They're running a friggin country club out here on the Bering Sea. 16 hour days? Yawn. -20 degrees F in the freezer for those 16 hours? Pfft. It's like Caddy Shack our here. And we have a guy who's the ground hog. And we have the African All Stars. And we've got a few unhinged Russians. And against all odds, there's a Hawaiin looking guy with a red neck accent. I can't make this up.
So I jumped on the freezer hold gig. They call me the freezer rat. "Are you a friggin rat or a mouse Watts?" Tony bloomfield. I'm a rat. Actually, I promoted myself to Ice God today. That's how I feel in the bowels of the ship, below the water line and in the frigid hold's dim flourescent lights. My rapist looking mustache has even ceased to freeze over. I'm immune. Apart from the beginnings of pnuemonia, I feel pretty good down there. The freezer suit is warm.
I gotta thank Rich. The sea has called. The days are long. We haven't made money yet. It's gross in the factory. We are elbow to elbow with the people we bunk with. And it's awesome. The sea has an appeal that is other wordly. Whether or not I'll become immune, or it's novelty will wear off, I don't know. But pulling into Dutch Harbor the other day, or more accurately, about two or three hours out, I saw a sight. It was only a few islands. But they were literally beyond words. When I saw them I didn't try to describe it. It just was. The only way I can really put it is like this: Following the sun in our rickety boat looked seriously like Lord of the Rings wehn they went to Elfville or wherever it was they went. It was just a moment.
I'm a freezer rat. Loving it. Seriously, we better get paid soon though.