Morocco: Stowaway Search

Ah stowaway searches...not quite as romantic as it might sound.

I like to say that I didn't know what being American truly was until I went abroad. They don't do stowaway searches in America. There's no need. Nobody is trying to escape. Of course, since 9/11 they do other kinds of searches on ships. But nobody is worried that someone is going to sneak on board to start anew in...Haiti.

So there I am, in the forward hold, alone, a flashlight in one hand, in the other my knife. Most ships, they send their crew in teams to go through each hold. Not my ship, the Captain likes to cut corners.

I look around, there are plenty of fucking places to hide. If I wanted to hide, I could definitely stay hidden. No problem. The shadows play tricks on your eyes, you see movement where there is none.

I stick my flashlight in a giant exhaust fan.

"If you're there," I think to myself, "just don't let me see you, I don't care, really, I just don't want to get knifed because you see me as a threat."

"Hey Cadet," the radio on my belt crackles, it's the Bosun calling, "get up here when your done, the Chief found a stowaway."


MOVIE LINE OF THE DAY:
"I'm gonna go take a celebration piss." -Rain Man