On board the Ocean Warrior with Snorkel Bob, Himself.

Saturday, July 7
It’s a long day from Seattle to Miami and down to Dodge Island, which is only an island in the technical sense. Practically, a high, arching causeway connects it to Miami, but it feels like flotsam broken off from the bigger wreck. The mainland side is a vast and teeming honky-tonk mall packed ass to elbow with humans yakking Spanish and looking at stuff to buy and each other. Many nubile females display perfect lift and spread in skin tights. Matching one-shoulder tops are popular for displaying newly enhanced racks with detailed points. What a scene. It feels like Hatlo’s Inferno, where the beer is kind of cold.
Back in the environmental movement at berth 188, the Ocean Warrior is easy to spot. Just look for the heat ripples. It’s a converted Norwegian fisherman, circa 1957, in steel, painted black and pumped to overflowing with BTUs by a 3-cylinder diesel generator. These jugs are huge with exposed tappets for external lubrication by hand, challenging life as we know it with ambient diesel mist.
I’m reminded of 1983, setting sail for Hawaii from Santa Cruz, when the whole world felt marginal, uncertain and ghastly. Difficulty then derived from drugs, liquor and insolvency. Here it’s different, the margins a deeply layered matrix of grease and grit with the only ray of cleanliness on the heads themselves, the tappets tapping like spiffy kids on the first day of school. Chief Engineer Charles Hutchins stands by, an even-keeled Scot (“Call me a haggis head, or an asshole, but not an Englander.”), now a human smudge sweating and oiling to keep things happy.
I’m led to my quarters, down one flight, around a corner and down again to the cabins just below the water line. Mine is marked V.I.P. I’d hate to see the brig. I can only stay a minute and then must rise again in deference to pesky symptoms, like shallow water blackout, nausea and angina. Cabin temperature is 121° f. I acclimate with a quick change to shorts, a tank and flops, and I’m consoled cheerfully with news that my porthole can be opened if I cover it with gauze against the bloodsucking skeeters. The crew is severely welted.
After a hike over the causeway, two beers and a hike back, it’s time for bed, 1 a.m. here, 10 in Seattle. I borrow the fan from the mess area and turn it directly on the bunk at high speed. The temperature lowers to a breezy 115. This is tough. I’m seeping like a sponge. You know you’re hot when your forearms, hands and legs sweat. I struggle into dreamland by about 2 but awaken with a jolt at 2:30 with strictures in my chest and mild suffocation. I’m reasonably clear that this is The Big One, that the next step is out and up and off to 911 land. I rise with trepidation and climb out.
On deck the stricture subsides. Moreover, breathing resumes, not quite normally but adequately to sustain life. On deck, marginally removed from the fumes, I immediately sense the difference between stale, urban air and toxic diesel mist. I stand under the twinkling miasma, Miami skyline in summer haze, and breathe. In an hour I go below, remove the gauze from the porthole and redirect the fan out the door. This pulls in new if not fresh air, but it also allows the temperature to climb back up to 121, or 123. I turn the fan back and finally get it right by 4 and sleep till 8.