Tuesday, May 23, 2017

Tugboating Top Tips

Memorial Day. The “Unofficial” Start to Summer.
Pay no attention to all of that “remembering our nation’s fallen warriors” stuff. 

It’s time to get the hamburgers and hot dogs a grillin’, get all boozed up, and head out on the water in that boat that you haven’t even looked at since last October. Woo!
For us, the “Unofficial” start to WAFI and MAFI season is more like it. Interestingly enough, this week (May 20th to the 26th) is also called National Safe Boating Week. I submit that it should be renamed “Idiots with More Money Than Brains” week. It’s catchy. Not surprisingly, this weekend there was no shortage of a complete lack of nautical knowledge to be found.
Stupid hurts. And is a bit expensive.
So in an attempt to spread some nautical tid-bits of seafaring knowledge with the masses, I present to you: Tugboating Top Tips for the Woefully Unprepared Seasonal Boater (abridged version).

Tip #1: Radio Checks.
Stop it. Just stop it. Especially on VHF Channel 16! All summer long Channel 16 is clogged up with weekend warriors and their “Radio Check, Radio Check”. And all summer long the watchstanders at U.S. Coast Guard stations all over the country reply with “Radio Checks are conducted on VHF Channel Zero-Nine”. I get it. You haven’t even though about doing any maintenance on your boat since you put it away last fall. I’m sure the squirrels have had a glorious time nibbling on you radio wires in the dead of winter. But a simple check of your equipment shouldn’t have to be broadcast to the entirety of the nautical world on the one channel that is designated as an emergency hailing frequency. So cut it out!
It's okay. You can switch channels.

Tip #2: More Radio Stuff.
Here is another VHF Radio Top Tip. If you are trying to contact a commercial vessel on VHF Channel 16 (and this is especially important in the New York Harbor area and major ports with a Vessel Traffic Control system), don’t be too surprised if no one on that commercial vessel is listening. Now, stick with me for a second, as I’m sure some of you are confused. Most people assume that everyone is listening on Channel 16 all of the time, as well you should. It’s in The Rules. Here’s the legal stuff:

In general, any vessel equipped with a VHF marine radiotelephone (whether voluntarily or required to) must maintain a watch on channel 16 (156.800 MHz) whenever the radiotelephone is not being used to communicate. (FCC 47 CFR §§ 80.148, 80.310)

So there it is. Except when it’s not. More legal stuff:

In addition, every [commercial] power-driven vessel … (condensed to take out some legal mumbo-jumbo) must also maintain a watch on channel 13 (156.650 MHz) --channel 67 (156.375 MHz) if operating on the lower Mississippi River-- ; …(more condensing) These vessels must also maintain a watch on the designated Vessel Traffic Service (VTS) frequency, in lieu of maintaining watch on channel 16, while transiting within a VTS area. (See 33 CFR §§ 2.36, 26, and 161; 47 CFR §§ 80.148, 80.308-309)

So there you go. Simple, right? Here is the gist of it:

Commercial vessels are listening in on VHF channel 13 ALL OF THE TIME (channel 67 on the Miss. River). So if you need to get ahold of a commercial vessel, take a second and switch from channel 16 to 13 and hail them on that channel. Your chances of success on reaching said vessel on 13 are much better than calling on channel 16.

Case in point. In my wheelhouse I have 4 mounted VHF radios and a portable VHF radio at my disposal. While operating in a Vessel Traffic area, I have one radio monitoring Vessel Traffic, a second radio always tuned to channel 13 to monitor and communicate with any concerned vessel traffic, a third radio monitoring my company’s “house channel”, and the fourth radio monitoring our vessel’s “working channel”. Listening in on four different radio frequencies is a handful. At times, to help to try to limit “information overload” radios #3 and 4 might get turned down, or turned off. Based on the amount of radio chatter, you sometimes need to prioritize which radio channels need to be monitored. Channel 13 and the Vessel Traffic channels are at the top of the list. To add on monitoring channel 16 in a busy harbor just adds to the confusion. Hence, the “in lieu” provision in the above legalese.

So, to sum up the last couple of paragraphs of long winded babbling and to make this as simple and easy as possible:

Call commercial vessels on channel 13. There, easy.

Sidebar: Out to sea, chances are pretty good that you will be able to get a commercial vessel on channel 16, just don’t expect the same results in the harbor.
Mariner Multi-tasking.

Tip #3: Navigation Lights.
Squirrels like navigation light wires just as much as they like marine VHF radio wires. So before you head out in “Druken Engineer” (name of an actual boat I heard calling the USCG for assistance) for the first time this year, check to make sure your navigation lights work. Last weekend I heard a boat call a tug who was making up to their barge mid-stream say they were hard to see because their sidelights were burned out. Not smart. Also, not smart is displaying the incorrect navigation lights. I already dislike sailboats. What makes me dislike them even more is when some salty sailboat captain decides the way to best be seen is to put on not only one set of running lights, but two! Here is a nice little diagram that highlights what I’m talking about.
Please note the “EITHER” in reference to the running lights in the first picture. It means you can display ONE or THE OTHER. Not both! Don't be "That Guy".

Tip #4: Power driven vs. Under sail.
Since I’m already ripping on sailboats, and since pictures are worth a thousand words. Let me end with this flurry of pictures. See if you can spot the subtle differences between a sailboat and a power driven vessel. The Rules of the Road concerning these two types of vessels are quite different.

Not a sailboat. Power boat.

Power boat with a big aluminum lightning rod attached. Not a sailboat.

So there you go. Four simple Top Tips to help make your summer boating experience a bit more fun and a bit safer. But hopefully safer. Because if you're safer, that makes me safer. And I'm all for that.

Friday, March 24, 2017

Broken Record

As a General Rule, I like to try and keep this blog relatively upbeat and light hearted. Funny little stories intertwined with doses of moments of sheer terror. Essentially, a carbon copy of life aboard a tugboat.

Alas, on occasion over the last few years I have had to pen my thoughts regarding the loss of friends, mentors, and coworkers. An unfortunate reality of life.

Featured in some of those "funny little stories" was my deckhand, who the crew had nicknamed "Mongo".
Mongo fish!
Mongo came over to my company a few years ago from another tugboat company. He had just gone through a condensed, accelerated school to get his steering license and was striving to get a Mate's position. While he was training to fine tune his boat handling skills, he was also my deckhand.

During the time we worked together, Mongo was always the center of attention. If he wasn't, he was trying to be. Mongo was a big dude. But it wasn't always his physical stature that was the focal point. Case in point, at some time during his wheelhouse training with us, a stuffed, fluffy unicorn that lit up and played music appeared in the wheelhouse. Mongo was definitely a little kid, trapped in a big body.
Mongo about to give an improvised beating to keep morale up.

His personality is of course highlighted by this story from around Christmas time a few years ago. If you haven't read it, please take the time in order to get just a little bit of insight into who Mongo was.

Mongo was also a motorcyclist through and through. Crew changes were always an interesting sight. Whenever he wasn't dressed like this...
You could definitely find him dressed in a leather motorcycle jacket, his wallet on a chain, and more skull rings and jewelry than any one person should be allowed to wear at any one time.

He was a perfectionist. A hard worker. He was a bit quirky at times. But also one to lend a hand and try something that he had never attempted before. As was the case when we rebuilt the galley on the boat with some rudimentary tools and a lot of cursing. So became the beginnings of...

Mongo and Me Woodworking Company
Recently, I was in the office doing office type things, when Mongo's name came into the conversation. He had just been signed off as a Training Mate on the boat we had worked together on. It was the first crucial step in getting that coveted job as a Mate he had been striving for. Mongo and his unicorn were going places. A mere month later from that innocent conversation in the office, we received another message from the office regarding Mongo.

Mongo was on his time off. Undoubtedly enjoying a must needed break from moving to a new boat and starting his training with a new Captain and crew. Mongo was at home in Florida riding his motorcycle, something which he absolutely loved to do. He had an accident and was killed.

Another friend gone too soon. Another Brother mariner taken from the maritime family way too early. Working on tugs is a dangerous business, but one doesn't have to be on the boat to be taken from us.

I'm not the best when it comes to saying goodbye to friends I've lost. This one is no different. We always just assume people will be there and not taken from us. I looked forward to seeing Mongo around the harbor. I wanted him to give us an assist into the dock on his new boat. I wanted to see how he had progressed as a boatman from the last time I had worked with him. I wanted him to keep working hard and get that Mate's spot. Instead, I get to pen another blog post lamenting the loss of a friend. Struggling with how to end a heartfelt miss-mash of words trying to describe a man who cannot be described with words alone.

We'll miss you, Mongo.

That is about the best I can do.

Anthony Giuliano
October 5, 1970 – March 22 , 2017

We'll miss our Mongo!

Saturday, February 4, 2017

Super Bowl of Calories

The Super Bowl is tomorrow. Once again, my beloved New England Patriots are making an appearance in the NFL's season finale. Roger Goodell has no choice but to watch Tom Brady and Bill Belichick once again go for the Lombardi trophy. I can't wait.

Problem is, I'm on the boat. I would much rather be at home terrorizing my family, screaming at the television, and throwing pillows around the living room in excitement as I did the last time the Patriots were victorious in Super Bowl 49. I never did find that pillow I threw.

Alas, there are bills to be paid, so here I am at work. I tried to get one of my friends to bring me a New England Patriots flag down to the boat so I could fly it from the mast tomorrow to show my support. After some promising sounding messages from a couple of local friends, the end result of a Patriots flag flying high from the yardarm ended in futility. Schedules didn't match up and no flag was able to be procured for the BIG game. To be fair, my parents were willing to drive 3 hours to deliver a flag to me but that sounded a bit extreme.

Damn you, Amazon for not delivering to vessels while underway!
So I won't have a flag on the boat, but we are still preparing for the game one way or the other. One way we are getting ready is through a well thought out, highly organized list of menu items for tomorrow. We purchased a deep fryer for the galley this hitch. We thoroughly tested it last weekend by dialing in just the perfect amount of seasoning and fine tuning the cooking time for the most delectable chicken wings this side of Hudson Canyon. Also on the menu is meatballs in a fine reduction sauce slowly simmered in a crock pot for hours. Currently, the Chief Engineer is researching the perfect recipe for batter to be used for deep frying Oreo cookies, brownies, candy bars, and whatever other sort of food item that seem like it would be delicious if it happened to be slathered in batter and deep fried to a golden-brown, crispy perfection. The list could literally be endless. While we were making up our grub list earlier this week I was both absolutely horrified by some of the items that were being written down, and yet somewhat intrigued by the same items as to what sort of concoction that we would be able to come up with. A healthy diet this list would not make.
Arugula. Still fun to say.

Which brings me to my latest Million Dollar Idea. Similar in scope to my last couple of Million Dollar ideas. Namely, purchasing a tank and selling rides in said tank for a minimal fee. Or my long time dream of opening up a Bacon Restaurant where everything on the menu contains bacon of a varying degree.

The latest idea- The Tugboat Cook Book.

Now I'm pretty sure that someone out there has already come up with such a thing. Similarly, I know that there are already Bacon Restaurants, and places to drive tanks. However, as with most things that come out of my head, this Tugboat Cookbook will have it's own kind of flair. My own personal touch to it.

Page 1.  Nothing in this cookbook shall be construed to be considered healthy in any way, shape, or form.

Page 2. CPR instructions. Links to the National Red Cross, the American Heart Association, and directions for First Aid, including the Heimlich Maneuver and use of an AED.

Pages 3 thru... whatever. Recipes that are delectable in every way, yet horrendous for you in every way.
You know, tugboat food.

In the last few years, great strides have been taken to improve the lives of mariners through proper rest schedules and healthy eating. As a crew, we try to eat healthy and exercise. It's a work in progress. But with all diet and exercise, you have to allow yourself a "cheat day". Tomorrow just happens to be one of those days.

And yes, the "cheat day" irony is not lost on me. I get it. New England Patriots, cheat day. Funny.
Go Pats!
But let me end with this.

Here is a list of all players that have played in seven Super Bowls:

If you need me tomorrow, I'll be watching the Patriots in the Super Bowl while deep frying a cookie and serving it on ice cream. Should be on page 17 in the Tugboat Cookbook.

Sunday, November 27, 2016

The Grub Gods

Working out to sea sometimes requires a lot of sacrifice.
Most notably, we sacrifice time with our family.
Sometimes it is just inevitable that we are going to miss the important things in our family's life. Birthdays, anniversaries, holidays, and even the occasional kids appendix surgery.

But there are other types of sacrifices that we have to make as well.
There was the one occasion we had to sacrifice a fishing pole to the deep in order to break our string of horrendously bad luck at fishing. Totally worth it.

But just this week we had to make another type of sacrifice.
Sure we were on the boat for Thanksgiving. Missing our friends and family over the holiday weekend. But not that kind of sacrifice.
We had to make a sacrifice to the "Grub Gods".

“An army marches on its stomach”, attributed to Napoleon Bonaparte, also rings true for tugboats.
Contrary to popular belief, our boat does not run on diesel fuel. It runs on coffee and food . Or as it is known in maritime circles, grub. Nothing slows a boat down, or kills morale quicker, than a boat with no grub. Except maybe a Charlie Foxtrot of a crew change. But since this blog is already about the chronicles of some of our illustrious crew changes, we will stick to grub for this blog post.

Not to say running out of grub doesn't happen. In some of the ports we go to it can be a logistical nightmare just trying to get to a grocery store. Shopping for, transporting, transferring, and loading $1500 of food can be an absolute nightmare. Add in a less than helpful terminal that doesn't quite understand that getting a sufficient amount of food on board is an absolute necessity, can be enough to question ones career choice. Plus, based on what kind of crew you work with, $1500 doesn't last long. Whenever a cashier asks how many guys we are buying food for, and how long it will last, they are always shocked when our answer is, "Seven. See you next week." Seven guys (sometimes more) can put some food away.

So entering week number two of our three week hitch, we were due for a "grub shop". Our neatly detailed grub list was compiled and we begged, borrowed, and pleaded enlisted the help of another one of our tugs to come pick up our guy for the trip to the grocery store. Four hours later (it takes a while to get that much grub) our waterborne taxi cab returned with the fruits (and vegetables) of our grub expedition. We were at anchor so the other tug had to maneuver alongside of us in order to pass the grub from one boat to the other. The weather wasn't too bad. A little brisk and breezy, but we've done this exact thing in far worse weather conditions. Milk, eggs, meats, all the things that make a crew happy (read: cookies and cake), were passed from one boat to the other.

And then it happened...

A shopping bag containing, of all things, a bag of candy, slipped from my hands as it was being passed across the gap between the two rocking boats. Down it went. I was sure it was headed straight to the depths of Davey Jones's Locker. A sacrifice to the Grub Gods for sure. Then it hit the rudder fendering, got stuck there momentarily, just before the two boats rubbed together trapping the bag just inches from the swift running water. The spry deckhand from the other boat reached down and deftly retrieved our lost bag of candy from the icy grips of the harbor. Our candy was saved! As was a couple of bags of beans. But seriously, our candy was saved. Not this time Grub Gods! Tragedy averted, we continued transferring the grub.
You didn't think I would post a picture of beans now did you?

But the Grub Gods were not to be denied. Minutes later, as we were nearing the end of the project, a 12-pack of soda was being passed through the air. A gentle, sloping arch of a pass from one crew member to the next in line. Except this pass was too quick. The previous 12-pack of soda had not been passed on to the next crew member. A traffic jam of the grub kind. An attempt was made to catch the flying soda with one hand as the other soda was shifted to the other hand. It was all for naught. At least one 12-pack was going to be lost in this battle. Coke Zero sprayed everywhere! The case broke open, cans spilled out, and the thin aluminum had no chance against the hard steel deck. It was a fireworks show of carbonated water, caramel color, phosphoric acid, and other natural flavors. 
A "before it hit the deck" representation.

A sacrifice had been made. The Grub Gods were happy. 

It's a regular occurrence. A gallon of milk here, a carton of eggs there. More often than not the Grub Gods will get their fill. You just have to plan ahead for the inevitable. For starters, don't put all of the same item in one bag. If you lose one, at least you will have a backup bag with another. Especially the candy! 

And especially if you are using another boat to transfer the grub. Sometimes the candy disappears that way.

You can't blame the Grub Gods for that.

Saturday, October 1, 2016

Remembering El Faro

The last few nights, while the crew has been eating dinner, as is Standard Operating Procedure, the television has been tuned to the local news station.  There have been plenty of things to report on; a train crash in New Jersey, a man saved by a Chinese cargo ship after being in a liferaft for a week, and, of course, all the political banter one could ever hope for. But when the local weatherman has been cued up to start his report, it gets very quiet in the galley. 

There is a hurricane in the Caribbean. 
A big one. 

At one point it reached Category 5 status, the highest category issued by the National Hurricane Center. It’s currently taking aim at the islands of Jamaica and Cuba. After that, the forecast is somewhat uncertain. It may head for the East Coast of the United States, or it may head “safely out to sea”. No matter what course it will take, one thing is certain, Hurricane Matthew is not going to be a storm to trifle with. 
Current forecast track of Hurricane Matthew
Exactly one year ago today there was another hurricane spinning in the Caribbean. Hurricane Joaquin, with winds in excess of 130 mph was battering the islands of the Bahamas. It was also battering a 790-foot long US-flagged cargo ship, the El Faro. On board that cargo ship were 33 fellow mariners involved in a fight for their lives against the powerful storm. 
The El Faro
One of those 33 sailors onboard the El Faro was an Engineer named Jeff Mathias. Jeff was working as a contractor preparing the ship for some work that was going to be done in an upcoming shipyard period. As the eye of the storm approached perilously close to their location, the ship lost power. With no ability to maneuver, there is no doubt that every member of that engineering crew, Jeff included, was using every trick in the book to get the huge engineering power plant back online and running. Unfortunately, the storm proved to be too powerful. So powerful that when the El Faro was located 15,000 feet below the ocean’s surface, the top two decks of the ship’s superstructure, including the wheelhouse, were ripped off from the rest of the vessel and found a half-mile away from the rest of the wreckage. All 33 sailors were claimed by the hurricane and the sea.
The wreckage of the El Faro
The wheelhouse located 1/2 mile from the rest of the wreckage
Two weeks ago, at the Homecoming celebration at the Massachusetts Maritime Academy, they dedicated the Diesel Engineering Lab to Jeff Mathias. Two weeks ago was the celebration of my 20th year reunion of me graduating from the Massachusetts Maritime Academy. Had he not been on the El Faro, Jeff would have celebrated his 20th year reunion as well. Jeff was a classmate of mine at the Academy.

Over my career, I have lost numerous good friends to the sea. During that same span, many mariners, though not personal friends of mine but still ones with a shared kinship, have been taken by the unrelenting waters as well.
So when I hear a local television weather personality say that a powerful and dangerous hurricane or storm is going, “safely out to sea”, you can probably see why this simple, unassuming statement causes me such ire. 
It is a pet peeve of mine.
I think reasonably so.

Alas, I’ll keep one eye watching the television personalities recite their forecasts, and I’ll keep the other one on the skies. A hurricane spinning off the coast of Cuba may not be a concern for many, but for me and my fellow mariners, it could very well be a matter of life and death.

Thursday, December 17, 2015

Chance Encounters of the Tugboat Kind

I've mentioned before that my current locale of residence isn't really a hot bed of nautical knowledge. Sure I live next to a great big lake that provides for a multitude of summertime waterborne activities. But that fun and frolicking on a party barge doesn't really transfer into knowledge about the commercial maritime trades. The chances that you run into someone in my town who knows anything about the maritime industry, never mind the small world of tugboats, is pretty slim. Or so I thought. (insert scary theme music)

A few weeks ago my wife and I were doing our evening walk around our neighborhood. It's happens to be very good exercise for me for recovering from my second installment of back surgery. Plus, we get to check out any of the multitude of new houses being built in our development. That night we were headed into the wilds of "Phase Two". Being that our neighborhood is still under construction we have to be able to delineate the new arrivals in the development compared to the original settlers. A rumor had been swirling around that someone in Phase Two had also worked on tugboats. So on this particular evening we had made it our mission to try to narrow down what house this supposed tugboat person lived in. I was going on the premise that a mariner is required to have nautical things outside of their house. An anchor, red and green running lights, or at the very least, a replica of a lighthouse should adorn the yard. My wife was a little more practical. An older gentleman and his elderly wife would probably live in a one story ranch style home. More than likely correct. She’s smart like that. But I was on the search for nautical knick-knacks.
You call yourself a mariner but don't have one of these at the end of your driveway?
As we proceeded on our walk, one ranch style house seemed to stand out as the most likely of choices that an ex-mariner would reside. Unfortunately, no one seemed to be home at the time. Plus, it seemed kind of creepy to just walk up and knock on their door and ask if anyone there had ever worked on a tugboat. So we continued our walk around the development. On the way back home we once again were about to pass the suspected mariners house. Just as we did, a car came down the street and slowed just in front of our suspect’s driveway. The passenger side window rolled down and an elderly gentleman poked his head out. Then, with a markedly Scandinavian accent, the gentleman in the car asked if I worked on tugboats. Now granted I happened to be wearing one of the many t-shirts that I have made that said, "New York Tugboats" printed on the front. However, I don't think that mattered.

Tugboaters know tugboaters.

We can pick each other out in the grocery store, at the airport, or any other public venue. I'm fairly sure I could have been wearing a superhero shirt and he still would have been able to pick me out of a police line-up as a fellow tugboater. We proceeded to have a very nice conversation all about our current and former tug careers. This very nice gentleman worked for Moran Towing, the BIG tug company with the giant "M" on their stack, for many years. My current employer happens to be a very short stone’s throw away from Moran's tugboat yard. So close that one day I may have to take the short walk to their office to see if I can get some Moran tugboat swag to bring back for him. Tugboaters love swag. Promises were made to get together again sometime soon for coffee and the inevitable sea stories. And with that, we continued on our walk, armed with the knowledge that another merchant mariner, a tugboater at that lives not only in the area, but in our own development.

Small world. Smaller neighborhood.
A Moran Towing tractor tug

A few days later, another happenstance meeting absolutely blew my mind about how small of a world it is that we actually live in.

I had been looking to purchase a new handgun and was in the midst of doing my due diligence and research to find just the right one. I had compared prices, options, extras, etc. and was quite sure of which particular model I wanted to buy. But I wanted to physically inspect this particular one before I was ready to put my hard earned money into someone else’s pocket. The only way to do this was to take a leisurely stroll down to the local gun range in order to get my hands on the model I was interested in.
After speaking with the salesperson for a while, another gentleman happened to come over to where we were talking. Very politely he asked me, "Do you happen to work on tugboats?" Now normally I happen to be wearing one of the multitude of tugboat t-shirts that I make in my spare time. Such as was the case when I met the elderly gentleman in our neighborhood. However, this time, I wasn't. No tugboat shirt. No tugboat hat. Nothing with a logo. No nautical accoutrements whatsoever. Not a single distinguishing piece of apparel that would give me away as a merchant mariner. Somehow this gentleman was still able to pick me out of the proverbial police line-up of tugboaters. As we continued to talk, I slowly recognized the one single distinguishing feature that most tugboaters seem to recognize each other by as one of their own. His voice.

I have always said that whenever we go to a company meeting, I don't recognize anyone there. These are the guys that I've worked with together for years. Yet, the vast majority of them, I have never met. We are just voices on the radio. One wheelhouse guy talking to another wheelhouse guy over the VHF radio as you do the job from your respective boats. The joke I have always used, was that if I didn't recognize someone face to face, all they had to do was give a mock security call as they would over the radio. By their voice alone, I would usually be able to tell you exactly who they were, what boat they were on, and which crew they worked with. You recognize the voices, not the faces.

As it turns out, I should have recognized his face, not just his voice. The gentleman in question, in the gun store, in my newly adopted hometown, was indeed a fellow tugboatman. In fact, he and I both worked on the same boat, on the same crew, some 16 or 17 years before. He was the Chief Engineer and I was one of the deckhands. It had been a very long time since either one of us had seen each other. To say that I had gained a few pounds from the last time I had seen him would be a bigger stretch than if I were to try to fit into my pants from a decade and a half ago. A little bit more gray hair for both of us was also evident. But the one thing that remained the same. That one distinguishing factor for both of us, was the voice. I was stunned.
The tug in question upon which we both worked.
In a small gun shop, in a town far removed from where we had both previously lived, a decade and a half of time in between, a voice from the past was all it took. I'm still absolutely amazed that he recognized me. Unfortunately, our chance meeting was cut short by other pressing responsibilities. Kids like to get picked up when school gets out. However, I know it’s only a matter of time before we cross paths again. Two tugboaters who escaped living in the northeast that now live in the same town in the south who like shooting guns. Yeah, we might have a bit in common. I don’t think it’s too much of a stretch to foresee yet another meeting for coffee and sea stories.

Maybe the tide is beginning to turn (obligatory nautical reference). Now when I meet a new person who says they have never met someone who works on a tugboat, I’m beginning to think these people don’t get out enough. I met two of them in two weeks. In my own town. Meeting one of them didn’t even require me to leave my own neighborhood. It’s a big, brave new world. Get out and explore it! Or maybe it’s just that the older I get, the smaller the world seems to become.

Then again, tugboaters know tugboaters.