the grind, the sweat, the Windows 95 game come to life.

 It's been a minute since I posted, but I'm just working the routine at the moment, nothing exciting to mention, really. Wake up, work, sleep, rinse, repeat.  

     I've gotten to get ashore 2 1/2 times now in the last 12 days. That's finestkind to me. I basically just walk for an hour and get whatever fresh greenstuff and items will fit in a cloth grocery bag. NY being NY, there are no grocery bags provided by the store unless you want to buy one of their $8 foofoo plastic grocery bags that fall apart strategically when you're 3/4 of the way home. 

 Oh, that 1/2 trip ashore? I was out for my walk since we had 8 hours until we were scheduled to sail for the next job, and while I was 2 miles from the dock, partner B called and said there was a tugboat smashing into our stern and blowing the whistle, which woke him up of course and had him all soggy and hard to light. 

   The tugboat operator, an outside company that my company charters to take the load off of our own tugs, called my company and said he wanted to sail right now, early, because the tide was in his favor. As our regular dispatcher wasn't there on the phone to tell him where exactly he could go fuck himself, one of the bosses happened to answer the phone and just said sure and went about his day. 

    So my fat ass ends up powerwalking the two miles back to the dock on a 90-degree humid morning. We make up and sail, and the 45 minute ride to the loading terminal from our lay berth takes 4-5 hours... because he had to wait for the tide to be fair to dock, too. 

       I actually like the tug crew, having worked with them a fair bit, so other than being a bit grumpy at first and trying to hold my temper for the hurry up and wait BS, I just wrote it off in my mind and pre-cooked lunch and dinner. 

   Generally we say that any time we're in a rush, the tugboat will be late. If we want the tugboat to arrive alongside, we need to either take a dump or make a sandwich. Guaranteed they're gonna bump us in the middle of either one. 

     After roasting my pasty ass off the past 3 weeks, I am thankfully switching over to working the back watch, 1800-0600, which started tonight. We do that by dogging the watches- cutting them short (called dogging becuase as Patrick O'Brien said, they're 'cur-tailed' ) to 8 hours, which allows us to rest, but also rotates us around over the course of one day, so the night guy goes to days, and the day man to nights.  This is also symbolic, as the night guy is 1 week from going home. And indeed, this time next week I'll be packing my stuff up and heading home for 18 whole hours before getting on ANOTHER series of planes, and there to go to Brazil for a few weeks. 

 Sadly, I'm not going to the beaches of Brazil, or any beautiful tropical paradise. I'm going to an arid region, far inland,  to a city on a plateau, during their winter, not somewhere beautiful and certainly not the Amazon, but where inappropriately Hot Foreign Wife's family are. 

       Minesweeper, or the Rooster in the henhouse:     

 About the only thing beautiful where we're going is the half-breed Indio girls like my wife. Mediterranean blood admixed with native Brazilian produces an unusually high percentage of startlingly lovely ladies. So, I mean I got that going for me. My wife isn't the type to get jealous, thankfully. She in fact likes to point out the most stunning girls when they appear, so I don't miss them. I've already learned though, that this is a trick, because Inappropriately Hot Foreign Wife has an earthy sense of humor, and while I'm just peoplewatching, she's playing "Minesweeper."

  Remember that game?   You try to uncover tiles on a board without setting off hidden bombs? Yeah, that. 

 

  So when we're in public places in her city, my wife will point out the prettiest girls and say something and get my response. 

 "Hohnee, look. Linda (Pretty), si?" 

          Me:  "Wow, yes" (side-eyeing my wife the whole time.  Possible wince in there). 

   I have to say something. She'll repeat herself until I acknowledge the attractiveness of the girl she points out. 

 Except every now and again... 

 "Amor, look 'dere. So gostosa,, verdade?"   (So hot, yes?)
      "Eh, wher... oh, I see her. Wow, yes. Super." 

 "BAAAAAAAAAAHAAAAAHAAAA!! Dat's a travesti (Transsexual)!  My husband is the gay. My husband so is the gay!"  Wait, we need go to HomeGoods so I buy heem and heem towels for you bafroom". 

You have found a mine. 

 I swear to God sometimes I just can't tell, yet she can, and there's an unusual number in Brazil. It's given me PTSD. I don't like this game and she plays it like every other day when we go to Brazil. 

LATER... 

 "Wow, amor, look the her. She's so..."  

         Me, starting to cry now.  'No. No more, please. I'm not looking!  I'll be good I swear."  

      Then she'll do something like pinch my butt. In public.  This is her revenge for my grabbiness in the house when the kid's not around. 

Notice only one of us is smiling. 

 And joking aside, she really is a lot of fun.  Maybe I can avoid alcohol poisoning this trip. The indios do love to drink, and also love to play 'who will pass out first.' I can hold my own, the problem is that they will play one person at a time until he drops, and then the next one steps up... vs me.  I had a couple of cousins laid out comatose before I woke up 15 hours later while contemplating my reflection in the toilet bowl water.  So I don't think I will play this time.  

telegram from my liver to my brain.