Continuing the continuence: Gypsy Wind- Aruba to Panama, or , What the f**k am I doing here,Part I

             You may be wondering why the font keeps changing on my blog. Good question.
   When last I wrote about our journey, Chumley had just gotten a 2 AM phone call from Tony announcing the arrival of the ketch, Gypsy Wind, at the Renaissance Marina in Aruba. It was a Sunday morning. I remember hearing Chum's phone ring, but that was about it, sleep came back upon me like a sneeze...?
   We woke at an early lazy hour, about 9, and after checking to see if all our parts were working, we showered and made our way towards the breakfast room ( I wanted to see if Lionel Ritchie was still stocking the scrambled eggs). We met Tom and Monica and shared a table outside while digging into the mostly forgettable morning repast, or whatever you'd call a shitty breakfast (there goes that bad language again).
  The Gypsy Wind was tied up at the fuel dock and was awaiting it's berth. We got a late checkout  time and walked down to the marina to get our first view of the boat and meet Tony and Helene, the owners, and Allan, who was first mate- main man on the crew. Tom was Tony's brother, and Monica, Tom's girlfriend.
   I would say that my first view of the boat was kind of magical. As I've already written, the Gypsy Wind was a Formosa ketch, built in the '70s and had the romantic look of an older era sailing vessel.You could imagine long voyages and exotic ports, sun filled days with the wind blowing , sails filled and flags flying. Well, that's how it hit me when I first glimpsed it. Closer examination with a more critical eye would come later.
   We met Tony and Helene, and got re-acquainted with Allan- he lived aboard his boat in Alameda, Ca., just across the dock from my brother's boat- I'd met him briefly a couple years before. We clambered aboard and got a brief tour.
   Topside was big, but covered with lockers, fenders and about ten old tires that would be used when the boat went through the Canal. There were also a number of long bamboo poles that were used for hanging a large tarp over the deck and protecting us from sun and rain while we were tied up at the marina. As a matter of fact that was our first task as a crew- rigging the poles and spreading the tarp, which we did pretty efficiently, if I must say. I didn't even have to know any sailor knots to do it.  We climbed down the companionway into the galley. It was pretty spacious, layed out in an L shape and there was lots of ambient light shining through the port holes on the port and starboard sides and the windshield in the forward portion of the cabin. Lots of teak, grab rails in strategic places and a nice sized stove on gimbals.
  To the aft was Tony and Helene's quarters, the captain's cabin. Two steps down from the galley, towards the bow was where Chumley, Allan and I would call home (Tom and Monica had the fold out bed in the galley). On the port side was a head and a shower. Forward of that was the equipment room which held, among other things, the GenSet (a diesel powered generator), a smallish, apartment sized refrigerator/freezer that was held closed by a couple of bungy cords. In the bow was a typical V-berth that was almost totally obscured by a large array of stuff, some nautical looking, most junky looking.
  After we finished the tour and the rigging of the tarp, we hoofed it back to the Talk of the Town, checked out, and brought our gear back to the boat and stowed our stuff in our quarters. We were in what would have normally been called the 'salon'. Normally is not really a good word to use on a boat  because so many different situations require different solutions and , shipboard, there are many, many different situations. In the coming days that would become very evident.
  Tony contracted a car and driver, then left to gather as many of the supplies that were needed to get the Gypsy Wind ship shape. Helene , Monica , and Tom attacked the laundry (during the shakedown sail from St.Thomas, they had been doused by some heavy waves and everything needed to be washed) and set about provisioning the galley. Allan kept working on the motor and generator and Chum and I got a chance to check out a bit more of Oranjestad before we left, which meant sucking down a few more beers and checking out the iguanas and lizards that were all over the place. We managed to get a few emails out via Chum's smartphone and I grabbed a bottle of Aruban rum, some mixers, and a couple of bottles of wine- for cocktail hour on the boat- wishful thinking it turned out, but I was imagining a sun filled cruise on a gently rolling ocean, a gull or two flying off in the distance.
   After a few days, all the preparation was completed- so I thought. Tony and Helene took our passports and were driven to the customs building to get us cleared to leave and after only an hour or so we were ready to cast off .
  There were a few last things to be done. First was a ceremony conducted by Tom that involved glitter and a veiled 'coronet' he wore. His is a member of the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence or Sisters of Perpetual Motion, both seem to be closely related, but don't think of them as Ursuline Sisters or Dominican Nuns, think more like drag queens and heavy make-up with benevolence as the unifying factor. I didn't get it , but , just like I did when I was 17, I tried to appear reverent. I think I heard Chumley choking back a laugh.
   We posed for a crew picture, taken by a friendly and smiling local (I am going to dedicate a separate blog for the Aruban locals- they were awesome- even the shitty bartender).
    With Tony at the helm, we cast off and motored out of the Oranjestad harbor, into, and once clear of that, hoisted the mainsail and unfurled the jib (Aye mately! Jib...mainsail...all that piratey stuff). We were sailing!
    There is something magic when the motor is shut down and the wind provides the power. It's a magic that is ancient and alive. You feel it on your body, you see it in the sails, and once it takes the boat, you feel it in the motion of the water and the sh-h-h-h-h-hush-hing sound of the bow cutting through the swells. You can almost hear the sound of the tiny bubbles bursting in the fine foam  as the hull moves through the water. It has hypnotized sailors for years and led them into mysteries and discoveries that still amaze now. You get calm and fall into thought. It quiets your soul. And sometimes, just after you have sailed a good bit from land and lost sight of the horizon, some... get seasick as hell.
    Sister Ida, a.k.a.,Tom, was the first to start feeding the fish. He barfed in the proper fashion-leeward side- off the port side of the boat standing at the rail. He made it back to a low folding chair that was at the stern of the boat, right next to a conveniently placed opening in the safety netting. That was to remain his 'spot' for the next few days. Monica succumbed next, though not as badly as Ida- she didn't feed the fish as often, which was good, because she became the un-offical cook on board and did a really good job, even in the foulest weather. Apparently Tony's cat, a Siamese, just a kitten, was having a rough go of it as well. I haven't mentioned the cat because I rarely saw it and I forgot the damn things name. I did come to admire it when, in the midst of some of the nastiest weather we encountered, it swayed in perfect rhythm, meowing as the boat rolled  35degrees or more. It was that throaty, scratchy Siamese meow, but I forgave it.
   We had decided and chosen our watches while we were back in Aruba, at the Strabucks just across from where the Gypsy Wind was berthed. Initially, with 4 sailors, Tony, Alan, Chumley, and I, watches were a very nice 3 hour affair. I got the 6 to 9 watches, which I thought was grand, perfect hours for me. All the after dark watches had, at Helene's request, a 'helper' who would stay topside, act as an additional set of eyes, and keep the helmsman company. Night watches are tough for several obvious reasons, the visibility being primary, keeping the course and watching for other boats, all  were  harder in the dark. Later in the sail, when we were pushed up to 4 hour watches and hours changed,they became essential, for me, at any rate.
  My first watch went by quickly and was uneventful. The swells were moderate, 4-5', and steady, as was the wind. The sky was clear and the  moon would be full in two days , so we had a beautiful light which rose up off our stern and lit the ocean, reflecting off the top of waves like mirrors. It was really beautiful and peaceful, very much of what I imagined it might be. Tom was my helper and, as he gained his sea legs, became more animated and fun to be around. My three hours passed quickly, Alan relieved me , and I went below and fell asleep easily, the waves rocking the boat like a lullaby.
  The next morning problems starting to arise. The seas were a bit rougher and the wind had picked up. That wasn't the bad part. Wind and sea is what a sailor lives for. What was problematic was the absence of coffee. Somewhere along the line, perhaps because of the close proximity of Starbucks so near the berth in Aruba, coffee was not purchased, stocked, or thought about. I'm not a coffee hound like my brother. Kevin and coffee have a mystical, magical relationship- it's a Lolita-like thing in a caffeinated way, let's not get into details. No coffee surprised me because we all, except the cat, drank it, and of waking up, or breakfast, or "I need to wake up", makes you often think of coffee. At one point I remember a cup of Earl Grey tea, but that could have been a dream because for the next several days I was likely in a subtle cold-turkey mode as I didn't need much more stimulation that what the ocean and weather provided. As a matter of fact, the elements were about to give me more than I wanted, but you'll have to wait to hear about that till later.
 

And the Award goes to;

 I am seriously challenged by technology when served up in a digital fashion. Cover it with chocolate, slip it into the soles of my boots, sell me a stereo, that's how I can digest it. computers give me indigestion. My brain isn't wired to think that way. Halogen, yup, Velcro, yup, cordless drills, yup yup. But hyperlinks, binary babble, cut and pasting, Tweets and clouds-fugetaboutit. Simply put, fugetaboutit.
  God didn't invent the computer, man did. God invented good stuff , like wine, sex and religious instructions, whales too, God did whales. Man did stuff like spinach, iodine and Republicans, all distasteful, but tolerant after a while- not all of them, but some. God did the Grand Canyon, the Amazon River and Bette Midler. Man gave us smog and Donald Trump- where was birth control when we really needed it?
  What is my point? My point is that some things come naturally to some folks, some things not. Soduko. Enough said.
  My thing is that I just want to write and not have to navigate through what comes so naturally to others- abstinence and sobriety come to mind.
  I just thank God that people like my buddies, Sean C. and Thom B. are web bodies and have been willing to help guide me through all these fu**king micro chipped gigabit https:/ bullshit jumps and hoops.
  So this award goes to you guys. you are enabling me to do what comes naturally, and that's  to write my stories and talk to you all.
             Thank you, thank you, thank you.

      p.s.-Thom, the GoPro is still giving me fits! 

Feb. 6, 2014: Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum

  Chumley and I began to experience Carnival in the early evening, when we noticed chairs and tables strung along the brick sidewalks of Oranjestad. We had been down at the 'Paddock', a friendly, casual pub and restaurant that sat right on the edge of the harbor. You could see the huge cruise ships, lit up like a New Years party, at berth to the north, then , to the east, across a traffic filled two lanes, the Renaissance Resort and Hotel.
 The Paddock was an oasis in the desert of affluence. It was open aired and felt open minded. The barroom walls were plastered with dollars, pounds, florins, euros and numerous business cards. It was a boozey shrine to capitalism I suppose. The beer was cold, cheap and interspersed by  rum and Cokes that, if you could complain about anything, were lacking in the Coke. We tried our best to overlook that. What we couldn't overlook was the distant sound of some really infectious music and the thickening of the crowds on the sidewalks as dusk turned to dark.
  It is hard for me to describe what the Carnival music sounds like. In Aruba, it was a mix of salsa, reggae,soul, disco and ska, with a good dash of funk thrown in to capture even non-rhythmic Puritans with hearing problems. There was no standing still.
  The marchers began appearing behind floats pulled by strangely quiet semis. This was likely because on the floats were full on bands, with drum kits, horn sections and back up singers. Some of the lead singers had wireless microphones and were dancing on the street, next to the floats. It was a parade, but marching was not involved, this was dancing. There wasn't a still hip on the island. 
   The planning for this event wasn't clearly visible when I spotted a float that was surrounded by people, but had no band. It was only after it got closer that I saw the bartenders handing down plastic cups of was obviously not intended for children- oh the genius in it!

  Chumley and I followed the parade from the Paddock, down past the marina and the government buildings towards the Talk of the Town, our expensive inexpensive hotel. When we arrived there we realized that, not only did we have a perfect view from the veranda of our room, but the parade slowed down right in front of the hotel giving us a great spot to listen to the music and watch the revelers.
  Luckily we had bought a bottle of Bacardi Amber at the duty free shop at the airport. It was to be for our sunset cocktail hour on our sail to Panama, but , as I mentioned earlier, you must stay hydrated in the tropics. We also had some Coke, ginger ale, pineapple juice and limes, all of which constitutes a survival kit during both good and bad times. Ice? We got some from the zombie bartender without a question.
   Two things I will end this segment with:
       1- Rounding up the end of the Parade of Torches were several garbage trucks and workers with brooms. In the morning there wasn't a trace of garbage anywhere.
       2- Also missing was any trace of Baccardi. There was a bottle of ginger ale in our rooms fridge.
  Wait. Make that three things:
       3- Chumleys phone rings at about 2 in the morning. It's Captain Tony. The Gypsy Wind has arrived in Aruba.

The Continuance of Whatever It Was We Were Talking About and Other Earth Shaking Subjects

     

    Recollections of travel sometimes are tainted by time, emotion, and memory. I think that's why God invented note taking. Later, of course, someone invented the voice recorder, video camera, and all the rest of the stuff we rely on to chronicle our journeys. Some people get tattoos.
    I prefer to rely on my memory and adult beverages. We can all see the flaws in that as those of you who have traveled with me can attest to and is why God, in her, his,their, its, infinite wisdom created travel companions. The best kind of those are the ones you'd travel with again. I'm lucky, I've had lots.
    Chumley and I...o.k., a little background here. My brother Kevin (# 3 in the birth order) is a man who looks like a Kevin. Likely few of you know any Chumleys- til now. All of the brothers and sisters had nicknames and because of the sheer number of us, I'll just tell you about Kevin's for now, Gigi and Bom Bom , among the rest, will have to wait.
    Chumley is short for Chum Ma Dig. That's the phonetic interpretation anyway. Somewhere I remember my Mom saying that Chum Ma Dig was a famous Irish racehorse, but I really don't know. And how he got tagged with it is beyond me, he certainly doesn't look like a horse.
    To continue: Chum (nickname for a nickname) and I hopped an Air Tran red eye out of San Francisco on a Thursday night and arrived in Aruba the next evening, at about 5. No sleep, jet lag, nervous exhaustion and a temperature change from 50 degrees dry to 80+ and humid,was enough to render us dopey.
    We proceeded to go through the usual procedures one normally does, clear immigration, collect checked bag, buy rum in the duty-free store, clear customs. A pause here. Has "clearing" customs become a joke, or what? It was like, walk past a small desk, enter terminal, be attacked by taxi drivers. The best customs experience I've had in recent years was watching a skinny German Shepard walk around some suitcases in the airport in Leon, Mexico. I think he was looking for something to eat.
  We got a cab and drove into downtown Oranjestad, just about ten minutes from the airport, to find the marina office and determine the location of the Gypsy Wind. Did I mention we were tired?  We made our way to a small office in a clean, new small shopping complex that sat on the edge of a beautiful harbor. There were several familiar logos, Quiznos, Dunkin Donuts. When we passed the Starbucks I think my brother got an erection (no, that's not one of their new coffee drinks).
 We inquired inside of the marina office as to the mooring place or slip the boat was in, but they had no record of even a reservation. Kevin knew it was the right marina so we tried to contact the Gypsy Wind via short wave radio. We had the office manager call several times, on more than just channel 16. "Sea Gypsy, Sea Gypsy, Sea Gypsy, this is Renaissance Marina, over". You see a problem folks? We didn't until the next day, but suffice to say that no Gypsy Wind or Sea Gypsy was there in Aruba, and the marina had no reservation for the boat.
  Realizing that we had no boat to sleep on, and being pretty much exhausted, we did the only logical thing any sailor would do: we sought out a pub. That took no time at all and soon a sense of calm and swagger settled upon us. Boat? We don't need no stinking boat! That's why God invented hotels!
    Chumley started doing the smart phone thing and pronounced the local hotels expensive-way expensive-$650 for a room in the nearest one to the marina. The swagger started to lag. The humidity began to feel like a steam bath and my happy feet felt like I had on brick sneakers. We walked back to the marina office and asked if they knew of anything more reasonable and were directed to a place we had passed on our way from the airport.
    The Talk of the Town was about a mile from the marina, so we dragged ourselves and our duffel bags along a wide red brick sidewalk passing numerous profusely sweating joggers, several camera clad tourists speaking Spanish, and dozens of locals strolling slowly along enjoying the gentle breeze that was coming off the ocean. Had I not been so tired, I might have relaxed.
    Talk of the Town is one of Aruba's oldest "resort" hotels. It was not at all fancy, but was clean, came with a complimentary breakfast, and had a nice pool in the central courtyard. The best part was that it was only...$250. Did I say the best part? And why was that? Because it was high season in Aruba? "No", said the clerk. It was because the next day was the first day of Carnival, and the Parade of Torches would take place after sunset. It would be lovely to say we had planned that, but that wasn't close to the case. But it did make things more interesting.
    When we got to the room we discovered another mishap. Chumley's Ipad and briefcase were nowhere in sight. We checked at the front desk. We walked back to town and checked at the pub. We checked at the lobby of the Renaissance Resort, where we had been dropped off on our way the the marina across the street. Nothing. The marina office was closed. We held on to the thought that we'd left it there while inquiring about rooms. Nothing left to do but return to our hotel and suck down a few beers- you must remain hydrated in the tropics!
    After waiting 15 minutes to have the bartender, who had command of the entire 10' bar, the entire bar, with it's 5 occupants, take our order (it was a toughie-"two beers,please" said with a smile and good intention) and another 15 minutes to get said beers.
   I have to state that the service at the bar wasn't surly or unfriendly in the least. The Arubans are some of the most friendly and helpful people I've ever met. The bartenders- there were actually two of them, but either one, from time to time , would just disappear and return silently carrying maybe one lime. These guys were just the most inefficient bar workers I have ever seen. At one point one of them was making a genuine cocktail, some frou frou drink that had several different liquors, crushed ice, and a fruit garnish that required two people to arrange it. I was so relieved when he finished it- well, I didn't want to wait another half hour for a second beer- that I was ready to applaud him, until, that is, when he proceeded to begin to replicate the same drink again- for the same table- then do it another two times after that. And he was so  smiley and content that I had to control my urge to leap over the bar, grab two more beers and assault him with his soda gun. Of course I didn't do that. I have etched into my brain the first Rule for Happy Drinking; never, never piss off the bartender, even if he/she is a surly fooking Cretin. A religious note here. I believe that one of the questions that St. Peter has at the Pearly Gates is: "Were you nice to the bartenders?" Any way, we drank down our one beer , shuffled up to our room and slept the sleep of dead men.
   Waking to a beautiful, blue sky, sunny, breezy day is a pleasure anywhere, regardless of circumstance. Nothing makes you feel as good, and, if free breakfast comes with it, well all the better...especially if the breakfast room attendant looks exactly like Lionel Ritchie- from his patent leather disco shoes to his gold chain necklace, to his 80's haircut that would not look out of place at Studio 54 or on a standard poodle competing in the finals at the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show- know what I mean? We had a lovely breakfast from a buffet that had everything from tea, coffee, and hot chocolate, to fruit, pastries, eggs, yogurt, and several meat products of interesting textures and shapes. Some came from a pig, I think, but not sure where. The toast was recognizable. Chumley didn't eat much (I think he was really missing his IPad and dreaming about Starbucks). I had two plates and washed down everything with the weak coffee, then washed that down with more weak coffee.
   Chum had no luck at the marina office in regards to his computer and bag, but we did have the good fortune of meeting Madam E (I've forgotten her name). She was a pretty Aruban woman who not only continued to seek out the Gypsy Wind, but called a friend who knew all the cab companies and arranged with her to inquire about Chums stuff. She also told us about good places to eat, where to shop, and , most of all, made us feel completely at ease. We were beginning to really feel the warmth of the folks from "The Happy Island", and believe me, they are the most helpful and friendly folks I've met outside of Ireland.
  People who live on islands are, number one, survivors. Some separate from each other and retreat to hidden places and stay apart. Some form incredible co-operatives, some just stay on their own islands. Some will eat you, some will treat you like family. I like the family treaters best, like the Irish and the Hawaiians(after they realize you're going to be living there a while ). The Arubans are just plain happy.
   Well, I am going to end this segment here. I'm not sure if this is a blog, an essay, or a letter, but I know I'm getting anxious to tell you about the actual sail from Aruba to Panama. There is also the Torch Parade and Carnival, but I'm thinking that might be a sidelight. What took place on my sail has given me a great desire to tell you all about it, and, in general, is making me write. It's a trip as Muse. In addition to you all, I have been sending this to my blog site which is: clippercharles.blogspot.com    I have a few earlier things there, but this is certainly the freshest. Please feel free to forward this on to any people you think might enjoy it- I'm enjoying the hell out of it. And Mom, there will be cursing. Sometimes its just adjectives, what can I say?


    

On Friday, January 31, 2014 10:17 AM, Buzz Darcy <buzzdarcy@rocketmail.com> wrote:

  e.e.cummings lived a good deal of his adult life with very, very little money. His companion for decades was a beautiful model and though he was penniless, he was said to have been quite satisfied with life and eager to live it. He was a poor writer who was not a poor writer. Life, and the English language, is full of silly conradictions. I'm pointing this out to you not as a great truth, but it seemed to be a great opening to a conversation. That I got the info about cummings from a magazine article written by Susan Cheever means squat. What I really want to talk about is change.

 I just got back home after numerous weeks of traveling. From Nicasio and lovely Pt. Reyes to the briny crazy Santa Cruz, the soft weathered and genteel Santa Barbara, dry, familiar and welcoming Mariposa, and then, with a whump and a dull pause in Texas, on to San Miguel de Allende and an almost surreal Mexican highland city experience. I topped this off with a two week adventure with my brother Chumley ( who, even when we argue some of the pin prick points of modern politics, is the nicest man in the world- Pope Francis is trying to catch up) that took us to a Carnival night in Aruba, close to a weeks worth of open ocean sailing on a boat that somehow reminded me of myself; older, carrying some unneeded baggage, understocked, with some essentials not really working (of course my radar and generator are different, and my fuel filters have likely been fowled for years longer than the Gypsy Wind s.)

 But adventure is adventure and I've arrived back home tired, filled with multiple images and thoughts, yet unable, until maybe now, to lay some of them down to share with you all. Yes, this is my somewhat lame and arthritic sharing of "What I Did For Christmas", by Buzz Darcy.

  It's chilly here in Nicasio this late January morning. Forty degrees and misty hazy. The fire I started at 7 am has just really started to warm the room, some really excellent jazz is playing(on what I would love to say is the radio, but , of course, it's an Ipod and I likely could get sued for not capitalizing the name) in the background. I'm writing at my spot on the dining room table, watching my avian friends polish off the last of 8 lbs. of black oil sunflower seeds I put out about 4 days ago. It would be polite to say that they appear hungry, but actually they are ravenous little fuckers, with a pecking order that more closely resembles anarchy than anything else. But it's very peaceful to me.

  I stopped driving for the limo company the week before Thanksgiving. As a parting gesture, I gave the black tie from around my neck to a group of women who were participating in a group building exercise and were on a scavenger hunt. They needed "a narrow black tie" and I had the give a shit attitude wherein I knew I was through with wearing a suit for a while. For me it was a liberating. For them? They started to debate whether or not the tie was skinny enough... Though thank yous were uttered I felt they were being token grateful. Expectations, they'll mess with your head if you let them.

  At different times in my life I've had the opportunity to ponder lifestyle changes. Most often this would cause me to start worrying after a few days or so. That hasn't occurred in the same way this time. Maybe it's because of my age, or my darling Kathy's encouraging words. I'm just not sure. Something is in the air. I'm sure my recent travels wade into it. Taken out of the familiar can be illuminating, or terrifying, or a bit of both, with more added as the pot boils.

  When we left Aruba on the Gypsy Wind I had mixed emotions. Aruba had been hot and humid, sensual and exotic, elaborate and chintzy at the same time. Blue skies, palm trees,puffy white Cumulus clouds drifting slowly across. Nice, steady winds and mild chop in the water. Pretty much a storybook rendering of the west Caribbean.

   I was on a crew of people with really varied levels of experience. There was the owner and captain of the boat who was retired U.S. Coast Guard, a first mate who lived aboard his own boat in California and had made many cruising voyages throughout the years. There was my brother, who has been in love with boats and planes all his life, sailed since youth and possesses a great knowledge and competence that has always inspired confidence in me. He's sailed the Pacific , has owned a lovely Catalina 36 that we've sailed in S.F. Bay and is , next to my wife, my closest friend. I don't worry with Kevin. I guess, on some levels, I was the middle. I sailed on little boats growing up, sailed a bit as an adult here and there and was comfortable on the water. Experienced enough to stand watch apparently-I questioned that myself later in the voyage. The owners wife had raced a bit before, knew more about seamanship than I did, and was courageous in more ways than one. We were rounded out by two folks who had sailed minimally and stayed seasick the first few days. After 4 days we were a crew, each valuable in their special way.

   The Gypsy Wind is a 51' Formosa ketch built in 1979 in Taiwan. It weighed 58,000 lbs. and was about 58' in overall length with the bowsprit. It has the lines of a classic old sailing vessel, round portholes, and a beautiful railing that wrapped around the stern quarterdeck. The interior cabins had once been featured in a Hollywood movie. But , like an aging movie star, this boat was weathered and had seen better days, more attention and better treatment. She got a good workout on the way to Panama.

   Since this story is going to take a lot longer, and given the fact that I have been instructed to clean the house to prepare for special guests(you are all our special guests), I am going to end this portion with a few thoughts:

   Never underestimate your capacity to endure fear and discomfort.

   Don't assume that faith cannot be returned by nature

   Even damp, salt crusted shorts feel good when worn sans underwear

                                             And lastly, 

    That first beer onshore, after a tiring voyage, is better than sex.