Traveler’s Diarrhea

By Andrew Bombeck

"Forget the off-putting cover and the even more off-putting promise of humor "guaranteed to cause abdominal cramps, nausea" and far worse. Beneath these dire warnings, Andrew Bombeck's "Traveler's Diarrhea" is one of the most entertaining travel memoirs to come along in years." 4 stars. Clarion Review

True travel stories guaranteed to cause abdominal cramps, nausea, exploding stools, and occasional bloating.

"This generation's Jack Kerouac!" (Mr. Bombeck's little blue imaginary friend).
"Complete nonsense" (Matt Bombeck).

Over two hundred color pictures with smart-aleck captions. Perfect travel book for nonreaders!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 13, 2018
• ISBN: 9781984532794

Andrew Bombeck

I’m a retired elementary school teacher who often traveled during the summer. I am married to Shari and we have a 12-year-old son. When I’m not writing or traveling, I’m playing tennis, guitar and promoting organ and tissue donation.

Book preview

Copyright © 2018 by Andrew Bombeck.

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018906578

ISBN:      Softcover            978-1-9845-3280-0

               Hardcover          978-1-9845-3281-7

               EBook                978-1-9845-3279-4

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Rev. date: 06/12/2018

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CONTENTS

       AUTHOR’S NOTE

       FOREWORD

       CHAPTER 1

Capital Punishment and Teaching in American Samoa

       CHAPTER 2

Around the World in Ninety Days

       CHAPTER 3

Peace Corps Liberia, 1982 The Toughest Job You’d Love to Hate If You Have a Job. 28 Years Old

       CHAPTER 4

Spain-Morocco-France Summer of 1985 The Hiding from the Bulls 30 Years Old

       CHAPTER 5

India, Summer of 1986 India, Land of Mystique, Mystery, Intrigue, and Squat Toilets 31 Years Old

       CHAPTER 6

South America 1989 The Shining Path Couldn’t Stop Me Hiking the Inca Trail 34 Years Old

       AND FINALLY

Traveler’s Diarrhea

True travel stories guaranteed to cause abdominal cramps, nausea, exploding stools, and occasional bloating

This generation’s Jack Kerouac!

—Mr. Bombeck’s imaginary little blue friend

Utter nonsense!

—Mrs. Bombeck

Over 200 color pictures with smart-aleck captions. Perfect travel book for nonreaders!

Traveler’s Diarrhea

Andy Bombeck

TRAVELERS%20DIARRHEA%20COVER%20%20.jpg

True travel stories guaranteed to cause abdominal cramps, nausea, exploding stools, and occasional bloating

This generation’s Jack Kerouac!

—Mr. Bombeck’s imaginary little blue friend

Utter nonsense!

—Mrs. Bombeck

Over 200 color pictures with smart-aleck captions. Perfect travel book for nonreaders!

To

my parents, William and Erma Bombeck

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One summer, when I was ten, I sailed sail around the World pretending our backyard was the ocean and a cot was my boat. My parents could’ve had me evaluated for GDD, Grand Delusional Disorder. But instead, while sitting around the dinner table on a typical muggy, humid Ohio summer night, my parents only asked, So where are you sailing to tomorrow?

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Centerville, Ohio, 1964. I’m going sailing around the world in our backyard!

AUTHOR’S NOTE

I’m not a real writer. A real writer I am not. You get the idea. My mom and brother are real writers. I’m a retired schoolteacher who wrote a book using travel journals I kept over the years. The last thing I wrote of substance was a play I made my fifth-grade class perform about an alien who shows up in a refrigerator box, farts a lot, somehow changes everyone he meets for the better, continues farting, and mysteriously disappears inside the box he arrives in.

Have you dreamed of scaling Mount Everest or crossing the Sahara Desert on Camel but don’t have the ambition, resources, or time? Maybe you like living vicariously reading someone’s latest adventure while sitting comfortably in your La-Z-Boy in front of a big-screen television. If you answered yes to those questions, stop reading and buy the book whose author is standing in the middle of the Amazon River. But if you’ve wondered what it’s like to step inside a crowded elevator in Vienna, Austria, with a chronic case of diarrhea and you can’t hold it, this is the book for you.

If you read something like In 1947, India split into two nations, New Pakistan and Newer Bangladesh, I’m not a historian, but when I wrote it, I believed it. The last thing I wanna do is piss off 2.3 Billion East Indians for rewriting their history.

I sincerely wanna thank my family, friends, and everyone I’ve met traveling because without you, this thing I’m calling a book couldn’t have happened.

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Centerville, Ohio. I’m doing the spaz.

FOREWORD

Many travelers believe, or want you to believe, the journey is more important than the destination. If my fellow travelers were honest, they’d admit the screw-ups are more memorable. Having traveled around the globe, I’m confident the screw-ups trump everything.

If your fortunate to have someone ask about your latest trip, the only word they wanna hear is great. Because while you and your bikini-clad significant other have been Jet Skiing around Bora-Bora, their trapped inside a six-by-six cubicle focused on spreadsheets. Some people can’t comprehend why anybody would burn two weeks’ vacation time traveling to exotic locale like Bora-Bora because they’ve never felt the urge to explore farther than their backyard.

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Bora-Bora, Tahiti. Greetings from Bora-Bora, Tahiti. Sorry, you can’t join us Jet Ski in Bora-Bora, but you can hang this up in your cubical and dream!

One consideration after returning from your once-in-a-lifetime trip to Uzbekistan is how to share your adventures with coworker Chuck, the manly single guy with no kids, or any he knows about, who lives in a trailer without electricity or running water to travel to exotic destinations like Uzbekistan, the place you returned from. Picture yourself, Chuck, and fellow coworkers eating lunch together in the lunchroom, and you start sharing your once-in-a-lifetime trip to Uzbekistan. Better prepare yourself to hear about Chuck’s first trip to Uzbekistan before Uzbekistan became commercialized and all the non-touristy places he visited, including when the King of Uzbekistan showed Chuck how to slaughter a yak with his bare hands before drinking it’s blood and eating the heart. And the time Chuck was chosen by the king to perform a circumcision on his only son with a sharp rock. Now, the attention shifts to Chuck and the incredible four weeks he spent at the place you just returned from. Your once-in-a-lifetime adventure now sounds like Mary’s trip to SeaWorld with her daughters.

I’ve never heard or seen anyone wet their pants hearing Uncle Chester recall the time he and Dolores spent an afternoon watching sheepdogs round up sheep on a sheep farm in New Zealand. But for the reason people slam their brakes to see a car crash, when Chester starts talking about his lost luggage, or Dolores’s chronic-case diarrhea from eating rancid cheese in Greece, or when he took a wrong turn looking for Stonehenge and ended up in Ireland, or the fender bender in Taipei, according to Dolores, they survived only by the grace of God, or the millions of Mexican pesos Chester swears he saved bargaining for what he still believes is an authentic Rolex watch with a street vendor in Mexico City, like Jesus preaching to the disciples, Chester finds himself surrounded by friends and relatives he hasn’t seen in years! Hell, even Bertha, Dolores’s older sister, the quiet one who hates listening to Chester rehash the number of steps it took him and Dolores to reach the top of Saint Peters— is raising her hand asking Chester why it took him ten days before realizing he and her poor baby sister Martha spent ten days at a whorehouse in Amsterdam.

I grew up believing those who kept journals were tortured souls like Ann Frank, individuals compelled to share their tragic stories, or girlie girls, like Sara, the main character in Sara Plain and Tall, where every journal entry begins with, Dear diary, today, Pa showed us the right and the wrong way to milk a cow, and continue in painstaking detail how boring life was on the prairie.

I never aspired to writing anything close. Until I heard Admiral Perry, the guy who discovered one of the Poles, kept a daily travel journal documenting his historic journey to one of the poles. Unfortunately, Perry’s journal didn’t read like this: OCTOBER 14, 1925. We’re all tired and starving and I dread telling everyone we’re lost. I’m also tired of looking at my own breath making it harder convincing the young-ins it’s never cool even pretending to smoke. And then there’s Fritz, who still refuses to wear his sealskins and spends free time trying to make the perfect snow angle. Dammit, I knew we should have left Fritz behind!

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Fritz, still trying to make the perfect snow angle. Perry: I knew we should have left Fritz behind!

Like Perry, I love travel and adventure and enjoy recording day-to-day events from exotic locations.

Being one son of a well-known author, I’m somewhat embarrassed to admit I’ve never found much enjoyment in reading books, which will become evident in my writing. I’m not suggesting I’m the illiterate one, but growing up in Dayton, Ohio, when given the option of curling up on the living room couch with a good book or hitting a whiffle ball out of our backyard, I chose hitting a whiffle ball out of our backyard. I read books to help fall asleep. It didn’t matter if it was a classroom, a public library, a train, a plane, restaurant, perched on the edge of the toilet, or a Who concert, reading books meant falling asleep.

Because of that, I’m including hundreds of photographs with smart-aleck captions so nonreaders like myself can still enjoy Travelers Diarrhea without reading one paragraph. That decision was made for people who’d still rather hit a whiffle ball out of their backyard.

It will become obvious I ain’t no National Geographic photographer. At the time I took the pictures, I never envisioned putting them in a book. If the pictures look blurry, don’t have your eyes tested; they’re blurry.

Who knows, one day you might find yourself in your neighbor’s living room discussing Traveler’s Diarrhea for the next book club. But you won’t be intimidated when the discussion leader points her bony finger at you and asks, "Andy, why do you think the author of Traveler’s Diarrhea walked into an active volcano?"

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Mount Kilauea, Hawaii. Oh my God, why?

CHAPTER 1

Capital Punishment and Teaching in American Samoa

July 1981

Right now, I’m killing time sitting on the sidewalk outside a small store in Apia, Western Samoa, waiting to depart for Suva, Fiji. Believe it or not, Western Samoa is a real country, a chain of islands in the South Pacific Ocean. Last August, I taught eighth grade on the island of Tutuila, the main island of American Samoa. I’d never heard of American Samoa until I got a call one night from a family friend who returned from Pago Pago, the capital of American Samoa. She knew I taught elementary school in Phoenix for three years and was looking for an overseas teaching job. She told me the name and number of one person to call in Pago Pago. I called that night and agreed to teach two years at an elementary school. Later that night, my dad explained what a territory is.

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Pago Pago, American Samoa. Aau Amu Elementary School. I finally get to wear a skirt to work.

My assignment was teaching eighth grade at Aau Amu Elementary or Coral Reef Elementary School. My principal called me Bombeck. After teaching eighth graders for four months, my principal decided to transfer me and teach English as a Second language to fourth, fifth, and sixth graders. She never explained why, but it might have been related to the field trip I took with my eighth graders in early December.

The anticipated field trip to the waterfalls started with thirty-eighth graders walking behind me to a waterfalls about two miles away, at the top of a mountain in the middle of the jungle. My first goal was finding the secluded waterfalls I heard about two days prior. Assuming I’d find the waterfall, my next challenge was catch freshwater fish at the waterfalls for an upcoming science experiment.

Before we started hiking, I never thought how to catch the fish. After we reached the falls, we stared into the pool of water, wondering how to catch fish we couldn’t see. Things deteriorated when my eight graders turned a day of exploration into a swimming free-for-all. When I demanded everyone stop swimming and follow me back to school, they ignored me and continued swimming. That decision, along with catching invisible fish with bare hands, were a few things I never planned on.

Before I returned to school, I threatened everyone with what might happen should they continue swimming. I thrashed my way through the dense jungle, returned to school, grabbed a clipboard, and waited at the bottom of the lane leading up to the school for all thirty perpetrators to return and write their names down on my clipboard. When school ended, I paid my principal a visit to explain what happened.

The next morning, before the first bell, my principal called me in her office and said today I’d start teaching English as a second language to fourth, fifth, and sixth graders. I wasn’t certified to teach ESL, and the only Samoan word I knew was Vailima, the name of the island’s popular beer. I didn’t wanna believe my sudden transfer in the middle of the year was related to the field trip gone haywire, until I discovered my replacement was a–US Marine drill sergeant. I finished the school year teaching Samoan kids how to speak more English, which was as challenging as expecting thirty adolescent eighth graders to catch invisible fish with bare hands at a secluded waterfall in the middle of the jungle.

Looking back, it wasn’t day-to-day living in American Samoa that made me renege the second year on my two-year teaching contract. That decision came after realizing capital punishment was the norm, and if I planned on stopping thirty-eighth graders from swimming at a waterfall and return to school to drill times tables, I’d better find a good whacking stick or resign.

After three years of teaching adorable fourth graders in Phoenix, Arizona, if little Susie yelled out without raising her hand, I’d print Suzy’s name on the chalkboard. If later, little Susie left her chair without raising her hand, I’d calmly put a check beside Susie’s name, resulting in little Susie losing ten minutes of precious recess time.

I began the school year at Aau Amu Elementary using the same assertive discipline technique to control thirty eighth graders. Until I discovered putting a check mark beside six-feet -tall Tala’s name, who weighed two hundred pounds, didn’t bring the same results. To make matters worse, while writing Tala’s name on the blackboard, my Samoan coworkers conditioned their misbehaved students to walk to the front of class, hold out one upturned palm, and get whacked with a flat stick kept in a back pocket. As the school year progressed, I witnessed creative ways to maintain classroom control. One Samoan teacher, who felt smacking kids on the open palm with a flat stick was too much work, assigned the largest kid in class to be the classroom enforcer whose only job was to patrol the classroom aisles, holding a two-by-four and wait for his teacher to point to a classmate misbehaving then bonk the troublemaker on the head with the two-by-four. After four months of writing student’s names on the board with check marks and no consequences, I felt like borrowing Mrs. Tostada’s enforcer and his two-by-four!

In Phoenix, I would’ve been locked up for even joking about assigning the biggest kid in class to bonk fellow classmates on the noggin with a two-by-four. That should explain why most of the time, my eighth-grade class was out of control!

One day, two fifth-grade girls ditched my ESL class. My principal recommended I paddle both girls and to my amazement, I followed her recommendation. I spent thirty minutes explaining why them getting paddled was best for everyone. Two swats later, both girls ran out of the classroom laughing their heads off.

Over time, I learned one way to stop students from ditching my ESL class was pay a visit to the village chief. Like meeting the Mafia godfather at an Italian restaurant in downtown Manhattan, I’d explain how my student, or better, his villager was ditching my ESL class then wait to hear, I’ll take care of it. The hardest part was the next day guessing who the new bald kid was in the last row trying to cover up his new haircut.

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Pago Pago, American Samoa. One of my happier moments at Aau Amu Elementary school.

Two-Week Trip around the South Pacific

On the surface, Western Samoa seems worse off than American Samoa. I’m sure the seventy million dollars our Government gives American Samoa can’t hurt. Western Samoans look just like American Samoans. Any happy-go-lucky palangi would be fine with village life. Palangi is the Samoan word used for anything related to Caucasians. If you’re a Nervous Nellie, forget it.

I’m guessing Samoans who live in small villages, farm banana, coconut, and taro, and the rest work higher-paying jobs in Apia, the capital. Anyone thinking about fitting into the Samoan lifestyle better readjust their way of thinking and put their bodies into comatose. I’d forget I was living on a big rock in the middle of the Ocean. I wonder in thirty years if I’ll remember what happened in American Samoa. Another reason for keeping a travel journal.

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Pago Pago, American Samoa. Standing in a taro patch with a broken arm.

My all-time favorite Samoan custom is whenever someone shows up at someone’s hut, they are expected to serve them all the food and drink they want. Just another example of Fa’a Samoa, or the Samoan way. If you play your cards right, Palangis like myself could have it both ways. Americans typically don’t like to share their stuff, but an American living in American Samoa could expect to be treated like royalty when they drop in on a neighbor. You might not be Samoan, but hey, you’re living on their island, and it’s their custom. So next time you’re in Samoa, make sure to show up at your neighbor’s hut around dinnertime.

One morning, I was riding my motorcycle to school with my twelve string guitar between my legs, when a van made a sudden left in front of me. I crashed into to the side of the van and passed out. When I woke, I was in the back of a pickup truck going to the only hospital. They x-rayed my wrist and said it looked fine and said if I wasn’t wearing a helmet, I would have died. Hearing that gave me the hick-ups for three days. My friends thought it was funny. My doctor prescribed Valium and my chronic case of hick-ups went away.

After the accident, while I was passed out, the van I hit took my twelve string guitar. A few weeks later, I got it back when I mentioned it to someone who said they saw it in a closet where they worked. I guess there are advantages living on an island with only 30,000 people.

Two weeks after my accident, I was walking around an area near the ocean called Slippery Rock, where the surf crashes onto coral, making it slippery and dangerous. Slippery Rock lived up to its reputation when I slipped, fell backwards and landed on my head and wrist.

I returned to the hospital and told because of the motorcycle accident and my fall at Slippery Rock, I broke my wrist I had to wear a cast which didn’t stop me from swimming or surfing.

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Pago Pago, American Samoa. Chillin’ on a beach in my cast and lavalava.

In contrast, Western Samoa tries hard to maintain the Fa’a Samoa lifestyle. For some, the no-worries lifestyle of eating, sleeping, praying, and drinking large quantities of alcohol might be ideal, but if you’re into personal growth, forget it. For me, right now, travel is the only thing that matters. I’ll have time to reflect on the good old days when I’m old, senile, and tied down with bratty kids. Today, the perfect lifestyle is a variety of experiences.

This two-week trip I’m taking around the South Pacific is my first solo trip. I’d rather travel with a friend, but couldn’t find anyone to travel when and where. In Pago Pago, I bought the Four Island Special Pass from South Pacific Island Airways’ for $350, allowing me to fly to four of SPIA’s many destinations. I chose the islands of Upolu, in Western Samoa, Viti Levu in Fiji, and two Tongan Islands, Tongatapu, and a more isolated Tongan Island group called Vava’u.

I believed American Samoan women were extra-large because they, like us, had quick and easy access to the junk food we cherish in the States. Until I saw the women of Western Samoa. Who knew eating bananas, coconuts, and taro was so fattening? On the other hand, Samoan men either have rock-hard abs or flabby stomachs that bounce like jelly over their Lavalava. The village chief is usually the oldest man in the village with the fattest stomach. If he’s not the chief, he’s the chief’s brother.

The American Samoan Island of Tutuila is so small everyone appears to be related, and as a result, everyone gets treated like family. My advice to any Palangi considering marrying a Samoan woman is good luck. With that said, I hope everything works between my roommate Mike who married a beautiful Samoan woman named Lo.

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Pago Pago, American Samoa. I was the best man at Mike and Lo’s beautiful wedding.

One American couple, Luke and Kathy, who also lived in American Samoa, just spent two weeks in New Zealand. Luke said New Zealand reminds him of the United States in the 1950s. Why any country wants to be more developed is beyond me. If third world countries knew how stressful it is living in the United States, they might reconsider. Progress can often make life more miserable. Even with all the terrible things happening in the United States, most of the world envies us. I laugh when I hear foreigners say women in the United States are promiscuous! God, I wish that myth were true!

Last year, I discovered how frustrating it was not speaking or understand Samoan. Most teachers are typically paranoid what students are saying behind their back. It was harder wondering what my students we’re saying about me in Samoan. The first Samoan words my eighth graders taught me were Iso Lapo’a, meaning Mr. Big Nose. I discovered having a well-proportioned Roman nose was challenging, living on an island where locals have a wider, flatter nose! I learned to accept my Samoan nickname Iso Lapo’a, but can’t describe how relieved I was the day I reneged on my two-year teaching contract!

In Samoa, I lost some of the excitement I felt that first day in 1977, teaching thirty-five eager fourth graders at Palomino Elementary School. I’m confident I’ll find another career as challenging and exciting as teaching.

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Iso Lapo’a Mr. Big Nose and his dad.

I’d better return to the hotel and pack my stuff before departing to Suva, Fiji. First, I wanna drop off an eight-by-ten portrait I took one afternoon of a beautiful Samoan woman my last trip to Apia. One afternoon, I spotted a gorgeous Samoan woman and politely asked to take her picture. She said, sure, why not and posed like a Vanity Fair model, tossing around her long brown wavy hair. Maybe she thought I was a professional photographer and we’d both end up rich and famous. In reality, I was a lonely man who’d do or say anything to meet a beautiful woman. I promised my next visit, I’d bring her, free of charge, a developed eight-by-ten portrait of her sexy pose beside the car. I wouldn’t have approached if I didn’t think I had a chance of meeting her. What sealed the deal was when I whipped out my fancy camera and used big words like photogenic to describe her appearance.

I can’t believe I remembered where she lived. I gave her the eight-by-ten photo, and we agreed she looked great with or without the car. I never mentioned I developed a few extra four-by-eight photos for all my buddies in Phoenix to show them what my new make-believe Samoan girlfriend/model looks like. Fa se fua (see ya later) until next time!

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Apia, Western Samoa. My imaginary Samoan girlfriend beside a car.

I have a few hours to kill before taking a small prop plane to Suva, Fiji. This will be my third visit to Fiji. The first time I visited Fiji was six months ago during Christmas vacation with two teachers from American Samoa. One teacher, Paul, also taught English As A Second Language at Coral Reef Elementary; and, Tom, who was another first-year teacher from Seattle.

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Pago Pago, American Samoa. Paul and I both taught English as a Second Language.

Everyone in American Samoa loved Tom, a.k.a. King Vailima, the best-loved palangi on the island. King Vailima soon became friends with all the locals in the tiny village of Aoa, at the far end of the island, which was also where Tom taught. As a consequence, King Vailima got invited to participate in village activities most Palangis, like myself, weren’t privy to. I’m not talking basket weaving or coconut tree climbing, but the party side of village life, like getting wasted on Vailima Beer every weekend and eating mounds of pig, taro, and breadfruit.

Every Sunday night, Tom would return to the compound on his motorcycle where we lived, and share fantastic stories about excessive drinking, massive eating, and potential for sex. Basically, partying like no tomorrow.

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Pago Pago, American Samoa. Tom, a.k.a. King Vailima, returning to the compound after another lost weekend in Aoa.

After hearing Tom describe another lost weekend spent in Aoa, I had to be part of it! Soon, everyone living at the compound got accustomed to hearing Tom’s weekend exploits in Aoa and those like myself who wanted a slice of that party pie had to be invited.

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American Samoa. Road Sign to Aoa. Welcome to paradise!

I made it clear to Tom I was more than interested in joining him and a chosen few to witness firsthand what in the hell was happening every weekend at the far end of the island. When school dismissed on Friday at three o’clock, five or six would mount our hogs, mine the smallest, a Honda 250, and like The Hell’s Angels without shirts, rumble to the far end of the island and party our asses off!

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Pago Pago, American Samoa. Even a Hell’s Angel can break an arm, but I’m still ready to mount my hog and party in Aoa.

Tom lived every day like it was his last. On paydays, a group of us would meet for happy hour at the Rainmaker Hotel to relieve some of the stress teaching in American Samoa. Every time someone ran out of money, Tom cashed his paycheck at the bar to make sure everyone had a fresh quart of Vailima. One night, I was climbing onto the back of Tom’s motorcycle during a thunderstorm and asked him if riding a motorcycle in a thunderstorm was a good idea. He turned around, laughed, and said, Well, this won’t be the first time were gonna get soaked, and it won’t be the last! If Tom lives long enough, he’ll probably teach next year in American Samoa.

Anyhow, last December during Christmas Vacation, Tom, Paul, and I flew to Fiji on Christmas Day. We lost Christmas Day because we crossed the international Date Line, the best way to celebrate my first Christmas away from my family. The upper half of the plane was without seats. Like three paratroopers waiting to jump on D-day, Paul, Tom, and I sat on the floor drinking mixed drinks with the flight attendants, but not the pilot.

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Tom and I and a stewardess enjoying the flight to Fiji.

The only thing I remember about that trip was swinging out on a rope over a waterfall in the middle of the jungle.

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Fiji. I’m swinging out on a rope into a pool at a waterfall.

On New Year’s Eve, I took an eight hour local bus to Fiji’s second-largest city Nandi at the other end of the island because I assumed Nandi was a better city to bring in the New Year. I assumed wrong. That night, I returned to my hotel room around ten thirty and tried staying up past midnight. For the reason I missed Christmas Day, I was given another chance to celebrate New Year’s Eve in Pago Pago.

My second visit to Fiji was two months ago in June. Three guys and myself spent four days on a trimaran sailing from American Samoa to Fiji, transporting drilling pipes for an American drilling company. A trimaran is a sailboat with three hulls instead of two. I always knew spending four days on a sailboat was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. My only goal was not puking on myself, the other three crew members, or the trimaran, in that order. Captain Barry said whenever I felt sick to leave the cabin and focus on the horizon. It worked because I was the only sailor who didn’t throw up!

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Pago Pago Harbor, American Samoa: The trimaran with three hulls.

At first, I didn’t like Captain Barry because he was so bossy. Until I realized if anything went wrong, it was Barry’s ass on the line. That would especially hold true for someone like myself, with no sailing experience, making me the most likely crew member to do something stupid enough to endanger the lives of everyone.