The Wanton Hussy and the Sea: Part I

Where do I even begin? Ahh, yes. From the beginning...

Two years ago, I worked for the company I am currently at now. I only worked for the summer in between my sophomore and junior year at college. I made cold-calls to all fifteen thousand window companies in the United States. I called every single company. Some of them twice. While I was working a fishing trip was scheduled. This invitation somehow seemed to bypass the three female members of the office, myself included. When that day came, we, the women, were locked in the office, while the men proceeded to hunt and gather hundreds of pounds of albacore. Didn't really rub me the wrong way then, as I had no clue as to what the "real world" was all about.

Fast forward three years. I am three years more the age, the height and the knowledge, which in my book, seems to be the scariest of them all. As I sat at my desk, listening to the weekly manager meeting, the topic of an "overnight deep sea fishing trip" was discussed. In an instance, I could feel my face flush, my heart palpitate and my mind race. "If I don't get invited this year, all hell is going to break lose, in the most professional of manners, that is." I sit. Looking at my spreadsheet. Entering numbers or names or dates, at the same time, completely focused on what is transpiring behind me.

"Hey Wanton Hussy. You like to fish?"

"Yeah, I like to fish."

"You want to go on an overnight fishing trip?"

"Heck yes, I want to go on an overnight fishing trip?"

"Are you sure you can handle it?"

Don't lose your cool, Wanton Hussy.

"I'm up for a challenge."

There was enough room on the boat for me to invite someone if I so choose. I of course invited the father to the Wanton Hussy, as since my collegiate sport days are over, our "Father/Daughter bonding time" has seriously dwindled. Sports used to really be the only thing we could talk about. Now, it's sports, corporate living and fishing. Sidenote: In my family, the "dad" is not the one you need to be worried about. He's the easy one. So I never really had to put in any face-time talking up potential suitors of mine. Those seeds of P.R. were left to be planted, sowed, harvested, picked and burned with my mother.

I attempted to explain to Old Man Hussy about my blog and what I will write about and how I didn't realize how much I loved to write, etc. He however remained fixated on the name which I chose to refer to, "Wanton Hussy." I explained, "Wanton is like 'I do what I want' kind of attitude, and well 'Hussy' is cool cause it's classic like 'broad,' 'dame,' you know..." He responds, "I always thought of 'Hussy' as like a 'slut' or a 'hoochie.' Are you sure you aren't giving these people the wrong impression? Who are these people that are reading it? Can anyone read your blog? How safe is this 'blogging?" I sense serious hesitation for my newfound weakness is his demeanor. "Don't worry Dad. I'm not going to be meeting any guys at the mall who promise me candy or anything. No one knows where I live other than Orange County. It's totally anonymous." I feel like one of those kids that are trying to convince their parents that they aren't addicted to meth or to let them go to camp or that Billy really isn't as bad as they think.

21 hundred hours. Friday September 22, 2006. We arrive to the docks in San Diego. Introductions are made amongst the strangers and we board the boat. I receive odd looks from members of other boats, but feel in my element, which is that of being out of my element. Out of my element more specifically being that of surrounded by men. Something about potentially awkward social settings involving many men and a limited amount of women really gets me going. I was forewarned by my boss that "sexual harassment doesn't apply on the boat." Which I found hilarious as I tend to be the one doing most of the harassing. Call me "old-fashioned."

22 hundred hours. Introduction of more strangers. Including Mr. A Cute Boy. Rules are relayed by the owner of the boat. No drugs, don't drink too much and no peeing off the side of the boat. The nerve. I was really looking forward to that. We make small talk as the boat exits the harbor and the anticipation mounts. Who is going to get sick? Who is going to catch the biggest fish? Can the girl hang?

24 hundred hours. Although I wanted to stay up all night as to not miss a second of excitement, I peeled myself away, settled down and headed for the bunks below. Twenty bunks like open caskets stacked underneath. You could hear the water hit the side in a series of muted "slaps" and "thunks." I sleep in my jeans which are already wet at the bottom, a thermal, a sweatshirt and shoes. Not that I couldn't have changed into more comfortable sleep attire, but I made a pact to myself, to remain as uncomfortable, and at the same time convince myself I was completely comfortable, as possible. I wrap my community pillow with a t-shirt, close my drape and drift away to REM sleep, to the sound of light snoring by none other than Old Man Hussy.