The Thong Also Rises (10 page)

The bed is smaller than I thought.

As promised, the bottom berth protrudes farther out than the top—but only by mere inches and I'm not sure what the architects had it in mind in offering this up. While the lower birth might more readily accommodate an obese person, or even a horizontal sexual act, I am certain it was never intended to sleep two adults, unless I imagine, those adults happened to be two medium-sized midgets who don't mind spooning.

“I get the top bunk!” my husband cries excitedly.

He is triumphant. As a boy growing up in a small apartment, his older brother always got the top bunk. Now, several decades and thinned hairs later, he feels avenged and is grinning with smug satisfaction.

Still, I am resolute, flexible, and flowing. Until I see the bathroom.

While I might have fallen for the sleeping under the stars schtick, they really pulled a good one over Adventure Girl by neglecting to mention that the bathroom is actually broom-closet-size, all-in-one shower, toilet, and sink. My
husband marvels at the economy, noting he will be able to wash, urinate, and shave all at the same time. I, however, am noting the sensation of my behind pressed against a slick, wet toilet bowl while peeing. I am also sighing with a fond remembrance of the bathroom from last year's luxury hotel we snagged for a song on the Internet. While admittedly not nearly as efficient as the
Polynesia
's accommodations, it did boast a sunken marble tub equipped with a remote-control television. Perhaps the playful, lurking threat of being electrocuted while flipping channels in the bubble bath is adventure enough for me.

With the wind slowly leaving my sails, I unpack while my husband christens the head with an inaugural whiz. As he finishes, we bump sideways past one another and I squeeze my extra large toiletry bag into the tiny, three-sided wire grid shelf hanging on the bathroom wall. While I may have been willing to forego makeup, it is downright ludicrous to think I might survive without my assortment of Clinique moisturizers and creams.

“Argh,” I cry in my new pirate voice. The
weight of my bag is too heavy for the little shelf and under pressure it bursts away from the wall.The translucent, mesh-clothed bag tumbles and plunks like a lead anchor directly into the toilet bowl, which, in turn expels its water all over the little broom closet bathroom floor.

Just as my quivering hand retrieves the bag, which is now spilling liquid from inside-out all over my legs and feet, my husband happens to mention he neglected to flush. I am no longer that soft, cuddly Jack Sparrow of a pirate. I am Blackbeard and I am out for blood.

“What do you mean you forgot to flush the toilet!” I shriek, as this seems—at the moment—to be an act of insanity on par with suffocating small kittens.

“It's a small ship and I wanted to help conserve water?”

On dry land, when I am not dripping in a puddle of someone else's pee I might find this response endearing. Instead I manage to use the word “fuck” ten times in one sentence.

He promises that if I will just come out of the bathroom, he will rinse everything with disinfectant, but I can't move. I am paralyzed in pee.

“I am not coming out and tracking pee all over the carpeting all over this room!”

“Well then let me come in,” he pleads patiently, hoping to placate a urine-soused lunatic.

“You can't come in. First of all, we probably both can't fit in here, and second of all, then we both are going to track pee.”

“
Hon
” he sighs. Do I sense the weensiest bit of exasperation in his voice? “There is nothing wrong with
urine.
It is completely sterile. There are people who actually drink
urine.
There is even such a thing as
urine
therapy—you can look it up on the Internet.”

I can't stand the way he keeps referring to it by its formal name, like he is paying homage or something. And
therapy
? I have now lost all sense of rational thinking and am convinced that while I may be a crazy germaphobe, my husband has, at best, turned into a dead ringer for the Professor from
Gilligan's Island
and at worst, has been secretly participating in a satanic cult, drinking piping hot cups of urine while I was away at my Monday night yoga class.

I am wondering whether any of our Caribbean itineraries offer quickie divorces. I am spewing the “P” word uncontrollably. I am turning into Porky Pig with Tourette's Syndrome.

“W-w-well now what do you suggest? Should I just soak my contact lenses in your
p-p-pee
? And what about my cotton balls that are now drenched in your
p-p-pee
? How about if I just use your p-p-pee to cleanse my p-p-pores? In fact, why don't we dump out this whole bottle of Clinique cleanser and you can just re-p-plenish it with your miracle
p-p-pee
!!!”

Ever a man of patience, or perhaps soothed by years of drinking urine elixirs behind my back, my husband is finally able to convince me to sit down on the toilet as he lovingly and tenderly wipes the pee off my feet and rinses all of the contents of my bag in warm, soapy water.

To diffuse the mildly tense start to our vacation, or perhaps to avoid being held captive at sea with a madwoman for seven days, my husband suggests we quell rough waters with a trip above deck to snuggle underneath the stars. Begrudgingly, I agree. I am willing to forgive the watershed of our first evening, at least satisfied that I will have something to hang over his head for the rest of our married lives.

We grab thick rubber cushions off the lounge chairs and cuddle close under our woolen blankets. The gentle sway of the ship feels like a luxurious king-size waterbed and the zillions of luminescent stars winking in the sky are my personal pay-per-view movie. I am gently lulled to sleep in my husband's arms, dreaming of a cocoa-butter tan and sun-teased blond highlights that will be the envy of all my co-workers.

With each passing day, I am adjusting to my floating Winnebago lifestyle. Our cabin quarters have been transformed to a cozy, cool underground bunker after too many hours basting in the hot Caribbean sun. I am even enjoying my lower bunk. It is surprisingly refreshing to have a few evenings of respite from the fog of my husband's breath against my face. Still, I relish the comfort of having him near and knowing he is just one bed above me, sleeping in what I have affectionately dubbed “The Loft.”

My inner pirate is thriving. I help hoist sails, drink more than my fair share of rum swizzles, and disco dance on Lingerie Night in teddy bear pjs, the cool, weathered teak floors tingling under my bare feet. Captain Casey, or just Casey, as he prefers to be called, commands the
Polynesia
with a charismatic blend of machismo and cutting comedy, salting his daily stories with expletives and edgy wisecracks that leave us in stitches. In keeping with his religious objection to formalities, he prefers baseball hats and tropical shirts to officer dress. One evening after sunset and swizzles, he sets up the floodlights and diving board so we can swim right off the side of the boat. It is an exhilarating experience, but when Casey suddenly grabs the ship microphone and bellows out to us, “Look out! Shark!… Just kidding!” my insides freeze for a nano-second, but then I am laughing
hysterically. Life just shouldn't be taken so seriously, you know what I mean?

It is our last day at sea. As much as I am looking forward to resuming our conjugal sleeping arrangements, I'm also sorry to leave. Disco dancing will never be quite the same, and I'll miss Casey's antics and his most vigilant Windjammer edict “No whining!” which seems written expressly for recovering prima donnas like me.

Later that night my husband awakens from a deep sleep needing to use the bathroom in a way that men of a certain age always do. Not wanting to wake me (perhaps still skittish from my minor proclivity to certain irrational tendencies), he gently closes the bathroom door behind him without turning on the light, relieving himself in utter darkness. When finished, still semi-conscious with sleep, he blindly gropes and gives a hard turn to the doorknob, which to his horror, sends a shock of cold water exploding from the wall, dousing him from head to toe. Instinctively, he flinches and panics, fearing the ship has sprung a leak, and is bursting a geyser of frigid water into our cabin.

It takes a moment before he gets his wits about him and realizes that in his bleary stupor, his hand has mistaken the knob for the door with the one for the cold shower spray and there will be no need for anyone to write a screenplay about our brush with a Caribbean iceberg. Meanwhile, I sleep soundly, dreaming equal parts rum swizzle, Johnny Depp, and golden doubloons.

As he recounts the story of his comeuppance to me early the next morning, I can only smile to myself at the discovery that even those without princess complexes are prey to the perils of small sailing vessels. I roll over in my lower bunk
and fall back into a peaceful slumber, the gentle sea slowly rocking me toward home.

Julie Eisenberg lives in Miami, Florida. She and her husband Randy just bought their first fixer-upper boat, a twenty-five-foot trawler, which they plan to live aboard on weekends in the Florida Keys, once the mold-encrusted toilet, air conditioning, and 1970s orange-plaid upholstery are refurbished.

A tour group is not like family. A tour group is an endless, round-robin blind date. You utter the same information about yourself over and over and over again. By the eighth, ninth, kajillionth time you tell someone what you do and where you're from, you'll start making up stuff just to make yourself sound interesting—to yourself. I estimate I shared my personal data approximately one hundred times over the course of my travels. By the ninth rehash, I was telling people that I was a part-time rodeo clown and married to a rich, elderly Weimaraner.

—Mary Jo Pehl, “Your Tour Group and You”