Sea Cruise '02 (Part 3) - The Ancient Wisdom of Lao Feng

Here is the final installment of the unfinished travelogue from the sea:

I should now explain to you, dear reader, the fateful circumstances which brought me aboard this fair vessel and the literary license in which I will now indulge. Simone's work promised me a full, no responsibility tour of the Caribbean. She would work during our journey, giving seminars and culinary instruction to the geriatric, weak of heart, butter surrendering, non-smoking, middle-American housewives that I had grown to loathe and disrespect. This was her job.

I would wander aimlessly, drunk and without purpose, as I tend to do anyway without the convenience of "vacation" attached to it.

So, I felt, with the breath of salt air in my lungs and a knowing eye toward historical documentation (and a bitter lack of willingness to continue with prose), I would turn this manuscript into a ship's log. A daily observation of a newfound mariner's slant of life at sea, albeit one from a slovenly, cynical, cantankerous, drunken piss-ant.

It is in that spirit of Melville, Benchley, Conrad and Coleridge that I weave my tale of oceans and lands beyond our mortal grasp.

My luggage awaited me at cabin 709. I unzipped my bag, put on my "Sponge Bob" briefs, a Syracuse Orangeman tee shirt, poured the good rum and got to work on the log.

The confessions in which will be my legacy and demise.

DAY ONE.

The ocean was a raging and volatile lover this day. No, not really. But I've always wanted to start a tale from the sea with that line. I've been a landlocked asshole near my entire life and this sort of hyperbole provides me comfort and focus for the journey ahead.

Simone and I settled down in our cabin. A room with the spread of a postage stamp containing a queen size bed, pullout sofa, functioning bathroom with shower (no bath), a television, phone, mini-fridge, small chair and balcony. The balcony would later prove to be our salvation and touchstone. I do not recommend a cruise without one. I'll go one step further if this is to be any sort of travelogue, DO NOT CRUISE WITHOUT A BALCONY OR YOU ARE DAMNED. It provides space, bearings, salvation from your roommate and a general view of surroundings that cannot be underestimated. Without it, you are cargo.

Speaking of which, we would be in port this entire day while the rest of the unwashed chattel boarded our vessel.

Simone had presentations to work on. I decided, this being Sunday and week nine of the NFL season, to check out the ship's sports bar.

After exhausting my limited, broken ability to speak Manadarin and communicate with the use of hand puppets, I convinced the Taiwanese bartender that the Eagles-Colts game was preferable to watching a soccer match between Uruguay and New Zealand. And that most of the conflagration of Americans now sauntering in would agree with me and not his soccer loving ass. He was friendly enough after that, serving me buckets of iced Beck's beer and talking in broken English about Peyton Manning's "big strong arm".

Unfortunately, I had bet on Donovan McNabb's "big strong arm" and home field advantage in Philly, giving four points. Which, as history will show you, was the wrong fucking bet. The Colts ate those bastards up on their home turf. Running like Arab roans on the proud and tough Eagle rush defense, even without Edgerrin James, and blowing them off the line of scrimmage like a freight train through balsa. It was never close. McNabb looked like a frightened child in the face of the 26^th rated pass defense in the NFL. An unpredictable anomaly of mid-season muscling and balance.

(Author's note: It was still a solid bet. The Eagles played in the NFC Championship game and the Colts did not even make the playoffs.)

But, despite my loss, Lao Feng (the bartender) and I bonded like international champions. He told me, after nine hours in the sports bar, that I could hold a lot of beer.

And I told him he was goddamn, fuckin-A right, I could hold a lot of beer. And who was he to bring it up... slope motherfucker.

It was much more amicable than that, really. And I would run into Mr. Feng again as the cruise progressed. Six days later in the casino. They ought to warn you about such things. They recycle bartenders throughout the ship. That is a violation of some sort of code. I don't need to go to the Tahitian Room or the cigar bar and run into the same prick I pissed off working the Jazz Lounge the evening prior. That's just unfair to the heavy drinker with attitude.

Mr. Feng thankfully understood. I hoped the rest of them would. Coincidentally, we would all know each other well before this challenge was over. 

And things were entirely good. My first day on the ship was spent sucking down good German beer, watching the NFL, eating like a hog from the free endless food bar not twenty paces away from my seat and smoking like a chimney (as I do when money is on the line) without reprisals from whiny health types who were blissfully absent from my peaceful center of occupation.

"The Cavern", as I call Simone on Sundays during football season, was noticeably absent in the proceedings also. Gone was the constant chattering and removal of focus from the game stemming from her incessant caterwauling against sport and all its participants. She is a stalwart woman in regard to competition, but when put into the arena of athletics she loses her soul and wit.

Her careful approach towards me in the sports bar proved that fact. Although it might have been due to her knowledge of my bizarre behavior when drunk and losing wagers. Which is to lash out at those closest to me.

Drunken journal entry follows:

Day one on the ship has been fine. I trust the staff and crew. My fellow shipmates are still in question. Most of them are over a hundred years old. Shouldn't be a problem if it comes down to a fistfight. I am ready, however, despite my drunken state, to crash their geriatric heads into dust if need be. I need sleep. Going to the head (as they say) and then bunk. I love this "sea speak").