“All I ask is for a goddamn coffee and 48 seconds of peace and quiet to throw it down my throat before the entire boat breaks and the crew ask me questions that have no answers.” Says an agitated man in blue coveralls, fists clenched and elbows tight against his sides; rocking back and forth with alarming speed on a swivel chair in the engine control room of a yacht. “One fucking cuppa!”
We are only 5 minutes into Monday and Oscar Mike, Chief Engineer on the M/Y 99 Problems, has already called time on the week, a new personal best. Or worst. Here’s the play as it happened:
07:59: While hunting for a Nespresso capsule that isn’t a fucking decaf, an alarm sounds. It’s the air conditioning system. Common enough, but the alarm is a new one that reads: ‘I give up, you are on your own. I’m sorry. I promise we’ll meet again someday, I just don’t know when.”
08:00: While trying to find this alarm in the manual, the head of interior informs Oscar that there water is coming out of the overhead panels in the master cabin. In response to further questioning she uses the word ‘fall’ after the word ‘water.’ Oscar runs up the stairs, slips midway, and barks his shin. He takes it rather well all things considered; only threatening to kill idiots who engage in intercourse, not everyone.
08:01: Arriving on scene in the master cabin Oscar is completely unable to assess where the water is coming from, because it is coming from everywhere. That there is absolutely no way it should be pouring out of the ceiling doesn’t seem to be stopping it from pouring out of the ceiling. One thing he is able to immediately determine is a timeline on getting this fixed: The Rest Of His Life.
08:02: While other crew scramble for drop cloths, buckets, wet vacs, and new jobs, Oscar makes an unsettling discovery. The water smells like shit. Oh yes.
08:03: A deckhand interrupts Oscar’s quiet, unhurried deliberations over the possible scenarios that have led to him standing in the epitome of luxury under a poo shower, to ask him if he has seen the keys to the tender. Oscar indicates that to the best of his knowledge he has not, and kindly suggests the junior crew member check his rear end, and failing that the rear ends of his departmental colleagues.
08:04: In an attempt to ascertain how the shit stream has managed to find it’s way onto the 1200 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets, Oscar tackles pulling down the overhead panels. It takes 13 seconds for him to confirm what he suspected: this is fucking impossible. The overheads have been secured to the ceiling with a combination of 5200, wood glue, blind rivets, horseshoes, black magic, and dragon’s scales. He stops, and ponders the terrible, timeless beauty of an endless stream of poo-water pouring for eternity unchecked and says:
“I fucking hate this boat.” The clock reads 08:05.