The Joys of Boathood / H.R. Poop n' Stuff (#29)

We gave up on the city marina and spent a week on dry dock at a private one. It felt good. Like being on work release. So we’re now headed for the Bahamas. Hopefully tomorrow. It’s a little early. The March “lion and lamb” thing. But we’ll take the rough seas. ’Cause, as we all know, “Freedom cannot be bestowed. It must be achieved”. 
 
As we point our bow towards the Gulf Stream and the great unknown, I’m reminiscing about all the cash I’ve poured into this buoyant bastard. There’s a litany of jokes relating to why boats are technically female, but I’m not going there. The best non-gender joke I know is “Everything on your boat is broken. You just don’t know it yet.” That one’s usually told to new boat owners right after their purchase check clears.
There was the grand we spent back in October upgrading our entire battery system. It was kick-ass and did everything but start the engine. Then the generator experience. In four parts no less. By the way, the original mechanic (Chris) is still missing. 
Who knows what new trials await us as we cruise the Bahamas, the Turks & Caicos and points South? Some mechanic in Georgetown is likely licking his chops anticipating our arrival. But what can you do except laugh at the absurdity of it all. I’m now accustomed to watching $100 bills take flight like seagulls winging their way into the setting sun.
So I’m good. Except for cell phone eating sharks and “floaters."
I like to keep a spic n’ span cabin. My guns are well oiled. The Haille Selassie portrait adorning my cabin wall is dusted regularly. And the head’s (toilet) scrubbed religiously. The problem lies whenever you decide to visit it. You flip open the lid and there they are, treading water. Getting these buoyant little bastards to disappear ain’t easy. Unlike conventional toilets with large flush tanks, marine toilets run off batteries. So not everything makes it down on the first try. Repeated attempts will only leave your holding tank full and your battery banks depleted. I’ve thought of swallowing tiny little sinkers with each meal. But I figure canned Spam is going to be bad enough. I’ll just have to deal with it. 
I think I came through this odd corner of paradise in pretty good shape. I’m not addicted to anything that I wasn’t to before I got here. I successfully stayed away from the “Tree," although I paused there on a few occasions. (Most of the regulars were very decent folks.) It was just that sitting in the dirt next to the dumpsters chugging Busch Lite didn’t float my boat. But to each his own. Sadly, I missed an episode there during an idyllic Sunday sunset when the discussion between two guys and a girl was on oral sex. It was agreed that all were in favor. Pants were dropped and two inebriated gentlemen headed back to their boats with wide smiles on their faces. The parents of the kids, who may or may not have wandered by, weren’t pleased. But that’s Marathon for you.