(c) 2009 - LKD
Owing to living in a country with a good bit of coastline, a large portion of the employment opportunities are water based ones. One such gig, made through the friend of a friend, might come my way (nobody turns down the opportunity of 12 months of pay for 6 months of work). The caveat is taking some of the prerequisite classes necessary to work on an ocean going vessel.
One is your standard safety class. AKA, 'You've been dumped in the North Atlantic...just how fucked are you?' They stick you in a wet suit, flip you round and round a bit and dump you in the water to see if you can save yourself. Having been a pretty damn strong swimmer under myriad of conditions in all different kinds of water, I'm not too worried about that. The only close call that tested my swimming mettle was gaining consciousness, under water, in the family pool, after huffing gasoline in my Dad's garden shed and promptly blacking out as my brain cells expired in a lemming-like mass exodus over a cliff. (Remind me not to talk about that one in class)
The other class, however, is called Passenger Safety. The essentials of evacuating a boat full of people.
The concept got me to thinking of how I've handled previous emergencies in my life and what my sick imagination conceives in the event of a sea going calamity.
In the past, my reactions have been all over the map:
Can command the attention of emergency services and others in cases of fire or flood with a voice akin to an oxen experiencing the twisting of the testicles. Lacking in sentence structure and enunciation, but urgent nonetheless.
The calm and focused Formula One driver getting myself or other occupants to the aid they needed. Downtown Atlanta, 150 mph. No problem.
The crazed lunatic who fires weapons erratically or throws things like a cross-eyed girl to thwart danger at a distance.
The erector set whose central nervous system thinks simultaneously that right and left are good ideas.
The sprinter who can launch herself over fences, walls, and other obstructions because the adrenaline allows it and doesn't realize that all manners of cuts and broken bones acquired while getting over those obstructions eventually lead to blood loss and howls of pain. Minus the adrenaline, only then conceives that such extreme measures are not all that proportionate to, say, for example, a police officer merely asking for a name and address.
The application of these impulses to being stuck on a ship, leaves a number of possibilities.
The boat is full, the alarm is sounded:
I'm seen running naked down the deck, waving arms and screaming 'I'll lighten the load!'. And only after launching myself over the railing realize the boat had just run out of gas.
Calmly going from person to person asking for a violin in order to give a proper send off.
Deciding that clipping my toenails in the thin rubber life boat is a grooming imperative, just to see how everyone reacts to the rushing sound of air and me saying, 'Oops.'
With bullhorn in hand, deciding my own evacuation priorities. 'Hot guys first! Women and children in the back of the line!'
Convinced of my superior concepts of physics and water displacement, push aside the qualified personnel in order to Captain the ship via the 'we can outrun the water rushing into the hull' method.
Carefully studying a map, while others pray for rescue, and announcing, 'Gee, the Bermuda Triangle is quite a bit off course.'
Maybe this is why they require training in the first place.
I'll let you know how it goes. Or you'll read about it in the paper.
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