Danger never rests. Neither do hangovers.
“And here on the left we have a linen closet that I’m pretty sure the captain doesn’t know exists,” says Jimmy Goodlife, chief mate on the M/Y It’s A Living, as he gestures expansively towards a false wall panel that pops open when pressed, revealing a personal reality-escape pod disguised as stacked bedding. “In an emergency, such as needing a two-hour nap one hour into the workday, simply move the contents of shelves three and four up to shelves one and two, climb in, curl up in the fetal position, and try not to snore.”
Newly joined stewardess Sarah Diamond takes this in with a mixture of fear that this is some form of trap, and genuine gratitude for such highly prized information.
“Is this a trap?” She asks, being from Australia and not one to hold back.
Jimmy looks surprised. “I beg your pardon. There are no traps on the familiarization tour. I take this very seriously.”
“Then why does your coffee smell like jäger?”
“Why are you wearing sunglasses inside?”
“You clearly are.”
“Lets move on. I still have to show you how to get onboard when you’re too intoxicated to enter the door code and how to make a toasty at three in the morning without the chef knowing you’ve been in the galley.”
Sarah trails behind Jimmy as he ricochets down a darkened corridor, protecting his ‘coffee’ like its a newborn baby with a strange German name. While initially undecided now she is sure: she’s going to like it around here.
“I need help,” says bosun Tim O’Leary, standing in the lower pantry of a 50-meter motor yacht, saying hello like a damned fool to every single crew member as they come, and go, and come back again.
“Hey Matt, what’s happening?” He says, assailing the chief engineer as he passes, “Still nothing? Cool. See you in six seconds.” There is no reply.
Tim suffers from a common syndrome found amongst yacht crew, known as Obnoxiously Repetitive Salutations Disorder, or STFU for short, in which the sufferer is physically unable to stop themselves from greeting people over and over again like a poorly trained parrot with a polite version of Tourette’s.
“Jo-annabanafofama! Howzit? Ok, still good. Nice. No, no, I don’t have to call you that all the goddamn time.”
“On average I’d say I greet the other crew members over a thousand times a week,” Tim says, shaking his head and looking out to sea, gripping the cap rail tightly to stop himself from greeting this reporter for the fourth time since we stepped out on the side deck to get some air. “I think I have a problem.”
“Tim has a problem,” his captain confirms immediately when asked. “We’ve spoken about it a number of times, and I can see he’s working on it which is good, but has also led to slightly unnerving situations when he appears silently beside me on the bridge and just waves when I look over at him. And that’s a little weird. I’m hopeful he can get a handle on it. Yes, hi Tim.”