My reward
It takes my eyes a few minutes to adjust to the darkness. I have been down below since night fall: appetizers, cocktails, clearing, washing, prepping dinner, cooking, serving, clearing, washing, serving tea and dessert, clearing, washing. I wonder how parents do it three times a day like this.
Minus the cocktail hour of course.
Or multiply cocktail hour by several glasses of wine for mommy and daddy.
I am not so lucky to have a chilled glass of white in my right hand as I stir with the left.
I am sober at the helm of the galley, sweating over propane, the stove gimbling when I'd rather it not. My hair sticks to my face and my counter space decreases with clutter and crumbs as the courses march on.
I am pacing the eight feet of my domain opening the fridge locker and climbing onto the counter to grab a bag of basil in the far reaches of the coolness. I want to climb in and take a nap. But there are rum cocktails to be made and a literal fish to fry! I slide to the aft end of the galley and chip some ice off a huge block with an awl. I move aside the frozen bread and slightly defrosting (shit!) shrimp and grab the tonic. Cut a lime wedge, add some rum, a splash of quinine-y goodness, scurry it up to the smoke infused cockpit. Bob Marley is blaring, telling me every thing is going to be alright.
Thanks Bob.
Dinner is simmering, I am still sweating, setting the table for four. The smells of wine, butter, and garlic permeate the boat. Hints of basil and warming bread dance with the former and murmurs of the guests trying to guess what is on the menu waft through the galley.
Cooking, serving, washing.
They turn up the music after dinner and tea and cookies and chocolate. They bet what that Yellow Mellow song by Donovan is about. The loser has to serve the other one breakfast in the morning and answer Yes Sir to every request. The funny part is that I will be the one cooking the breakfast and handing it off to the "loser." The funnier part is that I am absolutely sure that at some point in my past this would have offended me and set me off into a flurry of anti-subservient thoughts complete with self-recitation of SAT scores and GPAs and fantasies about throwing hot liquids into the face of said "Sir." Do I have less pride now? No, I just know who I am a little bit better. Whether I'm getting my PhD or serving up eggs over easy, either someone gets me or they don't and wondering about their judgement gets me nowhere. So I smile at their game and wipe dry the last glass. (let's see if this positive attitude can hold out another six weeks!)
The breeze dries my salty sweaty hair and I breathe in the surprisingly cool Caribbean night air. I nibble on a piece of dark chocolate and allow my eyes to relax into the dimness. There are lights of houses on the hills and a flashing buoy off the port stern. There's Orion posturing again for Venus and Jupiter as he runs from that (serious) dog. He's surrounded by points of light I forgot existed outside of the islands, on the ocean.
But the water is the most magical: Fireflies and bass drum beats of light flicker and voluminously glow beneath the swaying stern.
Bioluminescence. Phosphorescence. Fireflies and drum beats.
Call it what you will, the light show in the water is my mesmerizing reward for a hard days work. I try to predict where the next flicker will show up but the traces from the last still linger in my brain and all I can do is unfocus my eyes and take all of it in.
I guess sometimes you need to soften your view to see all the magic surrounding you.
My day is over as I climb into my bunk, my last glance before closing my eyes at stars through the deck hatch, but the fireflies have all night to shine.
Minus the cocktail hour of course.
Or multiply cocktail hour by several glasses of wine for mommy and daddy.
I am not so lucky to have a chilled glass of white in my right hand as I stir with the left.
I am sober at the helm of the galley, sweating over propane, the stove gimbling when I'd rather it not. My hair sticks to my face and my counter space decreases with clutter and crumbs as the courses march on.
I am pacing the eight feet of my domain opening the fridge locker and climbing onto the counter to grab a bag of basil in the far reaches of the coolness. I want to climb in and take a nap. But there are rum cocktails to be made and a literal fish to fry! I slide to the aft end of the galley and chip some ice off a huge block with an awl. I move aside the frozen bread and slightly defrosting (shit!) shrimp and grab the tonic. Cut a lime wedge, add some rum, a splash of quinine-y goodness, scurry it up to the smoke infused cockpit. Bob Marley is blaring, telling me every thing is going to be alright.
Thanks Bob.
Dinner is simmering, I am still sweating, setting the table for four. The smells of wine, butter, and garlic permeate the boat. Hints of basil and warming bread dance with the former and murmurs of the guests trying to guess what is on the menu waft through the galley.
Cooking, serving, washing.
They turn up the music after dinner and tea and cookies and chocolate. They bet what that Yellow Mellow song by Donovan is about. The loser has to serve the other one breakfast in the morning and answer Yes Sir to every request. The funny part is that I will be the one cooking the breakfast and handing it off to the "loser." The funnier part is that I am absolutely sure that at some point in my past this would have offended me and set me off into a flurry of anti-subservient thoughts complete with self-recitation of SAT scores and GPAs and fantasies about throwing hot liquids into the face of said "Sir." Do I have less pride now? No, I just know who I am a little bit better. Whether I'm getting my PhD or serving up eggs over easy, either someone gets me or they don't and wondering about their judgement gets me nowhere. So I smile at their game and wipe dry the last glass. (let's see if this positive attitude can hold out another six weeks!)
The breeze dries my salty sweaty hair and I breathe in the surprisingly cool Caribbean night air. I nibble on a piece of dark chocolate and allow my eyes to relax into the dimness. There are lights of houses on the hills and a flashing buoy off the port stern. There's Orion posturing again for Venus and Jupiter as he runs from that (serious) dog. He's surrounded by points of light I forgot existed outside of the islands, on the ocean.
But the water is the most magical: Fireflies and bass drum beats of light flicker and voluminously glow beneath the swaying stern.
Bioluminescence. Phosphorescence. Fireflies and drum beats.
Call it what you will, the light show in the water is my mesmerizing reward for a hard days work. I try to predict where the next flicker will show up but the traces from the last still linger in my brain and all I can do is unfocus my eyes and take all of it in.
I guess sometimes you need to soften your view to see all the magic surrounding you.
My day is over as I climb into my bunk, my last glance before closing my eyes at stars through the deck hatch, but the fireflies have all night to shine.
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