Eight Weeks at Sea
My alarm goes off at 2:30 a.m. I roll outta bed, knees creakin’, feet hittin’ the floor. Big ol’ size 16s, wide and ready for eight weeks of hell. My wife’s already up, bakin’ some good smelling breakfast: scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, pancakes, and grits. I sit down and eat fast. Can’t waste time—gotta be at the dock by 4am. This is fuel for a 6’5 245lb country boy, I’ve been eating like this for my entire 45 years of life.
I pack my duffel—shirts, pants, underwear—and four pairs of socks. That’s all. Better than most. Dan’s only bringin’ two pairs, and his size-12s are stinky after a few days, but mine? Bigger feet, bigger stink. I slip on the first pair, thick and snug, and shove my boots on. By the time we push off, the my feet already stink.
Below deck, the bunks are stacked tight—two high, barely room to turn around for a man like me. Boots off, and the first slap of wet socks hits the floor. It’s going to take us about 5 hours to get to our fishing location. My feet already sweaty and stinky and it’s only been a few hours of movement. We tend to ready the ship prior to our big catches. Then, we’ve got a couple hours to sleep, catch up or relax before the storm.
Many of the men are from small towns, blue collar workers and many with stinky feet, but very few like mine. When I prop my feet up, Some of the rookies wrinkle their noses, but there’s this one kid next to me… sleeping in the bunk connected with mine, face near always near my socks. Never flinches. Never moves.
We tent to take the same bunks every season. It’s like a ritual, I tell him, “Boy, these are brutal,” and he just shrugs. I swear, he don’t mind the stink at all. Crazy kid. Maybe he likes it. Maybe he’s just tough. Either way, he stays there. Men tend to do man things on extended trips; there’s no shortage of porn and often times you’ll catch a buddy beating off on their bunks, hell I do it too. I noticed my bunk mate likes to beat off when I sleep, couldn’t see how the smell of my feet couldn’t kill his boner.
I woke up and caught him going to town with a flesh light, face almost planted firmly in towards my massive 16’s, by this time, I’ve been wearing these socks for 6 days and they reek, but he still shot a huge load.
Most of the men don’t bother changing their socks. Boots on all day, soaked from water, sweat, and smelly as fuck. By day five, the bunks smell like old cheese, salt, and a whole lotta man. You breathe it in, gag a little, laugh, and crawl into your own bunk for sleep.
By the middle of the trip, my socks are black at the toes, stiff and heavy. Pull boots off at night, they flop to the floor with a wet slap. My size-16s dominate the ship. Every step, every wiggle, every squish spreads the funk. We use to have a washer and dryer on board, but it’s since then been removed and hasn’t been replaced.
By the last week, all four pairs of socks are wrecked. Holes, blackened, stiff as boards and the smell of death. I toss ’em straight in the trash when I get home. My feet finally breathe. Wide, battered, rank beyond repair—but they carried me through eight weeks of work, storms, fish, sweat, and stink. We earn about 6 months worth of pay in 8 weeks of work.
That’s life at sea. You live in boots, you sweat, you stink, and you get used to fourteen men all piled up together. And my size-16 feet? They left their mark, until next season.