Holy shit. Doubleyu is hitting the open sea. By open sea I mean open sea. It's deadliest catch, dub edition. No bullshit, I'm going on one of those boats. It's gonna be a test of will. It's gonna be foreign. Every notion of self that I have or think I have is going to be called into question. It seems that it's the life that I should know, but don't that's going to help me find my way. I'm kinda hyped, at this point. Just stubborn enough to say, "yes I can". So, come along, pack your bags, get on the floor and dance.
There's not a lot I can really say about it now because I have no clue what is in store for me. The water has always fascinated me, however, and barring an extreme disposition toward sea sickness, here we go. After all, we just want you to feel musical pleasure. What on earth am I getting myself into? God help me. And please, keep me out of the drink.
So now it's clear that there has to be an end game to this little odyssey. I'm not saying I'm the only one who has gone through some interesting times in life. I'm not suggesting that I'm the only person to hop on a boat in Alaska and fish. Nor am I suggesting that I'm the only person who can whip up a decent yarn about life's little quirks. I am suggesting, however, that I am among a small number who has had these experiences and the skill, or twisted mind to bring them to life. One other comes to mind...uh...Hemingway, anyone?
Yep. I said it. Now, we know how it ended for him-and I think that's a testament to what kind of deviant has both the imagination to put this life into prose and the reckless attitude to endure some of this stuff. Hopefully I'm not quite as twisted as he and will die of something else. But, it's looking like I'm close.
And the reason there are so few of us is simple. Most people who have the talent or skill or whatever to write in an even reasonably coherent fashion also have the life skills to avoid fishing vessels in Alaska. It's a tautologous argument, like world class swimmers don't drown in kiddy pools. It's true that Superman can't walk anymore, but isn't that shit ironic? It doesn't happen every day. In the same way, those of us who have skills and have been educated find jobs to keep em going. And plod through their dreary existence, trapped in their steel coffins-gridlocked on overstuffed freeways-trying to find their way through the maze.
Somehow, against all odds, I don't find this dreary at all. It sucks. It's going to suck worse very soon. But it's also just sweet sweet irony. And I'm twisted enough to look at this as isolation therapy. Which brings me to my next point. The Portrait of a Life in Freefall is going to be a book. I don't know where it's going to end, but the ground is coming quick. The chute is gonna have to open sometime after this little excursion or it's gonna be splat. So, with a little fine tuning here and some dramatic liberties there, and for sure some more about Methy John and homeless Dave, this little compilation will find it's way to a page near you.
Did you know there are Ethiopians and shit on these boats? Do you have any idea how effing awesome it's gonna be to document this experience? Well, neither do I. But I hope it's more awesome than living it. 90 days on a god forsaken vessel working 16 hours a day. That, my friends, is no picnic. That's not even boot camp. That's like if the friggin Normandy invasion lasted 90 days. Oh, and I can't stand the smell of fish. Don't eat it. Don't look at it. And up to this point, haven't particularly cared for catching it. Cest la vie.
I'm gonna be tougher than rawhide when this is through. My thoughts have lingered on the depths my mental toughness and apathy have sunk to. Well, it's literally sink or swim. And when I say literally, I mean figuratively, but somewhat literally because if I fell off the boat, those would be my two options. I hear Bloomfield in the recesses of my mind. As this trip comes nearer, I'm sure he will occupy a prominent position. "Are you a friggin rat or a mouse Watts?!" Hey Bloomer, once a rat, always a chief.