This shit is going to give me a complex.
My company moves oil. Our overpowered tugboats move barges to refinery terminals. The terminals pump oil from their tanks to ours. Our tugboats move our barges to a receiver- either a ship or another terminal. We pump the oil from our tanks to theirs. Repeat. THE ONLY TIME WE GET PAID IS WHEN THE OIL FLOWS FROM AND TO OUR TANKS.
So my job is over oversee our tanks. I walk around the top of the tank, fix things that are broken, record significant events, and open and shut the little openings to and from our tanks. That's my job. I do the job that gets everyone paid. It isn't the pinnacle of life, but it's a good job that pays the salary of the tugboats, the office staff, and the good people who make sure my insurance premiums are paid on time.
So why is it that I have to kiss some major ass to get some God-damned food? I'm out here for a month, and I have a certain affinity for wanting to live to see retirement, so I live on a balanced diet. Unfortunately,fruits and vegetables do not last for a month in a fridge, and that's the truth. Unless I want to live on Dinty Moore and die before I'm 50, I have to have food that doesn't arrive in a can.
It's not so easy. Being the popular, ever-sexy swinging pickle here in this particular floating hot dog cart, there often isn't time to moor alongside a dock with shore access. And, for some mysterious reason, vegetables bought in New York city, even in high-end groceries, wilt and die after about 5-7 days, especially salad. Salad at home, mysteriously, is good for a week, 10 days at the outside. It's a head-scratcher, but one that requires that I grub up with fresh produce every 10 days or so here. And yet, when we are not allowed shore access, somehow it comes as a terrible shock that I want to get food every now and again. Getting to my truck is viewed as an excess, apparently.