The Boat

So we make our way down the coast and finally pull up to the boat. Only we weren’t allowed to get out until the Customs Agent said it was OK. This is where I should have realized that Mexico doesn’t care who enters the country, but they really care who leaves. Anyway, since we were on the bus for an hour or so looking at our boat, I’ll describe it. Boats are described in a way that makes them sound big until you see them. A 110’ boat sounds like a battleship, but when you see it, you think, “Ummmmmm, that boats going to rock a lot.” The MV Islander is a fairly Spartan looking boat. No sleek lines, no cool tinted windows and no helipad. It’s a work vessel, and it’s our home for the next five days. The shark cages, there are two of them, are in the back of the boat, with the galley (or vomit reload center) on the main deck, and living quarters below, with the crews cabin and Bridge on the third level.

Once we get the OK, we depart the bus, embark the MV Islander and begin our inspection. We start with the living quarters. There’s AC, but it’s plugged into the only plug, so in order to use anything else, you have to unplug it first. But there are four bunks, and the emergency exit is in our room. I like being right next to the emergency exit, it’s like a teddy bear for adults. The view you ask? None. No windows not even a porthole. What was Luke alluding to when he said it was where he’d want to be? I just assumed it was because it had the coolest view. Guess not. It’s right below the galley, which makes it noisy. But we settle in, which means unzip our duffle and lay on the beds. Only Sander is so excited that he wants to take a tour of the boat.

So we head up the stairs and walk around the boat. Where we find our next security blanket. The inflatable lifeboats “they inflate the second they hit the water,” says Luke (which makes me wonder what happens when it rains) are Elliot brand boats (spelled wrong, but I figure it gives us “dibs” if there’s a need to fill them with people. You know if something happens in Great White Shark infested waters…). This is where I figure the family lineage splits between the One T and Two T Elliott’s. Apparently that extra T was lost as sea by the seafaring Elliot’s. Because the when it comes to the ocean, the Two T Elliott’s wouldn’t focus so much on the life raft, as inventing a better sea-sick bag.

As we round the stern, we come across the cages. I give them a hefty look over with my discerning eye, rattle the cage a little and feel exactly like I feel when I’m at a car lot and the salesman says, “So, want to look under the hood?” “Sure,” I say, and then proceed to stare at the engine, thinking, “Yup, that’s an engine all right,” but mostly do my best impression of an impressed nod while looking for something obvious to comment on. Like if it says, “Cast Aluminum block” I’ll say, “Wow, a cast aluminum block, sweet” and then try to get away from the engine as fast as I can. Same with the cages. The only way I’d be able to comment on the structural integrity of the cage is if it had bubblegum holding the bars to the frame, and even then, I’d probably say something dumb like, “Hey, is that Hubba Bubba bubblegum holding the bars to the frame? Well, that’s a pretty strong gum, sweet.” But I do notice that on top of the frame there’s a big yellow sign that says, “Swimming with sharks is not advised. Remain in your cage at all times.” Then it hits me, why are all warning signs so polite? I mean, my mother raised me and I’ve made it to the ripe old age of 38 and she was never, ever that polite when it came to my safety. If she wrote the sign for the cage it would say something like, “If I catch you swimming outside this cage, I will beat you into chum for the next divers. You may as well live out there with the sharks because I WILL make you cry in front of all the other divers. Do you hear me?” And, lo, I would not swim outside the cage. But “Swimming with sharks is not ‘advised.’” “Advised?” Who listens to advice? You can “advise” me not to stay out late on Sunday night because I have to go to work the next day, but if I do, no ones going to eat me. You can “advise” my buddy Erik not to bet against me in anything, but when he does, I don’t go into a feeding frenzy and devour him (just his money). I just think all these warning signs sound like the mom with the spoiled child at the supermarket. “Johnny, Mommy would like it if you didn’t throw grapes at the other shoppers.” Maybe Johnny needs my Mom to say, “JOHN! If you don’t put that GRAPE down this second you WILL regret it. Do you UNDERSTAND me?” and then grab his arm so hard it makes his eyes water. Just notice this next time you read any kind of warning label, they don’t really sound like warnings.

Finally, we’ve done the tour (there’s only so much you can tour on a fishing boat) and we’re looking around the dock area and I notice the Ensenada port sign. For whatever reason, Ensenada is the land where whales swim under mushroom clouds. I can’t read Spanish, so I’m assuming the sign says, “In the event of global thermal nuclear war, please find a friendly whale who will take you to safety beneath the ocean’s surface.”

Anyway, the boat is declared ship-shape and its time to depart. We settle into the galley for our briefing and again my ears perk up on the talk of the sea voyage. Luke says there’s a storm coming, but that it shouldn’t hit until we’re there, and in any case, the trip over shouldn’t be “that bad.” Now, anytime anyone, ever, says something won’t be “that bad” its going to be bad. For example, if your doctor says, “X thing I’m doing to you won’t hurt ‘that bad,’” brace yourself. It’s the ramification of over accustomization. The more you do something, or see it done, the easier you think it is. A world-class gymnast says, “Just do a double reverse pike with a Sukahara twist,” I hear, “Don’t try this, you’re going to break your neck.” When an experienced seaman says a trip “may be a little bumpy, but it won’t be that bad.” The room envisions a glass like surface with a couple of little bumps (wheeeeee!), when in reality it’s going to be like the final voyage of the Andrea Gail. It’s just the way things are, especially when you’re traveling and talking to locals. So I start planning our night, make sure our magic ear stickies are stuck, and try to feed Sander as soon as possible before the rockin’ starts knockin’.

So we eat dinner and retire to our cave. Then we break free from the bay and the waves start coming in, well, waves. And this tiny ship was tossed. And we are getting tossed in the bow, and cookies are on the verge of getting tossed. Sander is the color of pea soup, which isn’t helping my personal situation any one bit. It’s time for drastic action. I track down Luke and ask if there’s another bunk at the back. He says there should be, he’ll check. So in the meantime, I take Sander above deck to the mommy arms section. We’re sitting there and the boy’s really starting to feel it. I mean, he’s REALLY feeling it. See, the magic stickies work, but in a weird way. I’m not sure what’s really going on, but I’ll tell you how it seems. My guess is that for some reason the “throw-up, NOW” pathway from stomach to brain runs behind both ears. Because with the stickies you feel the ocean move, you feel like you should be sick, like you could nauseous but your not. It’s like your stomach is franticly sending out, “Throw up NOW! NOW YOU FOOL!” but the stickie is blocking the message like a school traffic officer. So you’re stomach feels sick but your brain doesn’t. It’s a strange feeling, but thankfully, not as strange as throwing up for five straight days. So we’re sitting at the stern, and Sander says, “Dad, I really want to go to our room.” So I find Luke again, and he’s found us a room. It’s the one the researcher is using, and he’s a very nice man who agrees to move. So we stagger over to our new quarters and find a bunk with three beds (I take the top one, Sander the middle) and a sink. It looks like the prison cell from Shawshank Redemption. Now, I’m by no means a giant of a man but my toes can touch the ceiling and our duffel takes up all the room on the floor. Oh, and once again, no windows. They must think because we’re small we’re gnomes or something. Exactly two cabins on the whole boat lack windows, and we (and I suppose the researcher) have now bunked in both of them. Oh well.

So we settle into bed, thankful for the stickies, eat some peanut M&M’s and go to sleep tired, sick and genuinely excited about the next morning.

Next up…Sharks! Duh.

Shark Dive Day Dos

Day Two starts promptly at 4.30 A.M. HOORAY!!! Here’s how my morning went down.

Sander didn’t go to sleep until 11.30 P.M. because he was all hopped up on Shark Dive anticipation (if I ever create an energy drink to compete with Red Bull, or Quintouple Espresso coffee, I’m going to call it “Sander Shark Dive Anticipation” because nothing’s as amped up as an eight-year old like thinking about going shark diving), but oddly at 4.30 in the morning, all that anticipation was smothered in “Daddy, I just want to sleeeeeeeeeep” anti-anticipation. So my morning was comprised of stumbling around trying to pack up all our stuff, worried that the breakfast place was closed so Sander wouldn’t have anything to eat before our three hour bus ride to Ensenada, Mexico (did I forget to mention that our journey to the high seas begins with a three hour bus ride, maybe I forgot to mention it when I forgot to mention that the seats on said bus reclined a luxurious 0˚, good times), deciding to skip the shower (that’s why I always bring my trusty hat), and putting on our magic ear tabs. A quick note about the magic ear tabs (the seasick prevention stickies you put behind your ear), one of the cool side effects is blurry vision. The neat thing here is that I don’t see so good sans magic ear patches, and even the slightest notion that something may affect my vision is more than enough to get a negative placebo affect going. So I put on my patch and spent the next seven hours thinking, “Is my vision blurry because I can’t see well anyway, or is the magic ear patch giving me the business?” So I know that you at home are thinking, “If you can’t tell either way why does it matter?”Well, if I can’t see because of the magic ear patches then I can blame them. If I can’t see because I can’t see, I have no remedy. The good news is that at some point I’ll forget about the whole thing and revert back to my daily, “Hey, everything’s blurry routine.” It’s one of the perc’s of not being overly bright. Anyway, we’re packed and tabbed up, and stumble out to the bus.

As we near the bus, Sander’s want of sleep is crushed under the power of what’s going on. Sander Shark Dive Anticipation won the battle for Sander’s energy and never looks back. I meant he’s running now and talking 100 miles a minute, and I’m loving it. There’s nothing on this earth like the excitement of a child, especially when its your child, and especially especially when its something your doing together. As we head for the bus, he’s saying things like, “sowhere’sthebusdoyouthinkitsherewhatifitsnothowfartotheboatwillweseelotsofsharksilikesharksisthatthebusthebusisthatit.” So we head for the pick-up spot and there’s exactly one very large bus out front. One. But apparently Smart Brain was still fast asleep, and Dumb Brain in a moment of triumph said, “Ho, ho, now while that infernal Smart Brain is resting in his smug slumber, I will strike!” So I walk up the bus and say to the first man I see, “Shark dive?” And the nice man (who later turns out to be the chef) says, “Yes.” So I’m getting ready to load the bags below the bus, when, mid swing, the driver comes out and says, “Enistasa?” Now Dumb Brain goes into battle mode, and “Whoa,” thinks I, that doesn’t sound like “Shark dive.” So I say, “Shark dive?” “Enistasa?” “No, Shark Dive.” “Enistasa.” Now, we’re doing our best Abbott and Costello routine and I’m just looking at him and he’s looking at me. I know he’s not saying “Shark Dive” or “yes,” and I’m thinking, “No way am I getting on this bus, unless I’m sure its for the shark dive,” but really, what else can this bus be here for? The guy is clearly Mexican and has a thick Mexican accent, but that’s not dawning on me while dumb brain has the helm. Now, the chef and some other folks are staring at me smiling, and I’m thinking, “Why are these guys staring at me?” and I start thinking, “Maybe they didn’t understand me.” Or, “What if they don’t know what’s going on?” And, “Why are they staring at me, and what in the world is this guy saying to me? What does ‘Enistasa’ even mean?” And for some reason, I start to get testy. “Is this the SHARK DIVE?” “Enistasa.” “Look, I’m not getting on the bus unless this is the shark dive.” You have to understand the stupidity of this conversation, It’s 5.00 A.M, I was told to meet a bus out front of this specific hotel, there’s exactly one vehicle in eyesight, and it’s a very large bus. It’s not like I walked out of Waldorff Astoria and was told to get a very specific yellow cab at 5.00 P.M. This IS the bus. About now, Smart Brain wakes up, rubs his eyes, figures out what’s going on and sighs, “Its OK boys, I’ll figure it out.” “Excuse me,” says my voice to a newly arrived nice man “Is this bus part of the Shark Diver shark dive?” “Yup.” And just then the driver, makes another move for my bag and says “Enistasa?” “THERE!” yells Dumb Brain, “What do you make of THAT smarty pants brain?” Smart brain sighs again, “Enistasa, friend, is Ensenada.” “Oooooooh,” says dumb brain, “I think I’ll have a muffin.”

The newly arrived nice man is our guide, an Australian named Luke (Mexico, an Australian, and Great White Sharks. All we need now is to be chased by an inept sheriff for a crime we didn’t commit and we’d have the next summer blockbuster), and settle into our bus seats for the long ride to Ensenada. Sander dives into his nutritious breakfast of chocolate milk and I start wondering how great an idea it is to leave the USA for a Shark Dive in Mexican waters. But these guys are pro’s, I tell myself, this is what they do. Then Luke sidles up and says, “I think we may have a problem.” And discloses that Sander, while a strapping young man, is not anything close to the 5’3” that he’s listed on their chart, and thus they don’t have the right sized wetsuit. I look at the chart and it says, “Sander Elliott, Age 8, Height 5’3” weight, 50lbs.” And here I get worried. Forget that the same chart list’s me as “5’7”,” meaning that they think I only have 4” on my eight-year old, but how many 5’3” eight-year olds are there that you haven’t seen doing guest spots on David Letterman? More importantly, how many 5’3” people weigh only 50 pounds? You’ve definitely seen that kid on Letterman right? I mean, who looked over the sheet? And please, please tell me it’s not the same person in charge of safety checks. Anyway, we settle on the idea that whoever took down the information wrote down what I said in inches, 53, as 5’3”. Great. We’ve just discovered that the horses are out of the barn because someone left the door open. Then Luke says, “Do you think he could fit into that wetsuit?” Looooooong pause here. Is my professional guide really asking if my 4’4” 50 pound child can fit into a wetsuit made for someone 5’3”? As I’m sitting there staring at the man, we have some kind of psychic moment and he says, “Probably not.” Another looooooong pause. I’m thinking that there are dive shops in Mexico that have an appropriately sized wetsuit. “I’ll get another wetsuit from a local dive shop brought to the boat.” “Good idea,” says I. It was like I used the Jedi Mind Trick on him. It felt awesome! I wanted to grab a lightsaber and take on Vader or something. Sander, by the way, has picked up on the whole conversation and is internally freaking out that his trip may not happen, but hiding it extremely well. “What’s he talking about,” he says in his best steady voice. “They don’t have a wetsuit for you,” says Jedi Dad. “But we gave him my measurements.” “Yup.” “What happened, can I still go without one?” “No buddy, its way to cold, but they’re going to get one that fits you, don’t worry.” Here, I’m doing that “hope/lying” dance that every parent knows. In my mind, there’s no way he’s going without a wetsuit, but I also know that we’re not going down without a fight. About 10 minutes later, our guide comes up and says he’s got it all worked out. My Jedi Powers are growing strong.

Now we hit the border. It takes exactly 16 seconds to enter Mexico. No one checks our bags, looks at our passports or asks us any questions. A uniformed guy sitting on a chair looks at the bus. I guess he’s comfortable that it is, indeed, a bus, and he waves us through.

Next it’s time for cabin assignments. Luke recommends the forward bunks for Sander and I. Say’s its where he’d like to be if he were eight, and it’s the biggest room. For you non-boater types, the front, or “bow” or “vomit maker” is the bumpiest part of the boat, and the back of the boat, or “stern” or “mommy arms” is the most stable part. So, being that in some long ago era I must have broken the heart of some impressionable sea nymph who now wreaks her vengeance on my stomach every time I dare set sail on the ocean I’m faced with a conundrum. I want to rest in the mommy arms section of the boat, but the front is larger, and has a better view (allegedly). Furthermore, our guide is looking at me like not only would I be the world’s largest sissy if I didn’t take the front, I’d also be a terrible daddy for denying Sander this wonderful opportunity. So I, being both a father and a guy, nod “Yes” in such a way that any other answer would obviously be patently ridiculous. Hooray for boats!

As we go through Tijuana, I’m struck by how poor it is. I don’t really know what I was expecting as I’ve never been to Mexico, but this town is poor. Admittedly my entire body of knowledge regarding Tijuana comes from an 80’s movie called “Losin’ it” starring Tom Cruise, Cougar from “Top Gun” and the little angry guy form “Breaking Away” (yes, yes, how can any movie starring Tom Cruise refer to any other character as “the little guy?”). See, back when cable had the rights to, like, six movies, they ran them in constant rotation as I laid on the couch and watched them until they burned themselves into my brain. The upshot is that 20 years later, I’m able to draw on them to guide me in my real life. But even I assumed that Tijuana changed since Tom and the gang showed up in 1983, but it hadn’t. I know this sounds ignorant, but I always assumed that Mexico was poor, but just by being a neighbor of the US; it had to be OK, especially at the border. Nope. We drove through parts of town that were barely better than the poorer parts of Belize, except there was infrastructure, lawyer billboards, and electricity. But there were many houses without windows, stuff piled up everywhere, and a general state of disrepair. Also, it’s striking and obvious, but it’s especially odd to see the border fence from the Mexico side. Its kind of interesting to look at, its essentially a series of long concrete poles driven into the ground, with enough space to see through, in fact its almost invisible when your driving, but to small to fit through. I got confused and turned around, so it took me a while to figure out what I was looking at, but when I did, it just hit me in some odd way. This line is all that separates the impoverished citizens of Tijuana from the US. I know the lines not arbitrary as people fought and died for every inch of our border, but if that line were 10 miles to the south, Tijuana would be an entirely different place. I mean, entirely. It must be hard to be on the Mexico side and look through those gaps. Or maybe not, what do I know?

The rest of the drive to Ensenada was quiet and odd. It’s a coastal drive with lots of abandoned looking high-rises promising vacation resort experiences that I couldn’t imagine ever happening. There were not gradients. No easing into poverty or luxury. Here there were huge, expensive high-rises right next to dilapidated restaurants with no windows and grocery stores with no AC. Also, there was a FOX lot where Pirates of the Caribbean and other movies where filmed. I spent the rest of the time wondering where Johnny Depp stayed when he was in town. Driving said Fox lot, in the Middle of Nowhere, Mexico, you could see the Black Pearl and an F-16. Only in Americ-ummm, Mexico, I guess.

Next, the boat…

Sharks! Day Uno.

So the big day arrives for my and Sander’s biggest adventure yet. We’re going to go cage diving with Great White Sharks (or the latin, Sharkus Gigantus). Not only does this involve the afore mentioned Great White Sharks, but Mexico. And nothing says safety like “Mexico.”

And that’s the thing about this particular trip. Safety. I’ve reviewed and researched, and this seems safe. But that doesn’t really matter, as this trip absolutely fails the “Oprah Test.” Meaning, no matter what I do or say or research, if anything goes wrong there’s no way to get my side of the story across on Oprah without getting soundly booed by all the Opraettes in the audience. An eight year old boy, Great White Sharks, and Mexico. No way. I’d be swarmed and killed like, well, like Great Whites on a feeding frenzy. So I’m actually nervous. I try to live my life by the Oprah Test rule, and I’m definitely in violation here.

But first a little history. We were watching TV during Shark Week on the Discovery Channel (here’s where the Oprah crowd starts fidgeting – how many great ideas start with two guys watching Shark Week?), and they kept showing people in cages looking at the sharks. Well before the smart part of my brain knew what happened (it was distracted learning about how sharks don’t get cancer) the 18 year-old part of my brain announced, “Hey Sander, we should do that!” Since he’s only eight, his little brain had no chance and said, “YES!” Well, just then the smart part of my brain spit out its popcorn and punched the 18 year-old part of my brain in the nose and took over. “Hmmmm,” says smart-brain, there’s no way you can do this without a SCUBA license, let’s just look it up and tell Sander that, “It sure would be fun, but no SCUBA license, no shark dive.” That should buy a few years. And the first few internet searches come up with just that fact. So I say, “Hey buddy, looks like a no go…” I write “…” because for some reason, out of nowhere I say, “But lets see if they have a way of diving with a SNUBA Hose (this is like the old school method of just pumping air from the surface through a hose).” Why, why did I say this? I was in the clear. I blame smart-brain. Stupid smart-brain, always showing off. And lo and behold, there is just such a guide service available. As it comes up I realize that I have only one hope, that, at eight, he’s too young. I mean, if you were a guide operator you’d be crazy to let an eight year old on a five-day shark diving trip right? And lo and behold (lo and behold, another lo and behold reference) you have to be 12 to even look at sharks from the deck. Hah, eat that smart-brain! “Sorry buddy, you’re four years to young to even be on the boat, and you have to be 16 to dive. We tried, and we got real close. How about some ice-cream?” Then he looks at me and says, “You could call and ask right? You always say, ‘It never hurts to ask’ right?”

Well, unless it involves 14’ Great White Sharks thinks I. But he’s got me. I have to ask, but there’s no way they’ll say yes. I mean, if you were a dive operator, you’d be crazy to let an eight year old on a five-day shark diving trip, right? So I call and purposefully make the classic negotiating mistake of leaving the actual message of what I want. This almost guarantees failure. It gives whoever you’re talking to time to craft all kinds of counter arguments without the benefit of your input. It’s negotiating suicide. So the next day Sander and I are at the movies when the Charter Owner calls. Says that he’s been thinking about it, Sander sounds like a really unique little boy, and that at his age his parents were taking him on all kinds of adventures and that this could be a life changing moment for the boy, so sure, he can come, but he needs to talk to me first. I’m so stunned here, that before smart-brain can ruin things, I blurt out, “Sander, we can GO!”

And with that, everything’s in motion for us to head to San Diego to go shark diving. We arrived in San Diego and set off for our Hotel Holiday Inn Bayside. This is important. Sander and I get into a minor debate about whether we should take a cab (his vote) or the free shuttle (my vote). After waiting for a while at the bus stop, and starting to lose the debate, I decide to call the hotel and make sure the shuttle is coming. “Yes,” says the nice lady on the phone, a shuttle should be there in 15 minutes. Then, two minutes later, a Holiday Inn on the Bay shuttle shows up. “Hmm,” I think, “that was fast,” and we hop on and head to the hotel. And it was awesome, right on the main marina area, across the street the USS Midway Aircraft Carrier, there’s a mini-golf course on site, and we talk about hurrying up and checking in and hitting it. At check-in the niceish lady behind the desk says that she doesn’t have my reservation. Well, I’m ready for that, and pull out my confirmation number. She carefully looks it over, sighs, and says, “Oh, I see, your reservation is for ‘Holiday in Bayside,’” here, I start looking around, her ID tag says “Holiday Inn,” there’s lots of green around, I’ve got to be in a Holiday Inn. She continues, “This is ‘Holiday in By the Bay.” Loooooong pause, as I try to figure out what she just said. I think I even said, “Huh?” (I’m not always the most eloquent). “We get this a lot,” she continues, “Get what a lot,” I think. “You want to go to the Holiday Inn Bayside,” this is Holiday Inn By the Bay.” “What? That doesn’t make any sense,” I think, “Why would you have two hotels within a few miles of each other, one called ‘Holiday Inn By the Bay,’ and the other called ‘Holiday Inn Bayside?’” And if you “get this all the time” why not do something to make it clearer. I’m thinking maybe an announcement when you get on the bus, a sign somewhere, or at least a way of getting between the two. Instead, I get, “you’ll have to take a cab to Holiday Inn Bayside. Next.” So a $20 cab ride later, I’m at my destination. And by “cab ride” I mean a 15 minute ride that consisted of my cabbie telling me repeatedly that this “happens all the time.” Now you would think that after the first time he mentioned this that the issue would be resolved. Nope. I won’t bore you with the banality of the longest 15 minutes of my life, but it was basically this.

Cabbie: Oh, you wanted to go to the Holiday Inn Bayside? Yeah, that happens all the time (told you). See, all the hotels want some part of the bay in their name.
Me: Yeah, that makes sense, thanks.

Rinse, lather, repeat.

Seriously, I lived, and relived this conversation for a solid 15 minutes. How many different ways can I act interested in various iterations of “Lots of people get confused because of all the ‘Bay’ names in San Diego”? The first time I felt vindicated, the 8th time, I felt like I wanted to jump out of the moving cab. It was like a scene from Faust. “Ohhhh, you like chocolate-chip cookies do you?” says Satan, “Then HERE, spend eternity eating your way out of a giant vat of chocolate-chip cookie dough! Bwah-ha-ha!” I wanted to not feel like an idiot, but by the end of the ride I felt like I was being force-fed vindication through a straw and it was coming out my nose.

Eventually, we arrived at our hotel the Holiday Inn BAYside. Checked in, and then bee-lined it to the drug store to get our handy-dandy ear patches. I’ve never used these before, but since I get seasick in a mud-puddle and was facing five days on a boat, I felt it made just enough sense to experiment with them. But to be on the safe side, I also bought every gimmicky seasick item I could buy; wristbands, powders, lotions, whatever. If there was a gypsy camped outside offering to rub “magic sea dust” in my hair, I would have happily paid her. Honestly, I was more afraid of spending three days hunched over the side of the boat donating my insides to the local fish population, than I was of donating my whole body to the local Great White Shark population.

So we returned to the hotel magic ear stickies in hand and stopped by the gift shop where I bought every kind of portable junk food I could find. Here’s the tally, two pounds of peanut M&M’s, 4 King Sized Snickers bars, 4 of those little bags of Doritos, two bottles of chocolate milk and a large bag of peanuts (the latter two destined to for tomorrow’s breakfast). They say an army travels on its stomach, well, a nervous daddy terrified of being seasick for five straight days travels on junk food.

And with that, it was bed time.