The Poop Deck

Do you trust me?

This simple, harmless little phrase seemed to haunt me - or rather, entertain me - throughout our recent vacation to the British Virgin Islands. Planned over a year ago with two of our favorite "couple" friends, this was going to be the trip of a lifetime - and it was.  Of course I was not thrilled that it was going to take a total of eight flights, to and fro, to successfully tackle this grand adventure - but what's a girl to do? I put on my big girl panties, loaded up on Xanax and other mild sedatives, and boarded the first flight.

Yakima to Seattle - CHECK!
Seattle to North Carolina - GREAT!
North Carolina to Puerto Rico - NO PROB!
Puerto Rico to Tortola - HOUSTON...WE HAVE A PROBLEM!

After traveling a total of 14 hours on three other flights we finally arrived in Puerto Rico. Here we would board our last flight into Tortola. Always trying to save a buck, I opted to book our final flight through a much cheaper airline - Cape Air. Never heard of it? I can't imagine why not.

As we waited to board, I was acutely aware that I would be flying this one cold turkey. My cocktail had worn off hours earlier and I was much too tired to care. Unable to locate an actual gate for this Cape Air flight, we were finally directed to a tiny flight of stairs (no, not an escalator or an elevator) that led to the basement. I was overcome by visions of falling victim to some strange Puerto Rican body cavity search in the bowels of the airport by some rubber-gloved, pudgy fingered Rosie Perez character. Instead of asking me to raise my arms and spread my legs, there was an airport employee behind a desk asking for my ticket and weight.

Her: Miss Alvarado, how much do you weigh? (Insert thick, Puerto Rican accent)

Me: You mean you want to weigh my bags?

Her: No, I need to know how much you weigh.

Me: Why? Am I at Weight Watchers? Is this not a rude question in Puerto Rico?

Her: The plane has strict weight restrictions. We also use the information to seat you next to the most appropriate person to help keep the plane balanced.

Holy Jesus. This has got to be a cruel joke. So, as with every other situation where I've been asked my weight in front of my husband - like at the hospital just prior to having a C-Section - I scrolled the number down on a piece of paper, placed it face down and slowly slid it across the counter. She picked up the piece of paper, smiled and said, "Ok. You may step outside and board the plane."

What plane? I didn't see a plane? That's probably because it wasn't a plane. It was a 9 passenger Cessna that looked like it had seen better days - these days being in 1939 when the first Cessna was commercially available. Even worse was the fact that I obviously weighed as much as the pilot and learned upon boarding that I would have to occupy the co-pilot seat - complete with my own steering wheel. Jay, our prepubescent pilot, informed me that he was born sometime in the 80s and had yet to fly in rain. I found this to be a real bummer since it was raining while he told me this.

Do you trust me? He asked.

Hell no! Are you kidding me? I wouldn't even trust you to babysit.

After realizing that this was not a joke, and I was, in fact sitting in the co-pilot's seat for the next 40 minutes, I squeezed my big ass next to Jay and tried very hard not to hit any of the buttons or levers with knees. I resisted the urge to make sense of the blinking lights, loud noises, and the piece of paper that was taped to the dash board outlining what the pilot should do in the event that the engines should fail. Quite comforting. I also found it a little disheartening that he actually had to refer to the laminated checklist several times during take-off and landing. But then again, he was in his very early 20s and this was probably one of his very first flights. A shred hopeful was the fact that I could probably rule out the pilot having clogged arteries, dying of a heart attack, or being under the influence of alcohol - he was simply too young for any kind of medical emergency - and too young to drink.

After a gruelling 42 minute flight, we safely landed in Tortola. Larry and I were the first ones to get there and waited nearly three hours for the others to arrive. Luckily, the airport had this great outdoor cafe that sold cold beer and fresh chicken. We soon learned that "fresh" chicken was pretty easy to come by since about 20 live ones roamed around our feet while we ate. We also got the first taste of Red Stripe beer - the Caribbeans local favorite. Little did we know we would soon be sustaining almost entirely on this beer for the next 7 days.

Every morning there after one of us would say, "Hmmm...What sounds good for breakfast? Anyone up for a Lucky Stripe?" And then around 10 a.m. someone would ask, "Hey, anyone need another Lucky Stripe?" At lunch there was the nice addition of, "Here's a hot dog...and a cold Lucky Stripe!" And so on and so forth, until dinner when we would make a sudden and more refined switch to Rum and tonic with fresh squeezed grapefruit. Somehow this just seemed classier.

We spent our days aboard the 3 bedroom, 2 bathroom chartered Catamaran - leisurely sailing from one island to another. Larry and I eagerly volunteered to occupy the teeny, tiny stateroom that consisted of a triangular single mattress directly nestled against three walls with one porthole that opened about 3 inches wide - just enough to let in blood sucking mosquitoes. Never mind that Larry's feet touched one end of the room while his head touched another, the fact that we could not successfully achieve any kind of airflow in this shoebox would prove to be painful after 7 days. And, because Larry's body soaked up the sun like that of a black man, his body radiated a heat so intense that it caused condensation on the one small window we had. On a happier note, the contrast between Larry's dark Caribbean skin and ultra white teeth made it unnecessary to use our overhead nightlight for reading.

Paula and Eric took the next smallest room which left Linda and Bob with the larger suite and adjoining bathroom with walk-in shower. And seeing how Bob was, in fact "Captain Bob" - and Larry's boss - it was well deserving. I had never actually been sailing before, but I did know that I wanted my Captain to be well rested and freshly shampooed while he manipulated our sails and manned the depth finder to avoid protruding coral. And they were more than gracious with the space they were allotted, eagerly allowing the rest of us sweaty, salty pigs to wash our bodies in their shower and use their soap. I'm not sure they knew exactly how dirty we all were.

Linda's graciousness even extended to teaching me her "method" of pooping on board. I have to admit I was a little horrified about taking my first poop on the boat. It was intimidating to say the least. It's not like you just hunker down, do your business, wipe, flush and be on your merry way. There were all these rules and gadgets that had to be mastered. In fact, we were all given "the poop talk" upon getting on this glorious vessel.

Linda explained...

1. First, make sure nobody is swimming next to the boat. (Apparently your "evacuations" get evacuated right then and there).

2. Turn this gray lever to the right to make sure you bring in fresh water into the bowl.

3. Do your business, and wipe, but DO NOT put the toilet paper in the toilet...put it in this tiny little garbage can that is conveniently located behind you. (Ok. This is gross. I have to put my poopy toilet paper with other people's poopy toilet paper and let it just sit there and fester?)

4. Then turn the gray lever to the left and pump this handle about 20 times. When it finally disappears completely, turn the gray lever back, pump fresh water back in the bowl, and wha-la! You're done! It just takes four easy steps!

These instructions pretty much prevented me from pooping for the next 3 days. I'm not sure why poop seems to disappear when you are on vacation, or camping, but truly, this phenomenon can't last forever. Sooner or later your bowels are going to have a mind of their own and demand to be emptied. Unfortunately for me, this feeling came swiftly one day after morning coffee just about three days into our trip.

Linda, having had experience with this before, recognized the look of distress on my face. Apparently the grimace was completely transparent. She cozied up next to me and said, "You have to poop, don't you?" Wow, is it that obvious?

"I do, but I'm scared, and I'm pretty sure I can hold it until we tie up somewhere later today."


"You can't wait four hours! I'm going to show you a trick."


Ok. Here it comes...wait for it...wait for it...

"Do You Trust Me," she asked?

Good God. This is the Boss's wife for crying out loud. There is only one "right" answer to this question and I did have to go. It had been three painful days and I was literally crowning.

Linda led me into her much larger bathroom. She had two plastic shopping bags in her hand and double bagged them like she was getting ready to carry a heavy 2 gallon container of milk and about 6 canned goods home from the supermarket, and lined the toilet bowl like a pro. She flipped down the toilet seat and calmly said, "Poop in the bag. When you are done, double knot it, bring it to me and I'll place it in the big, black garbage bag." This was the garbage bag that the entire group of 6 used for "actual" trash and was tied to the back of the boat and flickered in the wind behind us as we sailed ALL DAY LONG.

Frickin' Fantastic!

Now I can't speak for anyone else, but when I have to poop, I also have to pee. There is no separating these two extremely private activities. So, under Linda's command - and I say "command" because she stood post outside the bathroom door like a militant vigilante and kept asking me if I was done yet - I did my business. Number one and two - in that order.

With my head hung low, and my tail between my legs, I emerged with my double knotted shopping bags filled with my "business" and handed it over to Linda. As promised, she carried this precious cargo to the big, black group garbage bag, deposited it gently inside, and retied it to the boat rail. For the next 4.5 hours this bag flew proud like the American Flag blowing in the wind at a baseball game, behind the six of us as we ate and drank our way to the next island. This was beyond  humbling and mortifying - it was down right disgraceful. And although I was thankful that she "taught me" her trick, I vowed to never, ever tell Linda when I had to poop again. Pooping is "private" and should never be uttered with the words "Do you trust me?" from any other human living on earth - or sailing in the Caribbean.