Genre: Obligatory After-Lunch Scary Story

For those who spend less time staring at Fox News in the middle of the night than i do, there have been two shark attacks in Florida in the last week. The first one, in which a fourteen-year-old got eaten off her boogie board near the shore, took place right where we were swimming eight days ago. The second one, in chest-deep water on the beach near Port St. Joe, took place right where we would've been swimming eight days ago if we'd had more time to drive there.

But don't worry, Mom. According to the meticulous people at the Florida Museum of Natural History, shark attacks may outnumber alligator attacks here on the Gulf Coast, but alligator attacks are much more likely to be fatal.

Also according to their highly enlightening site,

• 1,567 Americans per year are injured by toilet bowl products (which, we can only hope, refers to cleaning supplies). In addition,
• while some 850 New Yorkers per year are bitten by cats,
• over 1,500 New Yorkers per year are bitten by people.*
  

*There were no data immediately available on how many cats per year are bitten by people. However, it seems safe to conclude that New York residents have little to fear from lion bites (1 per year), sea lion bites (1), and lionfish stabbings (also 1; unknown whether this was with the fish or by the fish). Mazel tov!

Genre: Obligatory After-Midnight Scary Story

Night watch isn't so much fun these days. Used to be that somebody was always up doing something. The watchstander used to camp out in the dining room between rounds and enjoy the late-night calm. Now, without the steady generator-and-ventilation hum (and the hundred or so sleeping crew), the quiet is more like...silence. There's a difference. On a ship, quiet is nice, but silence is not at all.

The dining room is hot and dark. B-deck, though, is hot, dark, and dead silent. Very different, after midnight, than during the day. On your rounds you walk past all the abandoned cabins, each door gaping open, all the bunks draped in plastic dimly outlined within. One of the crew told the rest of us she often hears noises on board in the dark hours - human noises, like doors closing, and voices.

I haven't heard anything like that yet, but you can't help but listen. Your whole body listens, like it or not. The mind takes remarkable liberties sometimes in revenge for sleep deprivation. But all you hear is the soft carpet-crush of your own footsteps, with just an occasional perfectly unexpected creak or pop to puncture the silence and remind you that while you're almost certainly alone, there's always the chance you might not be.

You never know.

Odor Update

(previously posted in brief form at The Caretakers

B-Deck smells like wet socks.

I personally feel that if the Board of Directors had been exposed beforehand to the unique bouquet of aromas now emanating from certain regions of the lower decks, they would have voted unanimously to keep the ship up and running. At any cost necessary. And this was even before the, er, small graywater incident the other day.

In other news, we have a little experiment running involving the freshwater tanks and low water usage. It would appear that with only nine people on the ship, our highly sophisticated chlorination systems (i.e., the bleach jug and measuring cup) are falling a bit behind the evaporation rate. The water is still UV- and particulate-filtered before it reaches the tap, but the bacteria population, we have ample reason to believe, is multiplying enthusiastically. And now that things have a lot more time to marinate on their way through the concrete and rusted steel within the ship's system, our drinking water tastes like a rusty toilet tank float, and smells--ah, yes, the smell. Imagine aged eggsalad carefully blended with essence of sweaty boxer briefs; add a hint of wet rat, and you're getting close.

So. Next to the main engine there is a water fountain with its own filter, which for some reason is working much better than the others, with the result that some of us have taken to dropping by the engine room now and again for a quick nip. One would not ordinarily think of looking down there for the cleanest water one could find, but one does what one must. I was scrounging the abandoned cabins for toilet paper the other day.

Signs Of A Fine Establishment, Pt. 3

(Perdido Key, FL. 18 June)

Ah, the Flora-Bama.

A new experience for me. A cultural pilgrimage, of sorts. And well, well worth the trip.

I am a newcomer - completely, undeniably. My first exposure to this poster bar of Gulf Coast mystique was at Mobile's hometown Mardi Gras this year, a sign on a Comic Cowboys float that read only this:

TO HELL WITH IRAQ, REBUILD THE FLORA-BAMA!

The state-line-straddling Flora-Bama, as i soon learned, was a beachfront establishment of truly singular repute. Practically destroyed by Hurricane Ivan, it was reopened as soon as enough of its graffiti-scrawled treated lumber could be found to knock back together. Curious, i did what any shameless modern-day tourist would do. I found their website. And when i read the words "21st Annual Interstate Mullet Toss," well, my duty was clear.

We sat on the upper level overlooking the emerald ocean. Bonnie Raitt and Lucinda Williams drifted out from somewhere in the back. Leather-skinned beach bums joined leather-clad bikers and elderly couples in pink polyester while the band warmed up on the sandy floor below. And the Flora-Bama joined a short list of utterly unique places in my mind: Mama Noot's; the Gringo Bar; Fitzgerald's on Roosevelt; the Expatriates Bar in La Ceiba; even The Westoe in South Shields. Even, i suppose, McGuire's. Not to mention that one restaurant in Freeport where, we found, they chummed for eight-foot reef sharks four times a day, a few hundred yards from where we'd been swimming.

But the Flora-Bama doesn't quite make that list yet, when i think about it, because i'm not sure you can really say you've been to a place unless you've been more than once. At the least, a second visit moves you from the realm of baldfaced name-dropping (as also seen above) into more legitimate territory of true exploration. It says I cared enough to get to know it a bit. If you're a culture vulture just looking to notch your LP guidebook, well - there's no end to that.

That's the thing about the Mercy Ships lifestyle, one of so many i used to love so much about this ship. By the time we left a city, we'd been there. To the clerks and cops and street people, we were regulars. We knew names, personalities; faces, at least. There were real tears when we left, and if the itinerary permitted, there were warm welcomes on our return.

The ports were pretty haphazard, in terms of intentional travel - we might as easily have tied up in backwater Haiti as in Baltimore's inner harbor. And we did - back to back, in fact, for those two - and that was the beauty. Among the usual must-do Edinburghs, Utilas, and New Yorks, i now have in my head the side streets and shortcuts of thirty or forty ridiculously random cities and cultures i neither wanted to visit nor knew i'd enjoy. I spent seven years in the Chicago suburbs before that, and i didn't even get downtown enough to know what street the Sears Tower was on. I may never see most of those ports and places again, but when i was there, i got to know them. I got mail. It was more than a stay - i was living.

Truly, i was lucky.

The snotty ironics say I used to go there all the time. Back when it was still good.

The cynical, the world-weary, say It's not authentic. If you're new, you'll never really belong.

And i have been those. But now i say:

I'll be back.

Signs Of A Fine Establishment, Pt. 2

(New Orleans, LA. 13 March)

Signs Of A Fine Establishment, Pt. 1

(Ponce de Leon, FL. 18 June)

Cereal

mmm.

Cereal.

So nice, this time of night. It cuts the coffee acid. It's refreshing, and so wholesome. So...accessible.

Still, it's not without its own inherent controversy.

It has been argued, for instance, that the marshmallows in Lucky Charms may actually detract from the overall olfactory and savory aspects of the consumption experience. Prominent anti-mallow activists maintain that the human brain, distracted by too many colorful hues in the bowl, is unable to process the concurrent stimuli fully and thus cannot fully appreciate the subtleties inherent in the grain and frosting that (some would say) compose the true heart of the cereal. This coincides with the popular belief long held by many gourmets that - to paraphrase - listening to a fine violin performance while eating a fine meal is an insult to both the violinist and the chef.

To others, however, the answers are not so clear-cut. A recent survey of self-described pro-charm advocates indicates growing support for the theory of mallowetics, the view that the marshmallows - not the wheat component - better represent the essence of the cereal, regardless of their numerical disadvantage. Some now openly lobby for the establishment of a new cereal paradigm based on this line of reasoning.

"Look, what's it called? 'Lucky Charms,' right? Not 'Lucky Oddly Shaped Bits Of Wheat,' you know?" commented one prominent malloweticist in a recent interview. "I mean, come on."

According to many experts, growing intransigence on the part of some pro-mallow leaders could signal a pending split in the cereal world. But the majority surveyed would take a softer line on the issue, raising hopes that the two parties' differences could be settled through discussion and compromise. Wall Street pundits have pointed out that regardless of their differences, the general public likely would not accept a Lucky Charms made up entirely of marshmallows or entirely of wheat.

"It's true," said the malloweticist. "At the end of the day, we still need each other, and, y' know, that's really what it's all about."

For The Interest Of Ex-CBMers

photo 9:15 a.m. Sat 11 June (credit: NOAA)

I asked the checker, "Are you always this busy?" The carts behind me were piled high with flashlights, toilet paper, two-liters, loaves of white bread.
She pursed her lips and dragged my bottle of juice over the scanner, shaking her head. "Hurr'cayne."

For you non-Americans, as well as any geographically challenged non-Southrons, we're just about exactly underneath that white swirly thing in the picture. No evacuation warnings, but according to the radio traffic reports yesterday, the good people of Gulf Shores and Pensacola a few minutes east of here have fled to the north in mob strength. Apparently last year left its scars on the Gulf Coast psyche. We saw honest-to-God lines for gasoline last night. The evening of 9/11 was the only time this north'n boy can remember seeing those before. I was raised with tornadoes, but they never actually touched down anywhere you could see them personally, and besides, those duck-and-cover drills in school never had the feel of serious effectiveness anyway. So this all seems a bit alarmist to me. Of course, my house wasn't replaced by a sand dune last year. (A nod to our friend Paul.)

So here on the ship we spent yesterday tying everything down, although no one aboard expects much more than a hard rain. We put the battens on Hatch 1 and cradled the crane. The tenant across the way chained their port-o-john to a pole. Bill and i paddled the paint float across the inlet to bridge two mooring lines to the other side. (Never, ever try this for fun.) Our biggest danger is probably just of the chunks falling off our disintegrating warehouse. Not much new there. We'll bring the dog inside.

File Under: Could Not Possibly Be More Perfect

(weather.com, 09 June 8:25pm)

There are various theories on the giving of names to things. Some would name an object based on their grand vision for its future. (Often, these are the same people who name their own children strange things for no apparent reason. See also: National Weather Service.)

Others, conversely, bestow a name based on the past - possibly a historical name, or perhaps a name that seems to fit the qualities or past performance of the object in question.

Given the above, added to the events of last fall, we have decided on a new name for the Caribbean Mercy. She shall henceforth be known as Big Rusty Hurricane Magnet. It's a little longer, but it should still fit on the bow.

In a big storm, ships usually leave port to ride it out at anchor or at sea. This all is really somewhat discouraging, as our ship's current emergency options consist of two possible positions for the lightswitch on our way out.

Hmm.

Through The Looking-Glass Darkly

Ah, security patrol.

Where all the minutes are long, all the beds are good-looking...yes, Mr. Keillor, thank you, and good night.

We sit in Reception now for night watch, in this newly condensed version of Caribbean Mercy life. The ship is eerily quiet. I have this sudden urge to go slam a few doors down on B-Deck, just for old times' sake. The only thing i can hear, besides the ventilation blowers, is Keeper the dog jingling her tags in the breezeway. (Take that, Anastasis.) Besides her, nobody's around but me and twenty-eight varieties of disturbingly sizeable winged insect. Not even Honduras had this many bugs.

Yesterday was a long, wet, relentless day. The eleven-odd of us still left stood and watched as the vehicles holding our brothers and sisters and friends-of-a-lifetime straggled, one by one, slowly out of our sight. We gathered in a little circle on the hard concrete dock for a final unhappy farewell to the director's family, the last to leave, and it was then that someone realized: For the first time in thirteen continuous years--and very possibly in the ship's entire fifty-three-year lifetime--there was not one single person physically on board.

A little earlier, they'd started the main engine up briefly to check on something. The old familiar rumble carried me back to aft mooring deck, and i stood where i used to stand and watch the sky go up and down. I was young. Not many months ago, it was, but at least a decade or two, in the well-known parallel universe of ship time. I stood there yesterday on the scarred, vibrating teak remembering the roll of a dozen different sails, a new port every month, new crew every week. How many before me had their hand on that wheel? I can remember good friends enough for a hundred lifetimes. I'd take a hundred more.

One in the morning and i'm generally on the road to writing sap with relish. This is good. A bit more, and i'll have almost enough for a newsletter.

A Small Quid Pro Quo, With An Eye Toward The Approaching End Of Our Fine Camera's Probable Lifespan

Confucius say:
He who lack blog material
Will plagarize himself.

(Confucius also say:
He who understands neither the complexities of nor the differences between traditional Japanese and pan-Chinese culture--to say nothing of their near-infinite permutations in the prevailing U.S. neoemigrant sociocultural milieu--
Will be cheerfully insensitive to both.)

The PowerShot 110:
A Brief Series of Haiku

You ride thru jungles
Fiancée drop in river
You do not complain

Pocket-size so nice
When corrupt Honduras cop
Look for gringo tax

Fall from Land-Rover
In middle of Africa
Still happy: click-click!

Oh little Canon
Old, as electronics go
I am happy too

Jeremy Discovers The Dialectizer

The Swedish Chef may be the best, but Jive was just too good to pass up. Better syntax than the ol' Shizzolator, too. Dialectize this site

This is what happens when the chief lets us out of work early.

(h/t: Thibodeau)

Dismantling More Big Things

photo credit: Kathy Golden

It's two-thirty in the morning again.

Somehow this time always manages to come back around, and it always seems to stay longer than it should. It's a black hole of minute hands, Einstein's basketball on the sheet of the night shift - the Rome of the darkness hours. Sooner or later, all times lead to two-thirty.

And there's always somebody awake. I'll miss that when everyone leaves on Monday. You never know who you'll see wandering through the dining room in the middle of the night. Tonight, people are still up signing each other's little memory books in anticipation of the coming departures.

And the packing goes on. Last Friday we hauled all the surgical equipment up out of Medical. Now, Medical is about as deep in the ship as you can go without unbolting a manhole. It's at the bottom of a narrow, three-floor square staircase with seven separate landings. Any self-respecting surgeon involved would have been apoplectic, but hey, if surgeons were moving it, the stuff would still be down there. There were a few nurses watching, but they'd all been on outreach before. Nurses know what's up.

See, these were large pieces of equipment, and unreasonably heavy. My personal feeling is that useful objects should either be heavy and tough or light and delicate. Heavy and delicate is against the principle of things. It just violates the spirit of it all. Naturally, everything we had to move last week was gargantuan, absurdly expensive, and calibrated with the most exquisite sensitivity. We manhandled it all straight up two vertical stories, cargo-strapped, with three people hanging all their weight on a block and tackle and five more to drag it up over the rails. Working in the deck department does have its moments.