[Greg here in Mission Control – I dug up this early blog that got posted but never went live for some reason. A good look at life on a tiny ocean rowboat reveals the reality of 4 men in a small space. Avert your reading eyes if you don’t believe in the existence of bodily functions.]
I couldn’t believe it. To my profound horror it actually came in through the scupper. Could have been Markus, could have been me. Before we broke sea anchor this morning, both of us had to hot-seat the bucket. Usually the speed of the boat, slow as it may be, is enough to clear us of an incident like this, but not today on sea anchor when the four of us and anything that might be floating was doing so at the same rate. I won’t tell you what I had to do to get rid of it, but thank goodness for hand sanitizer.
Nasty business this ocean rowing. Nasty business. It’s actually a continuous editorial conversation we have with each other about what makes it into the blog and what doesn’t. What’s too gross? What’s too real? What’s not family-friendly enough? Right now I’m feeling pretty candid and don’t really want to sugar coat it.
Our hands are covered in small cuts. A quick tally on mine is about twenty below the wrist in various states of repair. The constant dampness makes all the scabs look white, and at first I feared puss-filled, but after some prodding it seems like any infections are really minor. I would love to treat them with Band-Aids, tape and Neosporin, but non of this lasts out here. Instead I just treat them with a little harden up and move on.
Our shins are all banged up from the messy beam seas we have been dealing with. A waves comes, moves the boat left and right and its as if you have suddenly become the unlucky coach of a T-ball team possessed by Satan himself. The ungrateful little buggers have thanked all your hard work by whacking your shins with their tiny little bats. This usually elicits some hard language from the rowers. Things like “Gosh Dangit!”, “Jeezy Peets!”, and “Firetruck!”
I told you I wasn’t going to pull any punches. This is ocean rowing, as raw as it gets.
Now I’m a fan of of the nude male form as much as the next guy. What red blooded American (and Canadian as I assume you guys have red blood) men and women can’t appreciate Michelangelo’s David? Or some good ol’ Schwarzenegger from his Pumping Iron days. It could even be said we got some fit bodies on the boat, but, well I dream of one day in the not too distant future I won’t be staring at various parts of them, particularly derrieres that look like a pox-covered naked mole rat.
When it comes to mealtime, a little more heat in the food is always good; a little less dehydration is something to be looked forward to; a dish that just doesn’t look like it came off the set of Conan is the goal.
But what’s really going to be great when we get to Miami? Everyone will be wearing pants when we eat! Even better is that we will have the option to go to some place away from the food to relieve ourselves… Which is a lot because we are staying well hydrated.
Well, that’s the reality of life on board the JRH. I didn’t even mention the smell. I’m sure you can imagine (think musk ox).