Extra garbage

I couldn’t sleep at all last night so I wandered up to deck four forward around 6am to watch the ship come into port. I wasn’t originally going to share this with anyone, as I really felt it was too…um, I don’t know… I guess I felt this was a really personal moment I wanted to keep in my own archives. After thinking about it, I figured I would let it go for what it was worth. The experience itself was really worth sharing, and even if it let you all into my badly written prose ….. I don’t know, I guess all you really need to know is this really wasn’t mean for public consumption so it is what it is, a very bored seafarer with too many big words floating around his head…

The coast of Costa Maya became visible as a string of tiny uniformed blue sparkling lights and rapid flashes from what seemed to be a lighthouse. The sea was glass, the morning air cool and docile, and the moon illuminated the deck to the point that I could see every weld and inspect every rivet. 9 miles from shore, a small man hobbled to the bow with a quiet reverence. He dutifully hoisted the red, white, and blue from the ship’s mast (the red, white, and blue in this case was the flag of Panama) and was gone as fast as he appeared. 7 miles from shore, the ship cut her engines, coasted to a stop, and bobbed like a cork in the water. We drifted in the night; still, for what seemed like ages. This was a stillness I am not sure I have ever experienced (especially not in the few short weeks I have been aboard). It was total silence; no waves, no engine, no clankity clank of the anchor. The moment was utterly breathtaking in its simplicity.

A tiny skiff appeared in the distance and struggled against the current to meet us. She awkwardly pulled beside us and (in a daring craft to craft maneuver) delivered the pilot who would steer our giant hunk of steel into port. Another eternity passed, which in fact was only the time it took the pilot to embark the vessel and make his way up to the bridge. As the pilot took control, the vessel lunged ahead, full thrusters.

The sun began to rise in the distance and the once tiny blue sparkles began to show themselves as lamp post and other lights began to dot the horizon. I could make out cars traveling in the distance and the beam from the lighthouse danced across the bow every 25 seconds or so. With each passing minute the sun illuminated more, turning the grey sea into a deep menacing blue and then into a vibrant aqua marine. The lush jungle dripped with life. Green with contrasting black, grey and brown; textures you could never imagine when you come from a deciduous forest region.

White beaches provided the juxtaposition needed between sea and land. Thatch huts rose from the shore (and even though in the end they proved to be tourist trap bars) and completed the mental painting that will forever haunt my mind. This was paradise the truest sense of the word.

SPOONS BITCHES!

(more about the Canadian game of spoons later)

Keep it on the reel,

Seabag