And thus we have this morning, the first one in a while where I have almost no desire to get out of bed. Today is day... let me think, 17, I guess, at anchor? 17 days in the Mighty Mississippi.
My personal record for consecutive days at anchor is 19. That was on The Monseigneur, another tanker, a couple of years ago. There were fights breaking out on that ship.
For us, well, we've got our secret weapon. You see, I spend more time with some of these guys than I do with anyone else here on God's gray earth, and I count them among my friends. So we abide, together. When one of us has a wicked case of the Fuck-It's, the others cover it. We put the disaffected guy on the best job we can find, and the next day it'll be fine, and one of us can have a non-shit job to do for the day. That's how we roll. The fact that we have cell phone service and fresh groceries from the other day helps. Fresh veggies help us maintain sanity.
...I'm just saying, it's 50-50 that today might be my day.
It's the sun, you see. My pale ass is wilting fast. The last few days have been unbelievably hot and sunny. This is no shit, but it was 110 degrees where I was working the last 2 days. That's awful, and not just for me. Orlando The Commando was hanging in the air on a Bosun's chair, (a plank of wood suspended in a rope sling, used to let someone work aloft) and I was tending him. Try as I might, I couldn't stop it from raining on Orlando. My sweat poured down on him. 2 drips a second. Poor guy. I mean, that's just nasty.
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