The Boats
an excerpt

My first idea is Sh*t. So I will be writing a creative non-fiction piece instead about my time spent working on the fishing boats in the Bering Sea.

This Excerpt contains adult language and themes. Ever heard the term "swear like a sailor?" Well, there is a reason for that. If you are young or easily offended then TURN BACK NOW!!!!

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Prelude

I decided to make this prelude an introduction of sorts. And introduction to myself and my writing style. Mainly I wanted an anecdote which might encapsulate the various personality defects which would prompt a person, such as me, into the dangerous waters of Quick Cash working on a fishing boat in the Bering Sea.

Or anywhere else for that matter.

Regardless, this will start where things should start and things should start at the beginning. Not the beginning of time, mind you, but the beginning of my mind. Or more specifically, with my very first memory.

I was born in Michigan, but my first memory takes place in the small town of Napa, Oregon. Our neighbors adopted a girl from an African country and I had befriended her instantly. Our house was at the bottom of the hill and hers was at the top, or relatively close to the top, as I remember it.

I also remember this hill was very steep. Whether or not it actually was steep or not is arguable simply because I was four or five at the time and my childhood view of proportions probably have exaggerated the incline percentages a few points.

Regardless, the neighborhood girl had questioned my child-manhood by claiming that I was, in fact, a “chicken,” and would not ride my red tricycle down the hill to my house. I was flabbergasted and decided to rejoinder her arguments with a proper, rhetorical flurry.

“Am not!” I declared.

This was a clever bit of reverse psychology on her part, but she was clearly my intellectual superior. Sadist or not.

So I took the bait and climbed on my tricycle to prove her wrong.

Now this is the part which is very clear in my mind. I see it as a near perfect metaphor, or explanation, as to Why I am the way that I am and Why I have indulged in the various, spontaneous, and utterly bizarre set of experiences that make up my muddled and wholly haphazard life.

I have a clear memory of getting on the tricycle, pointing the nose down the hill and, this is the telling bit, taking my feet off of the pedals. This may seem a trivial point, but I find it to be important. In fact, pivotal.

The reason I find it to be pivotal is that tricycles have no brakes once you take your feet off the pedals. It’s not like a bicycle. The pedals on a tricycle provide a direct one-to-one ratio of speed. Simply put, in order to slow down, you pedal less. By taking my feet off the pedals I had given up the option of reducing my speed. I had handed over my destiny to chance and gravity.

Now I mentioned that my house was at the bottom of the hill, but what I failed to mention was that my house was down the hill and then off to the right somewhat. Once I got about half way down the hill I discovered that I was, in fact, going too fast to turn. Either that or I was too terrified to turn. Either way my destiny ended up being a grass field with a metal utility pole located in the center. Which ultimately became my brake.

That is the end of the memory. I don’t remember what happened after the pole-braking incident. I would imagine it involved crying and running home to mother or father. The point being that I don’t remember the consequences of my actions, simply the actions. Whether this is some kind of genetic or mental defense system I am not quite sure.

However it tends to insinuate that I have a flawed memory model. One in which learning from one’s mistakes would be somewhat problematic. I find no way to truthfully refute this allegation. In fact my various experiences would seem evidential proof in favor of this assumption.

But then again, I have been rewarded with an interesting life as a result.

Or maybe it just seems interesting because I can’t remember the consequences...