A few weeks ago, my brother asked me, "Can you tie a bowline yet?"

"I have six weeks bro-han."

"You are going to fucking die... aren't you?"

"No... I am not."

But it got me thinking. It really did.

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"Buenas dias, Wilson!"

I may have just peed a little typing that to our taxi driver on WhatsApp a moment ago. He is picking us up in San Pedro Sula.

Just a smidgen of pee never hurt anyone.

I'm five days away from pushing off into the Caribbean, making a 400 mile jaunt from Livingston, Guatemala to Havana, Cuba.

But there is much to finish before I push off into the dark starry nights, turquoise blue water, lush humidity and piercing cry of spider monkeys.

For one, I need to either fall in love this week or close my Bumble account. Oh, never heard of Bumble? I call it the classy Tinder, but to be honest, it's a gigantic fucking waste of time. 

It helps me escape my Flint doldrums of never ending loneliness that are wrapped in a ball of wonton desire for culture and sunshine and water.

Maybe this is why soldiers get married before war. Although this isn't an Mt. Everest ascent, as a greenhorn sailor and adventurer, my list of survival necessities is growing exponentially. 

My list: a golf range-finder, a quad-band dual sim global gsm, six shitty polarized sunglasses, a six-inch deboning knife, Sawyer's insect repellant (rated #1 on Consumers Report); water purifiers, candle lanterns, dry bags, reef gloves, books like, "Untethered Soul", "Kiteboarding 101", and I may gracefully add, "How to Date Online in the Caribbean." 



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