they're downright entrancing on a ship (as long as you've dropped anchor and flaked out some extra chain. Otherwise, I'd imagine they're much wetter).
As it pitched the ship around like driftwood and spat jagged dashes of lightning a few dozen yards from the deck, Wolfman, Picasso (the messmate--you should see him paint) and I undertook one of the most intense dishwashing jobs I've ever heard of. Hey, just because Thor and Zeus are throwing around in the firmament doesn't mean we get to skip dishes. And since everybody (understandably) packed into the galley when the thunder started, there was only one place to do them.
Up on deck, we ignored the sideways sheets of rain buffeting our faces, instead allowing it to rinse off the soapy suds as we lathered up half of the galley dishes.The paltry glow of a few headlamps cut through the lightless night, and as we belted The Doors off-key against thunderclaps that cracked hard enough to shake your chest, it hit me: stress, exhaustion, and disrespect aside, sometimes you wouldn't need to pay me to do this shit. I'm not sure what that says about me, but I'm pretty sure I'm okay with it.
Back on dry land, I heard rumors that we narrow down to one boat after the five-day that starts tomorrow--meaning that in a week, I'll theoretically have about twice the shore time that I do now. Granted, considering how my last week "off" went, this probably means I'll end up in the forest mushing sled dogs or something equally insane. Not a terrible thing, I suppose. I'll have more concrete details next week!
Huh. That rings a bell.
The trip commences, and as I'm pumping the bilge, I see him walk by. We strike up a conversation, and to my incomparable delight, Dragan is from New Belgrade! I tell him that I used to live and study in the Balkans, and when he hears that I studied conflict resolution, he nods sagely.
"You know," he says, as a matter of course, "the Americans started that war."
Ooooh boy.
Which is how in conceivably the last place I'd expected, I became embroiled in the knock-down, drag-out, strangely, pleasantly familiar conversation of who-the-hell-started-the-Yugoslav-War. My personal favorite part was when I brought up the involvement of paramilitary war criminal Arkan (in concurrence with the thirty page paper I wrote comprising most of my last semester in college). Dragan brightened up and said, "Ah, Zeliko! I taught him to box when he was fifteen!"
 |
| Arkan, and yes, that's a real tiger cub. No, I don't know how much your balls have to weigh to rob a zoo. |
Well, shit. Where was this guy a few months ago?
Aside from meeting the primary source of my dreams, this trip was unique in that we were wracked with one of the most formidable storms I've ever had the pleasure of sitting through. Storms are great on porches, even better in skyscrapers--they're downright entrancing on a ship (as long as you've dropped anchor and flaked out some extra chain. Otherwise, I'd imagine they're much wetter).
As it pitched the ship around like driftwood and spat jagged dashes of lightning a few dozen yards from the deck, Wolfman, Picasso (the messmate--you should see him paint) and I undertook one of the most intense dishwashing jobs I've ever heard of. Hey, just because Thor and Zeus are throwing around in the firmament doesn't mean we get to skip dishes. And since everybody (understandably) packed into the galley when the thunder started, there was only one place to do them.
Up on deck, we ignored the sideways sheets of rain buffeting our faces, instead allowing it to rinse off the soapy suds as we lathered up half of the galley dishes.The paltry glow of a few headlamps cut through the lightless night, and as we belted The Doors off-key against thunderclaps that cracked hard enough to shake your chest, it hit me: stress, exhaustion, and disrespect aside, sometimes you wouldn't need to pay me to do this shit. I'm not sure what that says about me, but I'm pretty sure I'm okay with it.
Back on dry land, I heard rumors that we narrow down to one boat after the five-day that starts tomorrow--meaning that in a week, I'll theoretically have about twice the shore time that I do now. Granted, considering how my last week "off" went, this probably means I'll end up in the forest mushing sled dogs or something equally insane. Not a terrible thing, I suppose. I'll have more concrete details next week!
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