On board the Ocean Warrior with Snorkel Bob, Himself.

Monday, July 9:
First mate, cameraman and documentary director Peter Brown arrives. He’s very busy.
My old motorcycling friend and bon vivant Mike Cheney drops by—in slacks, a pressed shirt, power tie and shiny shoes. He takes the brief tour with quick, short laughs and pulls me aside to advise my expedient removal. Mike Cheney has sea time. “You got diesel poisoning. I’ve seen it. It hurts right here.” He grasps the center of his chest. I nod. “It burns, like heart burn but different.” I nod. “It’ll go away in a week or so, but you got to get off this thing. It’s bad.”
We go for lunch after he puts a towel on the car seat so I won’t stain it. After lunch, I tell Peter Brown that I might not be able to withstand the heat and fumes. He welcomes me to use his cabin but says it’s no better, since it’s right over the boiler. Boiler? On a diesel vessel? I don’t press this point or the difference in altitude between his cabin and my own but leave for a night ashore at Mike’s house, with a shower, clean sheets and air. We dine out, but I can’t eat. He chides me further.

Tuesday, July 10:
We drive back at mid-morning. I tell Mike I’ll call him once I make my decision. It looks like fifty-fifty with a slight lean toward going. I believe the comfort level can improve. Captain Paul Watson arrived an hour ago. I say hello and inform him that I look forward to the trip, but he should know that I’ve experienced chest strictures, and though I doubt The Big One, my friend Mike Cheney tells me it’s diesel poisoning. “Diesel poisoning?” I hope Paul is good for more than a back quote. He too is very busy and assures me, “It’ll get better when we get underway. We’ll raise the hatch over the fish hold. You’ll see.” He’s back to work, clearing customs, dealing with provisions, ammo and the rest.
The fish hold is now the freezer area. It resides under the forward half of the quarter deck, and on its hatch sit two Zodiacs with outboards. I think the Captain is very good at what he does, dispatching a whine with a phrase and a promise and getting back to work. So, it’s settled; I’ll go. I call Mike Cheney and tell him I’m bound for glory. He says it’ll probably get better (cough, cough). The day proceeds with preparation, stowing gear, lashing fans and last minute shopping. The Ocean Warrior is a dry ship, based on liquor abuse of voyages past. Yet I seek understanding for a man deep in middle age who is willing to forgo the controlled substance for the good of the cause but who at least needs the golden brew at days end. I’ll buy.
The Captain approves my requisition, offering to store my stash in his fridge, which compels me to double my order. We go for beer and ammo and talk, getting down to jokes and favorite bumper stickers while waiting in Miami gridlock. Paul takes a call from a radio station far away and is interviewed in traffic. He admits that he did refer to Greanpeace as the Avon ladies of the environmental movement, but only after they called him an eco-terrorist. He asks what’s worse. He further hopes that we can all just get along. By nightfall all is secure and ready to clear customs. The pilot is scheduled for noon.