We all are designated numbers. (This is something I think we are all grateful for. We represent forty-something nationalities… I don’t care how common a Serbo-Croatian name it is, I don’t know how to spell it. Three digits is much easier.)
Last night, over sushi and sake, I (235) was giving Rolf (005) a hard time for the way he drives (he was at the helm for the choppy leg of the previous day). We started talking about the first officers. We have three. I was having dinner with two of them, Rolf, 005 and Christofer 007. Double O Seven, that never gets old. Christofer actually is 007.
This morning in a different funny interchange, I had breakfast with 231, Nadja, and 501, Marcos. I was telling them about an instant message conversation I had with Ben Claydon. Ben was telling me about his Harley. I said, “He likes to drive it in the Nevada desert. He went on about the wide open spaces and how free you feel when you ride a Harley.”
Marcos, a real masculine guy sitting at our table for breakfast says, “Yeah, kind of like the tampons.”
Nadja and I look at him and explode laughing. “Kind of like the tampons? What the hell are you talking about?”
Since that moment, all day, Marcos has been trying to dig himself out by explaining that tampon commercials always go on and on about how free you feel, and there is even the brand stay-free.
But he made the leap from Harley to tampons. We won’t let him live it down. He is screwed.
Lastly, there are the mushed and mangled English phrases the non-native speakers come up with. Today’s was: “When the shit hit the shovel.”
This is “When the shit hit the fan.” + “When push comes to shove.” + an extra l at the end for effect.
“When the shit hit the shovel.”
All in all, it makes for a lot of fun and a lot of laughter. (And for those of you who have heard me laugh… a lot of noise too.)
We laugh and joke constantly in the most good-natured way. It is amongst the charms of ship-life.
Anyway, a picture of Rio for you:
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