Day 14 Valentine’s Day

The fact that it is Valentine’s Day doesn’t bother me too much. I’d prefer to spend the day with someone I love and in turn loves me, but a boat full of Russians isn’t that bad either I suppose. The weather, like on Christmas, is poor. 10 foot waves, gale force winds and a path that’s sloughing our boat straight through the trough of the waves. With or against the waves would be preferable because the boat would just pitch on one axis that runs from bow to stern, but with the trough you pitch back and forth and side to side. The boat rolls. It’s not nauseating anymore, just unnerving. It wouldn’t be that bad if there was something to do but there isn’t.

The survey work hasn’t begun yet. The guns haven’t even been deployed yet. We’ve got 5 miles of streamer on this boat and not a foot is out or balanced. We’re two weeks at sea and have yet to get out and do any biological surveying that’s of any consequence. Today the weather’s been so bad we’ve not even stepped outside which wouldn’t be that bad if there were something to do. It’s painfully minimalist which on a boat doesn’t appreciate the same way it does in art or design. It just gets under your skin. You get stir crazy. I’ve got 8 more weeks out here and I’m already detecting stress cracks in my psyche. If I can’t find a way to entertain myself (and now that I’ve been forced to share a room with my colleague I can’t even “entertain myself”) I’m not going to make it. And this boat isn’t exactly accommodating, in fact, it’s at the heart of the problem. I’ve already written about the lack of communication with the outside world. No internet, no phones, and no TV. You’d think with all the satellites this sloop has on it one of them would be able to pick up ESPN but they aren’t having it. Oh well, I can get by without, I have books and my brain… and DVDs like Buckets of Cum and Super Squirters Vol. 10.

And not to stray too far from the topic but I’ve got a bone to pick with Leisure Time Digital Entertainment. They’re the producers of the inappropriately titled Super Squirters Vol. 10 film. Sure, there was a lot of hot fuckin’ action… well it was okay… actually it was rather uninspired… and they looped footage to extend the length of the feature which I’ll let slide considering I’m on a boat. No, the problem I have with this film is that not ONE of these women squirts. It’s blatant false advertising. If you title a movie, Super Squirters Vol. 10, the least you can do is make sure the women do just that. Right now female ejaculation is in vogue. It’s the new polyester. It’s all the rage. And your video is cashing in on this without delivering the goods. Not one woman erupting in a sloppy, orgasmic love geyser. Not one lactating breast. Not even a woman drinking a Squirt Soda while getting gangbanged by midgets dressed up like clowns and the clergy. Sorry, Leisure Time Digital, you just lost yourself a customer and don’t think I’m not going to inform my friends and colleagues… all avid porn fans I might add… that Leisure Time Digital Entertainment doesn’t care about its customers and would prefer to make its money by duping the masturbating public (which is a large percentage of the public I might add). For shame, Leisure Time Digital Entertainment, for shame. I am kicking myself for not picking up, The North Pole Vol. 17. At least with that you know your getting a film with some integrity. Peter North’s the kind of star that doesn’t phone it in. He bones it in. And I regret not picking it up.

So besides the shoddy porn, there are other things bothering me. Day in day out it’s the same food in the galley, some combination of meat, potatoes, and boney herring. Everyday for two full weeks it’s the same thing. I’m an hour away from downtown Kingston via chase boat and a restaurant called, “The Rib Kage,” which you know is bringing the jerk and I’m stuck rolling on a sea eating the same thing for a fort night. Washing it down with pasteurized juices and satisfying my sweet tooth with the occasional tin of ROYAL DANSK cookies.

Everybody knows ROYAL DANSK cookies. They’re the plain ass sugar cookies that come in the real fancy blue tin with bucolic pictures of Holland all over them to hide the fact that the contents are plain ass sugar cookies. Well I’m here to tell you ROYAL DANSK that you aren’t fooling anyone… except the guy on board this boat who’s responsible for ordering the food. And speaking of that guy… what’s with all the cases of plain seltzer water? Were they out of Coke? Pepsi? RC Cola? A&W? Shasta? Orangina? Sprite? 7-Up? Mugg? A-treat? Mountain Dew? All the generics? All flavored carbonated beverages? Who drinks or even uses plain seltzer besides clowns and Soupy Sales? It’s not like we have vodka to mix it with. It’s just straight seltzer water. Mmm!! Love the taste of carbon dioxide. Hits the spot. You know the last thing I want to do is compare ships but the last one I was on had no less than 7 brands of soda and 5 brands of cookie… including Oreo… DOUBLE STUFF. Would it kill them to spoil us a little? Cause I’ll tell you right now I’m not going to make it 10 weeks on Royal Dansk and seltzer. It’s like when we were kids and your poor friend invited you to sleep over at his house and you did because he was your friend but you hated it because there was nothing to eat or do because they were poor. That’s exactly what it’s like. I know, because I was that kid for a while.

I don’t want to come off sounding like a snob. I just want a Coca Cola. I don’t even want booze, just a soda… with flavor. God Almighty. No TV, no internet, no phones, no radio, no cookies worth a shit… it’s like The Shining on water. They’re daring me to crack. And I’m almost there. But I’m not going to. But so help me if I get offered another crappy ROYAL DANSK cookie I’m going to freak.

If you too hate ROYAL DANSK cookies, felonious pornography, or me… send me an email at greg@shatskiy.marsatmail.com. You can comment on my site but I’m unable to access my website so I won’t be able to read them. If you really have something to say, send me an email… I’ll more than likely get back to you… seeing as how I’ve got nothing else to do and I love you. Happy Valentine’s Day everyone.

Got Sperm?

Yesterday I was doing my ancillary watch on the top of our ship, shirtless (for the ladies), soaking up Jamaica’s sun when I spotted out of the corner of my right eye something I never saw before. Since I started this job in November I’ve spent as much time at sea as I have on land and in all that time I never saw a whale (of course when I’m on land I’m not really expecting to see one but you never know) until today. Under the tropical, late afternoon Jamaican sun (which is totally different from the Florida sun and Hangzhou sun) I saw the tell tale sign every MMO is looking for. The blow. It was barely a half mile out off the starboard (right side) bow. Well I’m guesstimating a half mile. To tell you the truth, my ability to judge distance at sea is still a little wonky and by, “wonky,” I mean shockingly inaccurate. It was anywhere from 300 feet to 3 miles off the starboard bow/side of the boat. That much I can guarantee with a 90% degree of certainty. Without a doubt it (the blow) was between the islands of Jamaica and Cuba.

My heart rate accelerated as I focused my binoculars in the vicinity of the blow hoping there would be another one because as it was I had no idea as to the species producing this blow. Now as most of you know, whales have different blows. No two species of whale blows the same. They all have a unique way of blowing. There are no two blows alike in the whale world. It’s a smorgasbord of varied blowing styles when you’re dealing with whales. You gotta know the blow. It’s your job to know the blow. And I know the blow. You blow in front of me I’ll tell you who’s doing the blowing. And that’s what I was waiting for…one more blow. As luck would have it, I didn’t have to wait long for another blow. It came immediately… right in my face. It was the blow of the mighty Sperm Whale. Everything about this blow said, “Sperm,” from the 45 degree angle of the spray to its offset blowhole. Yep, this blow had sperm written all over it.

Yep, I saw my first two whales yesterday and they were sperm whales. It was utterly breathtaking to see these beautiful creatures in the wild. They were between 30 and 40 feet long and just lounging on the surface taking in the sun. They swam along with the boat for about 10 minutes then disappeared. I’m assuming they dove beneath the surface looking for squid to munch. It is, after all, their favorite thing to munch. You throw squid anywhere near these whales and you better believe they’re going to munch those squids. They love the squid and they’ll stop at nothing to eat them. That’s why they’re the deepest, longest diving cetacean known to man. They’ll dive down to 10,000 feet just to get those squid. They’ll stay down for 2 hours just to get a taste of those snacktastic bastards. These babies are certified squid junkies and there’s no place they won’t go in search of their favorite, eight-legged, invertebrate treat. Luckily, one of those places they’ll dare venture is right off the side of our boat because I’ve always wanted to see them and now I got to. Gotta admit, it was pretty sweet.

What’s not so sweet is the wicked bad sun burn I got from 6 hours of ancillary watch. I only had my shirt off for two hours but man did I burn. I look like a cherry tomato with vestigial nipples…and arms. Every movement hurts. I am emitting light. I have a dull amber glow which will in a few days fade into a nice olive tan but for now I’m in immense pain. And I wear jeans on watch so the tan line I have between my upper body and lower body is striking to say the least. So much so that when I masturbate it looks like I have jungle fever for myself. Which I do.

Diary Entry No. 3 Day 9/10 (It’s 20 minutes into the 10th of February) Premonition:

Without getting into too much detail, I’m dead. Moments before a piece of wood from the chair I was sitting in broke through and between the ribs of my back and gravity’s pull on the weight of my body drove it about 2 inches into my heart I was reclining in my cabin with a silk relaxation pillow filled with fennel and flax seed gently draped over my eyes trying to unwind from a caffeine wired day of quarantine. It was to be a busy day filled with meetings, television crews and demonstrations for foreign dignitaries. It was in fact a day filled with coffee and confinement. 10 cups of coffee in a 10’x7’ room for close to 12 hours with nothing to do but nurture a vice gave me way too much time to think. I thought about how much I was smoking and shortly after lunch had convinced my self I had mouth cancer. I was sure lesions were beginning to spread inside my mouth at an uncontrollable rate. By the time this job was done and I could return home my lower jaw, tongue and palette would have to be removed. I have no insurance so the costs to save me would financially cripple my family. I would be deformed. My new grotesqueness would send me into a paralyzing depression made even more inescapable by the fact that I would receive little sympathy from anyone due to the fact that my addiction to cigarettes caused this. Were I not weak, none of this would have happened or would be happening. Yet I continued to smoke because there was nothing else to do except wait for something to happen and it was the only thing that would calm me down.

I walked all around the boat, bow to stern, floor by floor, in circles, pacing back and forth, waiting… not even sure for what but something, anything to distract my mind from the cancer spreading inside my mouth. As if my mind was and is as I write this determined to fulfill some prophecy it itself created in a one sided battle against whatever part of me doesn’t want to die. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to be sick. I’m tired of asking myself if I smell toast every time I have a headache, because I can’t just have a headache I have to be having a stroke. Every pang of pain around my waist is a kidney failing, every pain in my chest is a malignant tumor in my lung or the onset of cardiac arrest or Sickle Cell Anemia. And yes, I’m aware of the fact that my being white pretty much negates, in any realm, the possibility of me having Sickle Cell Anemia but just because it’s never happened before doesn’t mean it can’t. The high improbability only further convinces me of its probability. For example:

Back in high school when most of my peers were being rushed to the emergency room for broken bones incurred from athletic competition or from overdosing on drugs I was being rushed off to the urologist because my testicles were producing, besides an enormous amount of pain, enough Shakespearean Boner Oil to gag a trash bag. The operation itself took about as much time as it does to set a broken leg but the next day at school I didn’t have a cool cast to sign, just a scrotum the size of a grapefruit and even lower self-esteem because unlike Joe Football no one was lining up to sign my ball sack. Oh and when word got out that I had had a testicular operation (I know I talk a lot about my genitals but this I really did attempt to keep just between family and close friends) no one bothered to pry me for specifics. It was just easier to spread the rumor I had my testicles removed. As if I didn’t have a hard enough time as an awkward, pimply faced geek chatting up girls. I was now the awkward, pimply faced geek WITH NO BALLS chatting up girls. I mean, as if the cards weren’t already stacked against me.

I included the above for two reasons. One reason is to try and show that I’m not just a hypochondriac, though www.webmd.com has made it a whole lot easier to be one (I swear I have Lupus), but that I’m plagued with irrational concern over the statistical probabilities regarding my own health, or more accurately, the degeneration of my health. As far as my mind’s concerned I’m doomed no matter the probability, high or low. Because I smoke it’s completely rational in my mind to worry about cancer and statistically it puts me in a much higher risk group than non-smokers, add to that, the sore that formed in the back of my mouth today, and I might as well be filling out the organ donor cards right here and now because as for as my mind is concerned I am no longer at risk. I have cancer. I’m stuck on this boat for what could be 2 and a half months, smoking, with a sore in my mouth, and no oncologist around to give check me out and tell me it’s not. I know I’m a worrier and you may think I’m just letting my anxiety get the best of me in this confined, isolated environment. You are probably right, but it doesn’t stop my brain from undermining any confidence I have in my physical well being. In a way, that’s what I was trying to show with the anecdote about high school. The probability didn’t matter. The size of my graduating class was around 1200 students if I remember correctly. It was over a 1000. Let’s say half were male. Out of 500 males from every background I’m the only one who had a testicle operation. I’m .2% of the graduating male population. Anyone of the five hundred could have been hit by this, but it was me. So if my thinking is right, in a random sampling of 500 high school boys there’s a less than 1% chance one of them will have a testicle operation. So even when the probability is less than 1% I don’t feel safe henceforth proving that IF ANY WHITE PERSON’S GOING TO HAVE SICKLE CELL ANEMIA IT’S GOING TO BE ME.

And the second reason I put that anecdote in was because of the phrase, “Shakespearean Boner Oil,” which I made up and thought was funny. I thought it would make you laugh. I mean, just because I’m stuck on a boat, potentially with cancer, staring the grim reaper in the face, doesn’t mean you all have to mope.

Okay, back to the premonition. All day today I’ve been freaking out; too much coffee, nothing to do, a habit that can cause cancer, a sore in my mouth (which was probably caused by all the coffee I drank because I normally never drink coffee), and way too much time to think about my own demise. Around 11:00 PM I decide to do something about it. I pull out the relaxation pillow. Sit down in the desk chair in my cabin. Put on some relaxing music and force myself to think about something other than the cancer that is destroying my mouth. And what do I think about? The desk chair I’m sitting on breaking and me impaling my self on the rear left leg of the chair. Here I am worrying all day about slowly succumbing to the effects of cancer and lo and behold I have a vision of my own death and it comes not from disease but the most hackneyed stunt in The Three Stooges repertoire de slapstick.

In the premonition I go on to struggle, stake in back and soaked in blood, to my camera so I can film my last words because there’s no other way to say good bye to all the people I love before I die and go off on what I thought (if it were a scene in a movie) was a beautiful soliloquy about, oh this and that. (Trust me. It’s a splurge of senseless blather best kept for another time).

Okay, so I’m done. I feel better. In all sincerity I’ve been worried most of the day about this mouth cancer thing and I’ve still not entirely written it out of my mind but I feel a lot better. No one’s probably even reading this anymore but if you did I hope you got one thing out of it. And that one thing is this:

If you want to be happy, don’t think like me. What the hell’s wrong with me? Do other people think like this?

Oh and one other thing. This is what cabin fever reads like. Senseless blather. Yo Ho! Yo Ho! It’s a Pirate’s Life for Me!

The Blockade at Ploppingrad

After sitting at dock in Galveston for almost 2 full days we set sail for Jamaica (presumably) and I have to admit anxiety is already running high. My colleague and I are fine and in relatively good spirits but we still don’t know what our exact job is once we reach our destination. We don’t even know who our client is or what they expect from us. We’ve been doing dawn till dusk ancillary watches to keep our minds active and to give us something to do but nothing prepared us for what was going to happen next.

At the beginning of the previous post I told the long winded story of how I got here in the first place and if you read it you’ll remember the conversation I had with one of my bosses who told me that although he didn’t have any information about the boat itself he did know some people that had been on this boat before and they had nothing but good things to say about it. I have to assume these people he knew were homeless squatters or retarded because we haven’t been at sea more than 24 hours before things on the Ol’ Shatskiy starting breaking down. The local area network or “LAN” as it is referred to by people in “the know” went down cutting our only link with the outside world. Foreigners who come to China or anyplace where they don’t speak the language inevitably talk about their feelings of isolation. How, because they don’t speak the language, they feel very alone even when they are surrounded by people. Now take that linguistic isolation and drop it on a boat in the middle of the Gulf of Mexico. You are totally surrounded by water, no land in sight, and you can’t communicate with the people around you, but you have to make it work because they are the only option. It can get a little lonely. When you think about all your friends and family back home it can be deafening like being trapped in a commercial freezer. Or more accurately, because our air conditioning went out and I’ve experienced the following, it’s like being thrown in the sweat box of a Sudanese prison. If I could sleep for the five days it’s going to take us to reach Jamaica I would just so I wouldn’t have to deal with the desires of my awake/conscious mind but unfortunately I cannot because, in the name of science, I must be awake and alert during the daylight hours to document the various forms of aquatic life I see on this voyage of the damned*. I wish I could sleep for five straight days solely because of what happened early in the morning on our second day out to sea. Something I call: The Blockade at Ploppingrad.

I was on the dawn shift for ancillary watch and as I arose shortly before the sun I took my shower and went to the bathroom when it happened. The egg timer-shaped flushing dial broke. It would not reset, it would not budge. There was no more flushing at all to be had. At the time I thought it nothing more than a simple mechanical problem any of the engineers on board could have fixed. Besides I had to get topside to start my watch. Had I known that this was not an isolated incident but a boat-wide embargo on flushing I probably would have done more than urinate. Yes, the toilets (or in Russian, “toilet,” but with a cool Russian accent) were down. Unusable they were until a plumbing problem was fixed.

We were assured they would be up and running by lunch time but that was not meant to be. Was it my free-wheeling capitalist asshole that might have been to blame? Were there Chechen rebels aboard our ship dropping rogue BMs in the dead of the night? Did I warn my colleague about the toilet before he woke up in the morning and took a wicked dump he unknowingly couldn’t flush? The answer to all these was, “No.” It was just a plumbing problem and they assured us after lunch the inconvenience would be over by dinnertime.

I felt okay but the worry was increasing. I’d already eaten breakfast and lunch. Two full meals on top of the ones I consumed but had not passed from the day prior. I could hold out till dinner, but should I eat anything? If I do that’ll be three plus meals inside my body, slowly digesting and pushing on my rectal shelf, increasing in pressure with each passing minute. But if I didn’t eat I would go hungry. My stomach would constrict further pushing down through my system all the food I was trying so hard not to pass. It was a classic Catch Twenty-pooh.

I decided to trust in it being fixed by dinner. After all I wasn’t the only person on board going through this. Everyone else had to be in the same boat…literally. They couldn’t have the toilets down for a full day…could they?

They could.

I cut off all unnecessary movement after dinner as to not encourage any metabolic function. I simply laid in bed and tried to fall asleep. I wish I had brought David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest with me. A page and a half of that thousand page piece of shit and I’m out like a light. It’s like a double dose of Valium, except Valium isn’t so pompous. We get it. You’re a good writer. Now try writing something people would enjoy. Anywho, at this point in time it’s been 15 hours since the toilets went down and I’ve resigned myself to an uncomfortable sleep.

The following morning I awoke to start my shift, having just spent the last eight hours dreaming I worked at the Tootsie Roll factory (whatever that means). It has been 24 hours since the toilets went down. I need to shower in the morning because I’m of Italian ancestry and stereotypes are true but I’m worried that the warm water is going to invigorate me a bit too much and get things flowing in the foofy department. I’m torn but decide to risk it because I have got some fuckin’ oily skin. It keeps me looking youthful but the cost is socially embarrassing acne (Does anyone out there know if Proactive really works because I’m at that point when I’ll try just about anything. Plus Vanessa Williams is their spokesperson and she’s no slouch. Anybody see The Eraser?). So I’m showering, lathering up my albeit acne scarred but nonetheless muscular, tone, cut body with Dove’s new Cool Moisture soap which is infused with cucumber and green tea and matches the fragrance of my Estee Lauder Daily Wear Plus facial crème perfectly when it hits.

This question goes out to my male readers because my female readers are not equipped anatomically speaking…and I don’t think I have any female readers (even my mom told me she stopped reading months ago). Okay here goes: Have you ever had to shit so badly your balls hurt? Because that’s the kind of pain that hit me while I was in the shower. I was relaxed, warm and awakening, and then BAM! It just hit. One way or another I was about to hit Ploppingrad Square (The bottom of our toilets are square not elliptical or round like you normally find…hence Ploppingrad Square.) with an unholy maelstrom of Borscht Bombs.

I tried to hold it. Not only because I would be unable to flush it but because my colleague had already thoroughly carpet bombed Ploppingrad the day prior and the havoc he wreaked upon the Square was yet to be swept away. So there I am, still wet from my shower, coming to terms with pooping on another man’s pile of day old pooh when I thought of World War II, and the Allied bombing of Dresden. A gruesome, violent and catastrophic event that, although widely argued was a strategically pointless act of aggression, needed to be done. So I grimaced, thought of the morale bolstering speeches of Winston Churchill, and did what needed to be done. The Blockade at Ploppingrad had been broken.

Join me in a few days when I write of my latest adventure entitled: Where the Fuck Can I Find Some Toilet Paper Because I Sure as Hell Ain’t Using My Hand.

I tell ya, life at sea isn’t for everyone. You have to be tough. You have to be able to, at least in my personal experience, go for at least 24 hours without taking a Scooby. Oh and I know you young mavericks out there think you can hold it forever, but when you get out on that roiling sea and some odd pickled potato salad/coleslaw combination isn’t sitting well with you we’ll see how long you last.

*While on watch I was fortunate enough to see a pod of about 20 Pantropical Spotted Dolphins swim under and alongside our boat for a few minutes. Absolutely beautiful creatures and they were so close you could have reached out and touched them if you didn’t mind falling into the ocean. They were close but not touchable close. Gorgeous though, the way they glided and crested through, into and out of the water. There were even some cute little baby dolphins swimming along in the mix. I must say it’s stuff like that that makes it easy to put up with all the hardships.

How I Got Here:

 I got the call on Monday from one of my bosses.  

 “Greg we got a job leaving on Wednesday for Jamaica.  It’s five weeks.  Can you do it?”

 Groggily I reply having dozed off to the Food Network…again, “What’s the boat?”  

 “The Shatskiy.  International  crew.  You’ll love it.”

 “How’s the boat?”  I’ve learned to ask this because it can be a deal breaker.

 “I don’t know much about the boat but I know people that have been on it before and they have nothing but good things to say, no complaints.  So can I put you down for a “yes?” Five weeks in Jamaica.”  He spoke that last part lingeringly, the pitch of his voice ascending towards the end as if to tantalize me.  Baiting me as though I was a bear and he was waving a honey drenched salmon in front of my snoot.  As if the phrase “five weeks in Jamaica” is all one needs to hear in order to get them to pack up on a moments notice, drop everything and leave behind dry land for over a month.  

 Well, it was.  Had I not been half asleep I would have probably pried him for more details but I needed the money and Jamaica sounded quite nice until I started doing my prep work and remembered I WORK ON A BOAT.  It’s not 5 weeks in Jamaica.  It’s five weeks off the coast of Jamaica.  So far off the coast that the fact that it is Jamaica makes little difference.  “Just off the coast of Cuba” would be equally as accurate in as much as it is of absolutely no consequence.  It’s off the coast of Greenland for all I care because I know I’m not going to be able to step onto any of the previously mentioned (though I hope it’s really not Greenland because I didn’t pack for the cold).

 “Greg…buddy…Gre Gre…hear me out.  Five weeks in a 10 x 10 ft velour and satin room with three, big-titted, Venezuelan, Ms. World hopefuls and they all love performing fellatio on skinny white guys.”

 “Oh man you are the greatest!  Sign me up!!!”

 “Just one thing, Greg.  You can’t fuck’em.  You can’t touch’em, eat ’em out or toss their Latin Ensaladas.  Nope you gotta stay on the other side of the room and look for fuckin’ whales while they paw hungrily at themselves and beg, in broken English, for your penis.”

 “Hey wait a sec!  That doesn’t sound good at all!!!”

 “Too late, you said, “Sign me up” that’s a verbal agreement.”

 “FUCK!!!”

 You see in the seismic industry where the qualified Marine Mammal Observer like myself is so often placed, indulging in the activities offered at exotic ports of call is rare.  One, because your job is to ensure that the clients who hired you are in compliance while they are working which they almost always are…OFFSHORE…and these boats are set up to run for up to and over 2 months without ever having to go back to dock.  Even on the off chance that you do dock, a lot of the time, for insurance reasons, you aren’t allowed off the boat.  So even if we do dock in Jamaica the chance of me actually touching Jamaican soil is slim.  I may just get to look at it.  I can imagine it now:  

 Off in the distance I hear the cacophony of steel drums and the shrill ecstatic squeals of thousands of Girls Gone Wild.  The air is rife with an olfactory layercake of sun tan lotion, coconut, and Jamaican Red Hair.  Ziggy Marley has a big show tonight but his bass player is laid up with the bumba claat flu.  Where’s he gonna find one?  If only he knew I was on the ship.  

 It’s not that big a deal though.  It’s not like I actually wanted to experience firsthand the unique tropical culture that is Jamaica and its people, music, and foods.  I can have an equally fulfilling time on the fuckin’ boat dry jerkin’ it because I packed in such a hurry I forgot to pack my lotion.  Trying to squeeze out one last pathetic shot of pleasure from Satan’s aspergill before I file my toothbrush down to a prison grade point and jam it in my jugular.  It’s like high school when everyone else got invited to the big party where all the cheerleaders got naked and fondled each other to the Keystone Light soaked cheers of all the people that were cool enough to attend…except for me.  I’m only assuming parties like this went on because I was never invited to any.  On a side note, I just realized that my ten year high school reunion is now only a year a way.  You’d think those hurt feelings and vows of revenge would have subsided and been forgotten.  Nope.  I still want to cut the heads off all those rich, white, pricks that taught me at such a tender and awkward age that life is superficial and money driven and being tall, thin and blonde is better than being intelligent and altruistic.  Those pretentious fucks, I’d show them….if I actually had any intention of going to my high school reunion, which I don’t because high school reunions are for losers.  Anyway, back to the story.

 So I’m packing all my essentials, clothes, personal hygiene supplies, passport, notepads, pens, animal identification books which I totally don’t even need anymore, (I can accurately distinguish between a Minke’s Whale and a Sei Whale at 10 nautical miles in dense fog…just by the sound of the blow), steel-toed boots, safety glasses, hard hat, hardcore pornography (I can’t believe I forgot lotion), vitamins, so forth and so on, when I take a break to go online to find out information about this boat I’m going out on, the Shatskiy.  Every boat (or “ship”) in this industry is basically the same, but some are more luxurious than others.  So it’s always good to try and find out as much information as you can about the boat so you can kind of know what to expect.

 It should have been a red flag right then and there when I couldn’t find any information on it online.  Not that I’m that good at web searches, but I’ve never had problems finding information on a boat before but I trust my bosses so I pack light.  Wednesday morning comes way too soon (left a lot of loose ends) and I’m off on a flight to Houston.  After gathering my equipment at the airport baggage claim it is just a short drive down to Galveston (which is just like New Orleans…if you’re Mormon, or just like crap) to the docks where the ship  was… well… docked.

 Turns out the boat is a Cold War Soviet era floating catastrophe.  Oh, it’s an international crew boss, if by “international crew” you mean, “Russian,” which is great because I’ve always wanted to learn Russian under the worst possible circumstances.  They all seem to be very nice though and they all seem to be really good at martial arts which I find simultaneously distressing and comforting.  But that’s beside the point because although I packed light, I packed complete.  I brought my portable DVD player so I can watch stuff other than Kickboxer dubbed into Russian (which actually makes it a ten times better movie).  I brought plenty of books including my Chinese textbooks so I’ll be polished for when I return.  And most importantly, I brought my friend’s Gameboy so I’m totally set to entertain myself during any down time I’m bound to have over the next five weeks.  

 The problem is this boat’s got nothing but Russian plugs.  Not to worry though because I picked up adapters before I left, except the adapters don’t work with half my equipment so good bye cell phone and good bye Gameboy.  The loss of the cell phone isn’t that bad because I can’t use it anyway, but the Gameboy, that’s like a kick in the stomach.  I picked up totally new games specifically for this trip.  Mario Golf: Advanced Tour would have kept me sufficiently entertained for almost a month in and of itself.  Oh well.  Live and learn.  At least I got the internet right?  Wrong.  The boat only has email through an internal server so I just compose missives (like this one) and whenever they link up to the satellite mine gets sent off with all the other outgoing emails…after a thorough review I’m sure (and this one is sure to get my ass kicked.)  

 “What? You no like this boat? (Read with heavy Russian accent) “I no like your face.  Taste this lead pipe.  You no need teeth.  Teeth bad.  Lead pipe good.”

 On the plus side, I have my own cabin, and share the bathroom with just my colleague so I have privacy.  The boat does have food they just don’t leave it out.  You have to be in the galley at the right times in order to get breakfast, lunch and dinner which are all the same, lots of pickled shit, herring, meats.  It’s an unappealing amalgamation of Russian and Nordic cuisine.  It’s a hardy, mayonnaise intensive fuel for those who live half their lives in the perpetual darkness and cold that is life north of the Arctic Circle.  It’s not that bad.  What do you expect?  Russians are known for their cuisine about as much as Australians are known for their intellect.  

 Anyway, the boat’s not all it was cracked up to be, but it’s good.  

 “The Shatskiy is strong like Russian bear.” (read as well with heavy Russian accent) 

 The crew is nice, the cabin is livable despite its inability to power my electronic niceties, and thus far it hasn’t sunk, so, much like this boat, I’m no worse for the wear.  I just had to bitch out the bad mojo in order to get myself mentally prepared for the 5 day journey down to Jamaica.  And, God Willing, it will be Jamaica, and not Haiti or the Dominican Republic.  Besides

it’s only five weeks. I’ll survive. And the boat has a weight room similar to the one Rocky Balboa used in Rocky IV (I must break you.) so I can stay in shape. I’ll keep you updated as to what’s going on as I’ve got very little to do besides read and write so feel free to email. I’ll get them eventually.

On February 1st, 2006, Greg, the genius behind Sinobling, was Shanghai’d and forced to work on an archaic Cold War-era seismic boat for 5 weeks off the coast of Jamaica. He will continue updating if and when he makes it back.

Why off the coast of Jamaica? Because it sounds better than off the coast of Cuba, which, last time I checked our course and heading, is exactly where we’re headed. There’s no phone, no TV, no internet (and as of right now, no toilets). Only this email server in which I can use to send and receive emails. Also make note of this email address:

greg @ shatskiy 。marsatmail 。com

This is the only one I can access. People, email me because I really have nothing to do. This is not a joke.