The Return of the Big Boat

The tranquility of Hotel Giscle was shattered abruptly by the return of the crew late last night.

It’s nothing against the crew; in fact, they seem to be a great group of good people. The captain has the gentlest voice I’ve ever heard and grew up farming, which is the occupation he plans to return to after a brief career in boating. His girlfriend, the chief stewardess, is a sweet Canadian who says things like “aboot” and “aye?”. The chef is a bubbly New Zealander whose fiancée is also a chef working on a boat for the first time; the two of them will open a restaurant Down Under in Australia one day. From what I hear (I haven’t yet met him), the mate is in love with his wife and son who he left – for the first time ever – back in South Africa, his native land. The other stewardess is off getting friends/day workers to help out over the next few days; her absence pisses Tony off.

“I just wanted to get you some work, so you could go help out and get some money. I don’t see why she’s going all over picking people up, when you’re right here and totally capable. Her buddies have never even worked on boats before.”

Apparently he’s forgotten that I haven’t either. “It’s ok, Tony,” I replied. “Instead of spending these sunny afternoons cleaning other people’s toilets, I’ll go to the beach.” Although the euros would have been nice.


This afternoon, I was working hard in the kitchen – cleaning dishes or making lunch – when I heard the front gate creak open. Tequila and Tony went to welcome the visitor. The muffled conversation crept its way through the back door of the kitchen that enters the courtyard.

“Yea, for sure, for how many days?” Tony asked.

I heard a voice respond, but couldn’t make it out.

“Sure, I’ll call him.” Tony responded. A pause. “He’s not answering. What kind of work do you need?”

The voice, again. I assumed it was the captain, but I was wrong. It was the mate – the guy in charge of the entire exterior of the boat.

“Well, Catherine’s here. She can do it.”

My heart dropped. Can I? What exactly is it that Tony’s so sure I can do? Sure, I’ve picked up a few knots (ok, two) and some boating lingo, but I surely couldn’t survive on the outside of a boat… Hell, I don’t even know if I could survive the inside. I think Tony honestly believes I can do anything. It’s great and all, but I’m not a yachty chic and am far from domesticated, so I’m not sure how helpful I really would be to his colleagues.

Regardless, after another couple seconds, he came bursting into the kitchen: “Whippee! I got you some work this weekend!!!”

I forced a smile. “Thanks!” I think. “Doing what?”

“Oh, simple stuff. Cleaning the boat and such, you know.”

I struggle to clean my laundry; he wants me to clean a boat? “Ok, well, if you really think I can do it.”

“I’m sure you can. It’s not like its rocket science.”

‘No,’ I thought, ‘it’s worse: it’s manual labor. And cleaning.’

This should be interesting.