composeconceivecreate

The official photo was taken part way through the trip. When the other “sailors” saw it they were all “you look great, not green at all”. Gee. Thanks.

Andre and I are officially unofficial members of the Canada II America’s cup racing team. Andre (our volunteer captain) led us to victory against another group of tourists (guided by actual sailors) in a race around the bay in St. Maartin.  (The real captain said he did a great job of being a figure head.)

My official title for the day was Grinder. Primary Grinder mind you, not Main Grinder.  I was reminded of my position several times.  Apparently if the Primary Grinder starts grinding when they shout “Main Grinder Go” it not only puts our ship in danger of losing the race but also of running into random floating things (like other boats). This is bad. But I was enthusiastic and ground like there was no tomorrow on command. This was good…for a while.

Grinding involves leaning over a winch type thing on a pedestal and pulling hard to “grind” the device in a circle which apparently causes the direction of the sail to change. (It was a bit like peddling a bike with your hands.) I say apparently because grinding is a full body, head down experience. “Go, go, go, go, go.”

It was hot, the sea was a beautiful variegated pattern of blue and green and did I mention it was hot?

I’m blaming the heat on the need for a bucket. Apparently, when you’re not used to it, heat and unusual hard work (on the heels of nine days of sloth) are not a good combination.

After the first two legs of the race Andre and I both went green and had to stop grinding.  (The real crew took over.) Our new job was staring at the horizon, dumping bottles of water over our heads and concentrating on not throwing up while the rest of the team dragged our nauseated bodies over the finish line to victory.  (The crew super appreciated that we didn’t throw up…they actually told us that.) Next time I’m going to volunteer as rail meat.

Yay us.

Writing Exercise:

One of the professional sailing crew that led our victory at sea had moved from an urban life in France to a sailing life in the Caribbean.  Sure it sounds idillic, but what if you were like me.  “I can do that, burb, maybe not.” Try writing something called “Yo ho ho, the Pirate’s life is not for me.”

NB. Adam, Anna…I take it back.  I don’t want to live aboard.  I’ll just visit aboard.

Finally at the Atlantic.

I answered the pre-boarding health screening honestly and set off some sort of early warning system.

“In the last seven days have you had any of the following?”

Fever – Tick

Cough – Tick

Runny Nose – Tick

Chills – Woo hoo, a symptom I can say no to.

“Ma’m I’ll just escort you over to this waiting area.” (They stopped short of calling it quarantine, but it was just me and the dogs getting checked for rabies.)

Once segregated they apologized several times while we were waiting for the nurse to come and give me my free medical exam. It was our first all-inclusive from the cruise. Yay. But bright side, not everyone got a free exam. All those people having a healthy vacation were S.O.L. And it’s not like a cold would keep me off the cruise ship…right?

I didn’t start to actually worry about a formal quarantine, until I saw the nurse’s face after taking my temperature for the third time. Her face was a cross between fury and shock. Her stern and not at all hospitable “wait here” was somewhat concerning.

Within the next hour I had the head nurse and the ship’s doctor show up to take my temperature, a lot.

Then the doctor wanted to know exactly what symptoms I’d had and why I hadn’t seen a doctor if I’d been sick for five whole days.

Seriously? A Canadian doctor would have laughed me out of the clinic for coming in with a cold. The ship’s doctor didn’t seem to believe me when I told him that little fact.

At home I feel like a hypochondriac because I go in if I have to miss more than a week for work. Apparently, in Italy I’m some sort of martyr for failing to seek medical attention for a cold. Or maybe it’s a Paraguayan thing. Either way I was a potentially infectious freak who had intentionally avoided medical professionals.

“You must understand, this isn’t a regular cruise.” Where apparently Ebola symptoms would be tolerated. “We have many days at sea in a restricted area.” (Cut to me nodding in agreement.  It didn’t seem like the best time for smart ass comments.)

After the inquisition and getting my temperature taken 15 times we were told we could board. Apparently one of the first three temperatures they took falsely indicated a high fever and it took the other 14 to confirm normal. But we were approved. Yay!

The ship pushed off from the dock and we were on our way, for like two minutes, until the thrusters brought us back to the dock and an ambulance arrived.

Que casual “they changed their mind” and “I wonder where they quarantine Ebola suspect” jokes.

I practically cheered when we saw them wheeling off a poor woman who we think had a fall. But I stopped myself in time. I didn’t think the other cruisers would have appreciated my emotion. Does schadenfreude apply? Plus I’m pretty sure would have set off a round of coughing and I was still trying to look super healthy.

Writing Exercise:

Seriously? How could you not already be planning an Ebola outbreak on a cruise ship story? Happy writing.

I learned something new about myself in Paris.

For fresh baguette and pain chocolate for breakfast I’m willing to do five flights of stairs (each way) every morning…Well at least at the crack of 10am anyway.

I guess there are some things worth doing cardio for. Mmmmm, cardio.

Paris is officially not that bad.

We put a lock on a bridge in Paris. Apparently, it means you will lock your hearts together, or lock the relationship…something to do with love and locks…I probably should have looked it up first. But either way, Andre is totally stuck with me now.

Writing Exercise:

Everywhere I go in Europe there seems to be some sort of tradition that promises happiness or true love. I’m usually game. I mean, true love for a Euro or two tossed into a fountain seems like a deal. But I’m not that great at researching the tradition. I usually just copy what the other tourists are doing.

Like, I’m not sure what touching the statue’s hand in Notre Dam is supposed to do for me, but other people were touching it, so I touched it (just in case). But then later I wondered if that was a good idea. I mean what if the statue had a history of granting wishes or something and at the moment I touched the statue I let my mind wander and accidentally wished to be able to do all the stuff in the Bourne flicks, or grow a tail like a monkey… Sure they seem like good wishes, but all those people with the cursed monkey paw thought they had good wishes too…
Happy writing.

Carnivorous plants, plotting my demise. Or they would be if they had a central nervous system. This is the closest I get to Ninjas hunting me in real life…PS these plants want you dead too, but I’m closer.

Unless the Ninjas are hunting you. But even that would be pretty cool.

I watched the American Ninja Warrior world competition last night and SPOILER it was awesome.

I didn’t even care who won. Sure I cheered for my favourites but watching these guys flip and grip their way through obstacles that are IMPOSSIBLE to overcome is just so amazing the competitive aspect was secondary.

(PS. Just because the Ninjas did overcome the obstacles doesn’t make them any less impossible. I’m fairly certain they aren’t real people. Or they’re using some sort of arcane magic carried deep within us all that is muffled by Twinki-fat.)

The show is great on so many levels.

• Amazing obstacles.
• YouTube worthy wipe outs.
• Abs everywhere.
• And the best part…The competitors were honest to goodness good sports. (It’s been so long since I’ve seen one on TV that I had to double check.)

Sure, they wanted to win, but there was a complete absence of trash talk and you could see the excitement on their faces when anyone did well (competitor or teammate).

Watching the sport felt like peeking through a window at a community that was all about success and achievement in the presence of others not at the expense of others.  It makes me want to be a better person…and have abs. But I think I’ll be realistic and focus on the better person part. (Pass the Twinkies please.)

Writing Exercise:  

What inspires you to be a better person? What inspires you to eat Twinkies?  Are they connected?  Happy writing.

Since when did bovines get into the oil and gas industry?

I’m not a technical person, but for some reason I’ve been put in charge of a series of very technical (to me) things at work. (The internet is technical right?) And every time I manage (through a combination of determination, research and luck) to make a project work, the powers that be are all “great, now here’s something even harder and more technical”. I feel like I’m being punked.

Today I used a dos prompt for the first time in a decade, after I followed a set of instructions that might as well have been in Latin.

I was led to that frustrating bit of nostalgic computer magic by trying to download and run a piece of non-conforming software in our testing lab. Seriously, they gave me admin rights. Who the *&$#)(&% do they think I am?

But I was determined to get the system working so I soldiered on.

Note to self: This is an opportunity for personal growth. Any day you don’t hit your computer with a 2L bottle of Diet Coke is a good day.

In an attempt to understand the instructions I did what all good, resourceful, non technical people did. I asked Mr. Google a few questions.

Mr. Google, how do I set Environmental Conditions? – Ok, that doesn’t seem too bad…but I don’t really understand all of those words.

Mr. Google, what is a ClassPath? (What? Ok, my fault wrong question.)

Mr. Google, what is a JAR and why does Java want one? (ummm)

I finally gave up when I found out that: Tar archives need to be untarred with a Gnu. I’m pretty sure a Gnu is a goat, or maybe a yak, but either way our office doesn’t have one and I’m not going to clean up after it, no matter how much tar it’s covered in.

I quit. (Well, not really. But totally for the day. Today gets to be all about writing…and the dishes…I really have to get to the dishes.)

Writing Exercise:

How would a gnu get covered in tar? Do gnus prospect for oil deposits under the Savannah (or wherever the heck a gnu is from) when we’re not looking?