Living on a 145-foot boat with four or five other guys is a trip, even when we’re at the dock.
It’s part office cot, part college dormitory and part your brother’s room (no, you really don’t want to know what lurks beneath his bed).
Some days it’s part summer camp and part hunting camp. Usually it’s pretty campy, altogether.
Despite all that – and mostly because our deckhand works hard every day – the boat stays reasonably clean. Mixed in with the reading material you wouldn’t want your mother to see are attempts to recreate Moms’ recipes and some of Dad’s rules.
We tend to put stuff where our wives or girlfriends told us to at home. When we remember. Then, when we get home, we spend at least a few minutes remembering which cupboards and drawers we really keep the coffee mugs and forks in.
We’re just a bunch of boys out here with minimal supervision. It’s a tribute to … something, I guess, that the whole situation doesn’t devolve into the Lord of the Flies.
I suppose that’s at least partly because work and the exigencies of keeping our little island afloat and running gives some structure to our days. And because we know we will in fact go home, eventually.