Sunday, December 27, 2015
We lazed the morning away trying to forget the atrocities of last night and find a way to unsee the things we saw. Or in my case, blog about them for posterity. Around noon we hopped in our transfer to the marina to check in to our boat. Upon our arrival we were directed to where to put our shit, given wrist bands and some info about the check-in process. A lot has changed since a my last yacht week four years ago where no one knew what the fuck was going on and they just told you to get drunk and stop asking questions. Yet in true yacht week fashion, we soon got drunk and stopped asking questions. Now the way it works is you check-in and then have about 5 hours to lay around, do your food shopping and wait for you boat to be ready. So we settled in to the little cafe at the marina with a few towers of Chang beer.
An that is where I saw him. The Yacht Week man of my dreams. The future father of my unborn and unwanted children. The hottest man I have ever seen in my life. Yes, my old neighbor who I had originally given that title has finally been dethroned. This guy was a cross between David Beckam and that smoking hot soccer player who is Shakira’s baby daddy. But taller. Yes I’m serious. I couldn’t dream this guy up even if I went all inception on you. But more on him later tonight….
We met our skipper, Neil, who will henceforth be known as The Legend. In order for you guys to appreciate my love for Neil, I have to first explain to you my previous yacht week skipper experiences. I can sum it pretty easily: they were useless ass-clowns. Year one I had “Zoran the Moran” who was completely retarded and would drink himself blind every night then pass out face down on our boat in his undies. In the morning, we would watch all the other boats sail away while were were still trying to rouse our good-for-nothing skipper by beating the shit out of him. Year two we had Kevin. Oh, Kevin. Just when I thought it couldn’t get worse that Zoran, I get stuck with some over-the-hill self proclaimed player who fucks anything that moves…and then fights with his girlfriend who was on another boat when she heard about his philandering ways. You could contract herpes just from looking at him sideways. He also told me I was a bitch. As if it was the first time I’ve heard that. I am aware I’m a bitch. I just wish he was aware he was piece of shit. But third try is a charm. Neil actually knows how to drive a boat, which helps. He even went to the day 1 skipper meeting. I almost cried when he went, because I’ve never actually had a skipper attend the mandatory skipper meeting. Oh, and he ain’t too bad to look at either. Hands off ladies, he has a girlfriend. That’s fine, because I have bigger fish to fry…in the form of my mystery man from the cafe. Also, it’s never a good idea to shit where you eat. Do you want to wake up next to someone and then have to look at him all day while he drives your boat? The name of the game is keeping your options open. This is yacht week, not a match.com mixer. Thats amateur hour.
Shopping time. Yacht week day 1 shopping is not for the faint of heart. It is going into battle in a Thai Costco. So I chose my army wisely. Brandon, for his level-headedness and the heavy lifting, and Carly…mainly just to entertain me while I stressed out about how much vodka to buy. And so off we went in a taxi to rape and pillage the Thai Tesco Lotus. It looked like a scene out of Braveheart. Come to think of it, a machete would have come in handy. It was a sweaty mess. A cluster fuck of language barrier hell. Shopping is bad enough on it’s own, but then add to that trying to buy enough shit for 8 drunkards for a week on a boat while trying to read Thai labels. My favorite item was the canned tuna in mayonnaise. Disgusting, yet efficient. After 27,000 baht and having my spirit run over by the Tesco truck, we made it back to the boat. And it was time to get drunk.
The plan was to hop in a van cab and head over to a beach club for dinner and drinking the night away. So naturally, we polished off two bottles of vodka before we left. While we were pre-partying, I noticed a beautiful shirtless man toweling off on the boat behind us. My jaw dropped. There may have been some drool. It was him. We shall call him Adonis. Because that man’s body has definitely been chiseled by the gods. I immediately knew my mission for the night. Hey, a gal has to have goals. What exactly is my goal, you ask? To make out with him on a sweaty dance floor? Please, give me a little more credit than that. My goal is to find a way to procure and preserve his semen for future procreation. Forgive my bluntness. But our babies would be so fucking hot. Hot and tan. And if I have to care for a screaming child, he or she better at least be nice to look at. It would also save me a lot of time in life if I don’t have to re-apply sunscreen to pasty little white children at the beach all day. Mission: Adonis. It’s actually more a Mission: Impossible, but I think it’s better to go into this one with unrealistic expectations and misguided self esteem. Let’s go to work.
There was a queue for the cabs. Sounds like a problem for basic bitches. Loud and obnoxious we may be, but basic we are not. So Legend Skipper to the rescue. He straight bitched slapped all the other boats of people when he swiftly jumped the line and piled us all in the cab. The other boats looked on in confusion and we drove away faster than you can say “later losers!”. I know it’s beating a dead horse at this point, but I still feel the need to reiterate that I am in skipper heaven. We arrived at the beach club, ordered a bottle of vodka and some forgettable food, and then we got to work. Adonis walked in, and I immediately sent The Legend (our skipper, keep up) to put in a good word for me. As if this guy couldn’t get more useful, I had Adonis literally at my table talking to me in about ten minutes. Perhaps I should change The Legend’s name to My Pimp Daddy, because he led that poor Adonis over to me like a pig to slaughter. And this is where my dreams were crushed. Not because he didn’t like me (although he probably didn’t), or wasn’t as hot as I thought (he was). But because he opened his mouth. Why? Why god why do the pretty ones ever open their mouths? If you are a ten, shut the fuck up and smile. That is literally your only job. Trust me, I can do enough talking for the both of us. When we asked him what he did for a living he went into a long story that I didn’t really hear because I was too busy watching him talk. I gather that it’s basically marketing. But he claims that he “creates experiences”. I almost said something like “I have an idea of an experience we can create tonight”, but I refrained because that’s just low hanging fruit. I’m still considering the sperm hunt though, because I can beat a personality into my kids eventually. What I can’t do is give them that perfectly chiseled jaw line. It’s all about compromises, people.
So the rest of the night ensued as you would imagine. Getting drunk, meeting people, talking too much. I met a super hot Aussie, but he lost interest quickly. Don’t worry, I have a week. And soon I’ll loose my voice and be unable to talk, which makes me far more attractive. Oh, there was a frat boy UCLA there who remembered me. Shocker, I know. If I had a nickel for every frat boy that remembers my crazy drunk ass, I could buy this rented boat and sail around the world for the rest of my days. We headed home in a cab and passed out on our boat. I didn’t pillage the kitchen, so we’ll call this one a win.
I don’t have any pictures from today. Come to think of it, you probably won’t be getting a ton of pictures from yacht week in general. There are a few reasons for this. (1) I have to get off the boat to get wifi and I’m lazy, (2) we are generally having way to much fun to be bothered with pictures, and (3) we don’t want much photographic evidence. That’s fine with me, because bathing suit pictures aren’t exactly my strong suit. Bikini selfies are for bitches who work out and eat salads. I watch the Kardashians and eat taco bell.