Halfway Boca Chica by Stijn,
by the Crew of Tres Hombres on 02/16/13
100% again. No more seasickness after a day 'n a half. Furthermore all breadfruit is gone, finished. No more of that half sweet munchy veggy stuff. We're back to good ol' tatters. Even discovering shreds of canned beef from back home in my bowl. Brings back memories.
And since I'm 100% again here comes the bosun. I'm allowed to say 'No'. He says. So I say 'No' and he asks me anyway. Would I be kind enough to do some tarring up front, at the bow sprit? Now how can I say 'No' to that? Where else you get the chance to tar someone up for real?
So I got out the tar. My day of reckoning.
Ready. Ducked to avoid two widow makers on the loose. Klicked the safety kit onto the bow sprit guys. Stepped out over the railing. Further and further out towards the end, the start of the ship. Swaying with her every movement. At your mercy M'am. Valentine's Day and 5.000 nautical miles away from my girls, further out than ever. Doing me-time instead of being swallowed up by everyday work. How many Hail Mary's, how much repentance does it take to absolve me for the error of my ways?
Dangling over the vast blue might. Like a bird on a wire. Tarred-up ropies cutting into my bare feet. Folded up, stretched out into all angles. Discomfort to a high degree. Slowly, methodically tarring my way back. Tarring, getting tarred up. The tar can with brush sloshing against my leg, spilling. A drop on the foot, some on the leg, arm, evolving into smears, a swipe across the back of my head.
Did a good job of tarring me. For the good of the ship, for good reason. Only the feathers lacking.
