Me in the dark by the swimming pool. My view is pretty good — yours, not so much.
It is 4:30AM. I think I’ve nearly defeated my jet lag by walking around absolutely all day yesterday and staying up until 10PM. Of course, the cost of spending a day walking after months of ice-induced immobility is sore, sore feet. I’ll have to take it easy today.
All of yesterday was dedicated to logistics. I now have a reliable works-anywhere internet connnection, but I can’t actually use it on board the Clamn because I have no electricity. I’ve been observing the demeanor of a man who has lost a contact lense, constantly scanning at ground-level in search of an unguarded power outlet. When it comes to electricity, Singapore observes the British rule of ‘infrequent, but substantial’ — power outlets are hard to find, but when I do find one my laptop charges in no time. 240 volts, I believe.
After acquiring bedding, food, and a modem (which required passing time at two different tech-support offices) I took a taxi back to the marina last night around 6. I arrived to discover a smallish wedding party standing cheek-to-jowl across the pier which separates the clubhouse from the boats. I opted not to press my way between bridesmaids and sat at the bar instead, enjoyed a fabulously expensive iced tea, and listened to the strangely nationalistic (“Be sure and have lots of kids, our country needs them!”) wedding sermon. Just as my patience was running out a rainstorm blew in and dispersed the crowd, allowing me to visit my luggage.
Out on the pontoon several of the residents were fretting — apparently the process of hooking up the Clamn to the electricity caused a short and knocked out the power for the whole marina. There was a lot of wire-twisting and gaffer tape involved… after a bit of discussion I’m pretty sure that I understand the problem and how to fix it as well as any of the marina staff, but I prefer to let them take the karmic hit for such halfassery.
Later on I had a beer with several of the other ‘liveaboard’ folks. At one point they suggested that I go and get myself a towel from the registration desk, but I was met at the desk with a brusk “Towels are for members only.” Returning to the table, I got a bit more information than I wanted about the history of my temporary home. Over the years it has been occupied by non-club-members, and sublet, and subsublet, and used as a 2nd-hand love nest in the style of Jack Lemmon’s place in The Apartment. Daniel (previous tenant of the Clamn, now proud owner of the Wysiwyg a few berths over) caught a fair amount of grief during his stay and ultimately settled the issue via the sharing of drinks and exchanging of thousands of dollars. In theory my position is more secure inasmuch as I am the guest of Angela who is an actual member in good standing. Still, knowing this I’m inclined to maintain a fairly low profile.
So. No towel (hence no shower), no window screens (hence, risk of dengue if I open the windows) and no electricity (hence, no ventilation at all) made for a sticky night. A fair trade for the sound sleep I get on a rocking bed.
