On board the Ocean Warrior with Snorkel Bob, Himself.

Sunday, July 8:
Hey, I don’t feel so bad. Things improve with a bowl of raisin bran and some decent coffee. But I process serious misgivings. The chest pain is down but still present. I’m consoled only by its characteristic, which is centered rather than left leaning, more like heartburn than angina, but I’ve hardly eaten. I suspect fumes in my lungs. I call home to the main mermaid and report that I may well bail out on the grounds that any significant contribution from me has already been made, that I will not ad depth to the crew mix, that my long-term health may be compromised. Anita advises, “Aw, quitcher whinin’. You’re not even underway. Give it a chance.”
I paraphrase unfairly; it’s my nature. We commiserate on our tragedy, the passing of our beloved dog Dino only yesterday, suddenly, from a brain tumor and swelling. What a dark sendoff. I feel physical pressure compounded by depression. Anita is also sorely distracted. She further advises to carry on for the wild animals and adventure, both of which would make Dino jump and bark on any given day.
As it happens, yesterday set a record for unbearable heat in Miami. Today is down to a balmy 105. So I take it in stride. The Port of Miami building is air-conditioned and looks fancy as the main arena in Roller Ball. This building serves the Fred Olson catamaran, a tourist barge the size of a skyscraper on its side. It’s huge and ghastly, cast in the image of its passengers who waddle ashore. I join the procession to where a man with a washrag can freshen up and gather his wits in cool comfort. I alone carry my own toilet paper, but only a night and a morning on board liberate me from lubberly self-consciousness.
Back on the Ocean Warrior, lunch is rice and beans with grilled tofu, and though it sounds Spartan, it’s well prepared and feels right for the adjustment period. I’ve seen the Sea Shepherd videos and cheered. I read the books and couldn’t understand how people could go so far, only to drop out. On board I gain insight to the fear. We’re headed to the open sea where we’ll seek other steel vessels with the intention of ramming. A dozen AK-47s come on board, not for the Eastern Caribbean but for delivery to the Galapagos, where armed poachers are destroying the reef. The Captain’s to-do list includes buying ammunition in South Miami. The fear takes form.
If I stay on board, it will look like I didn’t have the fear, or at least like I overcame it. If I leave, well, who cares? The 8-minute video for new crew is showing in the viewing area beside the mess area. I duck in to see big men smashing the heads of harp seal pups. I can’t watch, nor is it necessary. I set it aside for a while, the fear, and get busy with a project, painting those objects that stick up from the deck bright yellow, to avoid toe stubs.
Dinner is easier. The crew is all here. Most are unseasoned but all seem committed, eager to vent their frustration on the Japanese nemesis of the seas. I feel more at home, among friends and allies who justify my life of bitterness with equal bitterness of their own. To a woman and man, we’ve had it up to here and need to step forward and defend what we love.