I’m awake at 2.30am in Captain Jacks hostel, Portobelo. Our boat leaves at 6am, but we need to be on our way at 4. Having attempted to go to sleep just before 12, I was drummed awake by the party happening in the rest of the hostel. Now this affords me an opportunity to really keep on top of my writing, and at the same time muse over the coming days ahead. The main focus being the result of the car crash that is already happening, before we’ve even weighed anchor.
Initially I tried to promise myself that I would use the five or six days on the boat to detox and eat well. At some point I desperately need to treat myself better, both for the sake of my physical health, and the head and heart. Mostly heart. Once again I have allowed two bottles of rum, a carton of cigarettes and a girl to get the better of me.
I wasn’t really in the party from the start. Remember the alpha males? There is a bar full of them, washed with booze and vying for the attention of pretty much everyone else. Loud, brash and boisterous, a word doesn’t go in anyways. Still waters apparently run deep. Unfortunately here it appears the rapids have more success.
And success they have. With the girl I like. Which is what wakes me up. “Why the fuck are you in bed?” he lears. Because I have to be up at 4am to catch a boat to Colombia I presume? After this rude awakening, returning to the land of nod is pretty much impossible, particularly as I have to listen to him canoodling with the object of my affections. He’s actually on the other boat, and now I have six days on board with this girl and people who are clearly in a different frame of mind to me. That awkward moment when…
The truth is dear reader, unless this situation improves, I’m giving serious consideration to leaving this part of the world. I wouldn’t stretch to going home, but the thought has crossed my mind. It would be a shame for the continuation of my bad fortune with the fairer sex to cut my adventures short. Yet the fact of the matter remains; it is important to me, and here it’s just not working. I witness everyone else getting what I want every day, and I’m left to punch keys in frustration at silly o’clock in the morning.
I confide in a friend about the potentially fruit full situation previous, a weeks sailing with four attractive girls. He advises me to step back, have fun and DON’T do anything while on the boat. Six day’s sailing and being aloof will apparently only serve to increase a girls interest. The problem is that this ‘waiting game’ clearly doesn’t work. It’s a dog eat dog world, and if you’re not fast, you’re last. So when do you utilise such seemingly good advice? I just can’t fathom it, and it’s forcing me to edge closer to a breakdown.
I always said I have two contradicting desires battling for my attentions. One is to see the world, the other is to find a special girl. The unstoppable force hitting the immovable object. It’s a real struggle at the moment. Some would say, and have said, that I shouldn’t be concerned with that yet, and just use this opportunity to concentrate on myself and travel. I wish I could heed these wise words of wisdom, but it’s in my very make up to find her. Everyone else my age seems to have done it, with aplomb.
When you hit a downward spiral, you start to question everything. I don’t care what anyone says about plenty more fish, get back on the horse, etc, etc, but when you’re rejected once, you chalk it up and move on, when it happens again, and again, and again, it becomes a pattern. My conversation is generally good, my banter and wit is pretty decent for most of the time, my social skills have always been apt, and I like to think I’m a pretty nice guy. So what, excuse me, the fuck, is going wrong?
Is it purely down to aesthetics? Am I that bad looking? In a room by myself perhaps not. Standing shoulder to shoulder with these guys then maybe. Yet this week, the exceptions to the rule have been, well, ruling. So it must be something else.
Incidentally the only other girl I was interested in is now pulling one
of the alphas in the dark somewhere in front of me. This is probably
not a bad thing, since the Irish lass looks exactly like my ex. That’s a
whole other story, and one that given the recent spate of events, truly
beggars belief.
“Where is the fun loving, relaxed, life of the party Stu I met in Leon?” A friend comments; with no shortage of exceptional observation. I don’t know. I honestly don’t know. “I have of late, but wherefore I know not, lost all my mirth,” to quote The Dane. I’d better find it again pretty soon, otherwise this could be a very short trip.
“I have of late…lost all my mirth”
I’m awake at 2.30am in Captain Jacks hostel, Portobelo. Our boat leaves at 6am, but we need to be on our way at 4. Having attempted to go to sleep just before 12, I was drummed awake by the party happening in the rest of the hostel. Now this affords me an opportunity to really keep on top of my writing, and at the same time muse over the coming days ahead. The main focus being the result of the car crash that is already happening, before we’ve even weighed anchor.
Initially I tried to promise myself that I would use the five or six days on the boat to detox and eat well. At some point I desperately need to treat myself better, both for the sake of my physical health, and the head and heart. Mostly heart. Once again I have allowed two bottles of rum, a carton of cigarettes and a girl to get the better of me.
I wasn’t really in the party from the start. Remember the alpha males? There is a bar full of them, washed with booze and vying for the attention of pretty much everyone else. Loud, brash and boisterous, a word doesn’t go in anyways. Still waters apparently run deep. Unfortunately here it appears the rapids have more success.
And success they have. With the girl I like. Which is what wakes me up. “Why the fuck are you in bed?” he lears. Because I have to be up at 4am to catch a boat to Colombia I presume? After this rude awakening, returning to the land of nod is pretty much impossible, particularly as I have to listen to him canoodling with the object of my affections. He’s actually on the other boat, and now I have six days on board with this girl and people who are clearly in a different frame of mind to me. That awkward moment when…
The truth is dear reader, unless this situation improves, I’m giving serious consideration to leaving this part of the world. I wouldn’t stretch to going home, but the thought has crossed my mind. It would be a shame for the continuation of my bad fortune with the fairer sex to cut my adventures short. Yet the fact of the matter remains; it is important to me, and here it’s just not working. I witness everyone else getting what I want every day, and I’m left to punch keys in frustration at silly o’clock in the morning.
I confide in a friend about the potentially fruit full situation previous, a weeks sailing with four attractive girls. He advises me to step back, have fun and DON’T do anything while on the boat. Six day’s sailing and being aloof will apparently only serve to increase a girls interest. The problem is that this ‘waiting game’ clearly doesn’t work. It’s a dog eat dog world, and if you’re not fast, you’re last. So when do you utilise such seemingly good advice? I just can’t fathom it, and it’s forcing me to edge closer to a breakdown.
I always said I have two contradicting desires battling for my attentions. One is to see the world, the other is to find a special girl. The unstoppable force hitting the immovable object. It’s a real struggle at the moment. Some would say, and have said, that I shouldn’t be concerned with that yet, and just use this opportunity to concentrate on myself and travel. I wish I could heed these wise words of wisdom, but it’s in my very make up to find her. Everyone else my age seems to have done it, with aplomb.
When you hit a downward spiral, you start to question everything. I don’t care what anyone says about plenty more fish, get back on the horse, etc, etc, but when you’re rejected once, you chalk it up and move on, when it happens again, and again, and again, it becomes a pattern. My conversation is generally good, my banter and wit is pretty decent for most of the time, my social skills have always been apt, and I like to think I’m a pretty nice guy. So what, excuse me, the fuck, is going wrong?
Is it purely down to aesthetics? Am I that bad looking? In a room by myself perhaps not. Standing shoulder to shoulder with these guys then maybe. Yet this week, the exceptions to the rule have been, well, ruling. So it must be something else.
Incidentally the only other girl I was interested in is now pulling one
of the alphas in the dark somewhere in front of me. This is probably
not a bad thing, since the Irish lass looks exactly like my ex. That’s a
whole other story, and one that given the recent spate of events, truly
beggars belief.
“Where is the fun loving, relaxed, life of the party Stu I met in Leon?” A friend comments; with no shortage of exceptional observation. I don’t know. I honestly don’t know. “I have of late, but wherefore I know not, lost all my mirth,” to quote The Dane. I’d better find it again pretty soon, otherwise this could be a very short trip.