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.