Sailors that could hardly be more different
Chapter II: The Baltic Gauntlet
If I thought the last outing was bad, this one made it look like a walk in the park. The Baltic swell was relentless—short, choppy, and perfectly designed to turn my insides upside down. Peter, naturally, was in his element. “Great sailing weather!” he declared, grinning like some deranged sea captain. Meanwhile, I was clinging to the railing, praying for either death or solid ground.
Of course, in true Peter fashion, he steered the boat straight into the worst of it. Every wave, every bump, every slap of water against the hull felt intentional, as if he had plotted them on some secret chart of maximum discomfort. While others cheered at the spray and called it “refreshing,” I was calculating how long it would take me to swim to shore.
And just when I thought I couldn’t feel any lower, there it was—the floating monstrosity of modern excess: a cruise ship with a roller coaster bolted on top. I can’t decide what was more absurd: the fact that someone thought this was a good idea, or the fact that people were actually riding the damn thing. I mean, really—if you’re so bored at sea that you need a roller coaster to pass the time, maybe just stay on land where amusement parks already exist.
Meanwhile, Peter took it as some kind of inspiration, pointing and laughing, like this was all part of the grand maritime spectacle. For me, it was just salt in the wound: sick, soaked, and subjected to the sight of humanity at its tackiest.
By the time we limped back to port, Peter was buzzing about “what an adventure” it had been. For me, it was another entry in the ever-expanding logbook of unnecessary suffering. One thing’s for certain—if Antares had a guestbook, my page would be nothing but complaints.
Chapter III: Sunset, Cheese, and Pirates
Just when I thought Peter couldn’t outdo himself in making a bad situation worse, he unveiled what he called his “sunset ritual.” Translation: more cheese, more wine, and an endless string of half-baked poetry about the “eternal horizon” and “the whisper of the sea.” Spare me. While the others sat around swooning at his lyrical nonsense, I sat there trying not to gag—partly from the rolling swell, partly from the pretension.
But the universe has a cruel sense of humor, because just as Peter was rhyming something about “amber skies,” we spotted them: pirates. Yes, actual pirates. Or at least the Baltic knock-off version of them—tatty fishing boats flying questionable flags, blasting what I can only describe as Euro-techno from tinny speakers.
Of course, Peter thought this was “charming.” Charming! As if getting circled by shady-looking boats with men shouting in languages I couldn’t place was some kind of authentic cultural exchange. Meanwhile, I was already imagining the headlines: Local Man Held for Ransom While Eating Cheese He Didn’t Even Like.
To make matters worse, Peter actually tried to offer them wine. He stood there, glass in hand, yelling something about “sharing the bounty of the sea,” like he was about to host a floating dinner party with our would-be captors. I don’t know what’s more terrifying—the idea of being boarded by pirates or the idea of sitting through another of Peter’s toasts.
Eventually, the boats lost interest and sped off, probably realizing we had nothing of value besides a few half-empty bottles and Peter’s personality (which I doubt they could ransom for much). Everyone laughed it off like it was a quirky anecdote to tell later. Me? I was just relieved they didn’t take me with them.
So, yes: another “idyllic” evening ruined by a combination of bad poetry, worse cheese, and the looming threat of modern-day piracy. I’ll give Peter this much—life on Antares is never dull. Unfortunately, “never dull” is also my personal hell.
Chapter IV: Of Rain, Seagulls, and Mermaids
I should have known I was doomed the moment Peter suggested we all “bond with the sea” by sleeping on deck overnight. Bond with the sea? More like get slowly marinated in it. The night started tolerable enough—cool breeze, stars overhead—but of course, the weather turned, as it always does. Within an hour I was soaked to the bone, lying on a damp cushion that felt like a sponge, while Peter assured everyone this was “part of the authentic maritime experience.”
And then came the seagulls. Dive-bombing, squawking maniacs that seemed to have picked me as their prime target. Everyone else was laughing as if this was slapstick comedy; I was fending off winged assassins in the dark, cursing Peter’s name every time I felt feathers brush my head.
But just when I thought it couldn’t get any more absurd, the “mermaids” appeared. Yes, mermaids—or at least Peter’s version of them. He spotted movement in the water and declared it a “mystical sign,” raving about legends and Neptune’s blessing while everyone leaned over the railing, wide-eyed.
What did I see? Two very drunk locals in shoddy mermaid costumes, paddling around on inflatable rafts and belting out sea shanties off-key. They were covered in seaweed, glitter running down their faces, and one of them was swigging from a plastic bottle of vodka. Mystical, my ass.
Of course, Peter was enchanted. He raised his glass, shouted a toast, and tried to convince us we’d been “visited by sirens.” Meanwhile, one of these so-called sirens attempted to climb aboard Antares, flopping against the hull like a wet carpet. The smell alone nearly knocked me over—low tide mixed with bottom-shelf liquor.
Everyone thought it was hilarious. I, on the other hand, was sitting in the rain, covered in bird droppings, watching a drunken mermaid try to board our boat while Peter waxed poetic about ancient seafaring myths. If that’s not rock bottom, I don’t know what is.
So yes—rain, seagulls, and mermaids. Another unforgettable night on Antares. Personally, I’d be thrilled to forget it.
Chapter V: The Jellyfish Waltz
I should’ve known something was up the moment Peter started talking about “liberation” and “becoming one with the sea.” That kind of mystical nonsense is never a good sign. Sure enough, just as the sun dipped below the horizon, he clapped his hands together and announced that we were all going skinny dipping.
Naturally, everyone else thought this was the most magical, spontaneous idea in the world. Off came the clothes, laughter filled the air, and suddenly I was the only sane person left on deck, wondering how exactly I’d been coerced into what was about to become a nightmare.
“Come on, Greg! Don’t be shy! The sea is calling!” Peter bellowed, as if Poseidon himself had sent a telegram. Against my better judgment—and with peer pressure closing in on all sides—I found myself climbing down into the icy black water.
The cold was bad enough. It felt like being punched by a glacier. But then came the jellyfish. A whole armada of translucent bastards, glowing faintly like underwater lanterns. While Peter floated on his back, proclaiming the stars had “never looked brighter,” I was getting stung in places no human being should ever get stung.
Every zap was a jolt straight from hell. I thrashed around, yelping, while the others thought I was “splashing with joy.” No, I wasn’t splashing—I was being electrocuted by gelatinous sea demons while completely naked, in the dark, surrounded by people having the time of their lives.
And of course, Peter didn’t miss the chance to turn it into a “teachable moment.” He shouted something about “respecting the creatures of the sea” while I was practically trying to beat one off with my bare hand. Respect? I’d have gladly declared war on the entire species right then and there.
By the time I clawed my way back onto Antares, I was red, welted, shivering, and humiliated. Everyone else was glowing, talking about how “freeing” it had been. For me, it was just another chapter in the never-ending saga of Peter’s bad ideas and my personal suffering.
So yes, skinny dipping under the stars. Magical for them. A jellyfish waltz of agony for me.
Chapter VI: Breakfast of Seaweed and Smugglers
I woke up the next morning feeling like I’d lost a bare-knuckle fight with an electric fence. Every inch of me still burned from the jellyfish, and yet Peter was already bustling about, chipper as ever, announcing he had “harvested” breakfast straight from the sea. Translation: he’d scooped up some slimy green muck from the rocks and decided to serve it like it was Michelin-star cuisine.
“Fresh seaweed salad!” he declared, beaming. Meanwhile, I stared at the pile of dripping algae on my plate, wondering if this was his attempt to poison me slowly. Everyone else was chewing thoughtfully, pretending this briny slime was “refreshing” and “full of minerals.” I was too busy trying not to gag.
And then, because the universe loves to twist the knife, smugglers appeared. Not pirates this time—no, these were far worse. Rusty old motorboats buzzing around us, loaded with boxes and very shady-looking men trying their best to look inconspicuous, which is hard to do when you’re shouting into walkie-talkies and glaring at passing yachts.
Peter, naturally, was delighted. “Ah! Authentic seafaring folk!” he said, waving like they were long-lost friends. I, on the other hand, was mentally drafting my last will and testament. If the jellyfish hadn’t finished me off, I was fairly certain we were about to become unwilling participants in a Baltic smuggling operation.
To make matters worse, one of the boats actually pulled alongside Antares, and a man with a cigarette dangling from his lip offered us a crate in broken English. Peter leaned over, laughed, and shouted, “No, thank you, we’ve already got seaweed!” as if that was a reasonable response to being solicited by criminals. I could feel my soul leave my body.
Eventually, the smugglers lost interest, sped off, and left us in peace. But the damage was done: my breakfast was inedible slime, my body was covered in jellyfish welts, and now I had the lingering suspicion that we’d narrowly avoided becoming drug mules.
Peter called it “an exciting brush with maritime culture.” I called it yet another reason never to set foot on Antares again.
Chapter VII: Lost Among the Stars
Just when I thought my suffering had peaked, Peter announced his next masterstroke: we would navigate solely by the stars. “An ancient mariner’s tradition!” he said, eyes sparkling with delusional excitement. Sure, Peter—because nothing says safety like blindly trusting the cosmos while your passengers are still jellyfish-scarred and seaweed-stained.
For the first hour, things were… tolerable. Peter pointed at constellations, reciting tales of heroes and monsters, as if this were some magical astronomy class. The rest of us nodded politely, though I was mainly calculating how many lifeboats Antares had.
Then came the drift. Slowly at first, then suddenly, the boat was turning in circles. I glanced at the compass—Peter hadn’t touched it—and realized we were heading straight for a restricted military exercise zone. Missiles, loud bangs, and military vessels loomed on the horizon, though thankfully they seemed as confused by our presence as we were.
Peter, blissfully oblivious, continued narrating, “See that alignment of Orion? That’s a sign we’re on the right path.” Meanwhile, I was clutching the railing, trying to convince myself the navy personnel wouldn’t mistake our hapless vessel for a hostile incursion.
The crew started panicking, radios crackling, alarms blaring—but Peter just laughed and waved his hands dramatically, declaring it “all part of the adventure.” I wanted to strangle him with the telescope. One wrong move and we’d be history, and he’s waxing poetic about Orion and ancient mariners.
Eventually, after what felt like an eternity of circling in potential doom, a military ship hailed us. Peter greeted them with his usual enthusiasm, explaining we were “on a mystical journey of self-discovery.” I thought I might vomit, curl into a ball, and cry all at once. Fortunately, the officers seemed mildly amused—or just bewildered enough to let us go.
By the time we finally cleared the danger zone, I was drained, traumatized, and more certain than ever that Peter’s version of “adventure” was a cruel psychological experiment designed specifically to break me.
And as Peter raised his glass to toast “another successful navigation,” I contemplated jumping ship. Not metaphorically. Literally.
Chapter VIII: Lightning, Fish, and Absolute Regret
Just when I thought I had survived Peter’s incompetence, he unveiled his latest stroke of genius: a midnight fishing competition. “Nothing bonds a crew like battling the sea together!” he shouted, brandishing rods like weapons. Naturally, it was pitch black, the wind had picked up, and dark clouds were rolling in.
I should have said no. I should have stayed in my bunk, cocooned in blankets, silently praying for sanity. But Peter, in his infinite enthusiasm, refused to take “no” for an answer. So there I was, slipping and sliding on a deck slick with rain, holding a fishing rod like a medieval torture device.
The first thunderclap was enough to make me scream like a small child. The lightning illuminated the waves in blinding flashes, each one taller and nastier than the last. Peter laughed. “Feel the energy of the storm! Embrace it!” I wanted to embrace him right off the ship.
Then came the fish—or whatever the Baltic version of “fish” is at midnight. They were slippery, angry, and apparently immune to any of my clumsy attempts at catching them. One particularly vicious creature flopped directly onto my soaked foot, sending me careening backward and nearly overboard. Peter cheered, “That’s the spirit, Greg! A true sailor fights the sea!” I fought him instead.
As if that wasn’t enough, a rogue wave slammed the deck, knocking my rod into a puddle and sending the bait flying like some grotesque glittering missile. Meanwhile, Peter was still grinning, holding up a dripping, terrified fish as if it were a trophy. I was soaked, freezing, shocked, and questioning every single life choice that had led me to this point.
By the time the “competition” ended, I was battered, wet, and convinced the sea had personally declared war on me. Peter, of course, considered it the highlight of the trip: “A night of true camaraderie!” Everyone else nodded, laughing, some even holding their small, shivering catches like they’d won the Olympics. I just stood there, silently plotting my revenge against both Peter and the Baltic Sea.
As I climbed back below deck, water dripping from every possible orifice, I realized something fundamental: life on Antares is less about sailing and more about endurance, humiliation, and a slow, creeping disbelief that one human being could survive Peter’s enthusiasm intact.
Chapter IX Sealing it all
Greg hunched over the railing, squinting at the horizon as Peter steered the boat toward a sandbar. The sun was out, the wind gentle, the water sparkling like glass. Everyone else was relaxed, laughing, pointing at the seals lounging on the sand. But Greg saw it differently.
“Seals,” he muttered, “just lying there, mocking us.” He shaded his eyes, trying to look heroic, but mostly he just looked grumpy. Peter, smiling, called out, “A perfect day for observing wildlife, Greg! Isn’t this lovely?”
Greg wanted to tell him no, it wasn’t lovely. The boat was drifting too close to the sandbar. What if he misjudged the tide? What if the seals decided to attack? What if the sun reflected off the water and caused permanent blindness? Instead, he sighed and watched the seals flick their tails lazily, convinced they were plotting revenge for all the tourists who came near.
The other passengers were snapping photos, pointing out playful pups, even daring to suggest throwing crumbs to feed them. Greg muttered under his breath, “Do you really think that’s a good idea?” No one listened. He folded his arms and stared at the horizon, imagining a rogue wave appearing out of nowhere just to ruin the serenity of the sandbar.
Peter, of course, continued to beam, entirely unaware that Greg was enduring a mental siege of apocalyptic scenarios on what was objectively a perfect, sunny day at sea.
Chapter X: The Gybe of Doom
It was a calm, sunny day — deceptively calm, as Peter would soon prove. Greg was leaning against the rail, squinting like the sun was personally attacking him, while Peter hummed cheerfully and fiddled with the mainsail.
“Just a gentle tack around the sandbar,” Peter announced, completely ignoring the fact that his definition of “gentle” usually involved chaos and mild terror.
Greg tensed. “Gentle? Nothing about this boat has ever been gentle.”
Within seconds, the boom swung with the subtlety of a medieval battering ram. Greg barely had time to clutch the railing before Peter’s “maneuver” turned into a full-blown involuntary gybe. The sail snapped across the deck like a whip, knocking over a cup of lukewarm coffee, Peter’s hat, and an unfortunate sunhat belonging to an innocent tourist.
Greg screeched. “WE’RE GOING TO FLIP! THIS IS THE END!”
Peter, somehow still grinning, called out, “Oh! That was a bit sharper than I intended! Isn’t it exhilarating?” He flailed slightly, trying to regain control, but in the most Peter way possible — half heroic, half slapstick — he tripped over a coil of rope and landed on his backside, waving one hand in the air like he’d just invented a new form of sailing.
Greg clutched the deck as if it were a life raft. “Exhilarating? I am dying! I am truly dying!”
The seals on the nearby sandbar seemed to watch with detached amusement, flicking their tails and judging both Peter and Greg equally. Meanwhile, the other passengers alternated between terrified laughter and incredulous applause at Peter’s uncanny ability to turn a simple gybe into a full-blown circus act.
By the time the sail finally settled and Peter righted the boat, Greg was drenched in seawater, coffee, and his own fury. “If I survive this, I will write a treatise on the incompetence of cheerful people and the hazards of mild sailing,” he muttered, eyes blazing.
Peter, oblivious to the trauma he had caused, dusted himself off and beamed. “Well, that was an adventure! Shall we continue to the sandbar?”
Greg glared at him. The sun was still shining. The sea was still calm. And yet, somehow, his life felt like a slow-motion disaster movie directed by Peter.
Chapter XI: The Curry Catastrophe
The sun was high, the sea calm, and Peter was in high spirits. “Greg!” he called, brandishing a basket of spices, “today we’re making a proper curry aboard Antares! Imagine the aroma drifting across the waves!”
Greg groaned. “A proper curry? On a rocking boat? My stomach is already drafting a resignation letter.”
Peter didn’t seem to hear him. He dumped a pile of onions on the counter, grabbed a knife with the confidence of a seasoned chef (and zero concern for precision), and began chopping with gusto. The board wobbled, the knife occasionally skittered across the counter, and Greg instinctively put on a life jacket — just in case.
“This is fine,” Peter chirped, tossing in spices with reckless abandon. “A pinch of turmeric, a dash of cumin — and oh! Don’t forget the chili. A little adventure in every bite!”
Greg’s eyes widened. “Adventure? This is going to launch us into orbit!”
As Peter stirred, the boat caught a small swell. The curry sloshed dangerously close to the edge of the pan. Greg grabbed the counter. “Peter! We’re going to have curry in our hair, on our clothes, possibly in the sea! This is a culinary apocalypse!”
Peter laughed. “Nonsense! The sea will merely enhance the flavors.” He leaned a bit too far to dodge a rogue wave, and the pan tilted. A spectacular arc of curry flew through the air — some landing on the deck, some on Greg, and a heroic dollop even splashed onto Peter’s hat.
Greg howled. “It’s a curry massacre! We’re lost! The spices are rebelling! I’m covered in vindaloo!”
The seals on the nearby sandbar watched with what Greg was sure was judgmental amusement, while Peter calmly retrieved the pan, wiped it off, and continued cooking as if nothing had happened. “Perfect,” Peter said. “Adds character to the dish.”
Greg glared at him, curry dripping from his sleeves. “Character? This is chemical warfare, Peter. Culinary chaos! I demand a lifeboat!”
Peter just smiled, sprinkling more spices. “Trust me, Greg — by the end of this meal, you’ll forget all your fears.”
Greg, suspicious and sticky, wondered if he’d ever survive another “cooking adventure” aboard Antares.
Chapter XII: The Spicy Maelstrom
The day started deceptively calm. Peter, grinning like the sea was his personal playground, announced, “Greg! Today we’re going to make a curry on deck! Fresh air, waves lapping—what could possibly go wrong?”
Greg, eyeing the rippling water with deep suspicion, muttered, “Everything. Absolutely everything.” He’d spent decades reading the sea like an open book. Each gentle swell whispered potential disaster: a rogue gust, an unexpected swell, a flying pan, a sea monster lurking just below the surface.
Peter, meanwhile, was already tossing spices into a pan precariously balanced on the deck. “A pinch of turmeric! A dash of cumin! And—oh, careful! Not too much chili,” he said, oblivious to the fact that the “careful” was about as useful as a paper umbrella in a hurricane.
Greg’s hands were clenched on the railing. “That’s not a pan! That’s a disaster waiting to happen. And your definition of ‘careful’ is a threat to humanity.”
The boat hit a slight swell. Peter, entirely unaware, adjusted the pan with a flourish. Curry splashed. Greg shrieked. “I am drenched! The spices are attacking me! We’re going under!”
Peter, somehow unscathed, scooped up a stray piece of chicken. “Oh, see? Just a little adventure. Adds character.”
Greg’s eyes darted to the horizon. That tiny swell could easily hide a sandbar. Or a rogue container drifting from a freighter. Or—he dared not imagine—the Kraken. “Character? Character is for books! For reading, Peter! Not for survival!”
The curry, as if aware of Greg’s panic, performed its own acrobatics. A dollop flew toward the railing, narrowly missing a seagull, which screeched indignantly. Peter clapped with delight. “Bravo, little curry! You’ve got spirit!”
Greg, soaked, covered in spice, and certain this was a dress rehearsal for a maritime apocalypse, retreated to the helm. “I have survived storms, pirates, rogue waves, and smugglers. But this? This is a curry catastrophe.”
Meanwhile, Peter, oblivious to the horror, leaned over the pan to rescue a stray pepper, nearly tipping over the boat entirely. “Oh, don’t worry, Greg! The sea and I are friends. She’s just testing our skills.”
Greg glared at him, silently drafting a long list of survival complaints to Neptune himself. The day was sunny, the waves were gentle—but in Greg’s mind, the boat was one overzealous spice toss away from disaster.
And somehow, despite all logic, luck, and sheer oblivious haplessness, Peter’s curry remained mostly intact. The seals on the sandbar watched. Greg suspected they were taking notes for the inevitable trial.
Chapter XIII: The Smell of Doom and the Roller-Coaster of Shame
We were easing into port, engines idling, when it hit me — not the sea, not a wave, but that smell. Acrid, sharp, like insulation sacrificing itself for some disgraced electrical god. I remember thinking, very calmly and not at all screaming inside, this is the exact smell boats make right before they decide to become conflagrations.
Peter, of course, sniffed the air and smiled like he’d just discovered jasmine on a breeze. “Ah! Smells like new socks and warm batteries, doesn’t it?” he chirped, obviously auditioning for the role of ’naïve sommelier of catastrophe.‘
Behind him, like a garish beacon of human taste gone wrong, floated the total atrocity: “Disney adventure” — a cruise ship so proud of its own tackiness it had bolted a roller coaster on the top deck. It lurched through the harbor like a neon tumor. People shrieking for fun while my boat was apparently auditioning for a funeral pyre — the universe has a sense of humor, and it hates me.
I went on full alert. I scanned the bilges with my eyes alone — the ports, the lockers, the wiring that hums like a sleeping electric beast. “We need to check the battery bank, fuses, and the inverter,” I barked. Peter waved away the suggestion as if I’d proposed we condemn the sun for shining. “Nah, it’s character. Let’s chat with the harbor master after we dock. Maybe they’ll tell us a quaint anecdote.”
Quaint. Right. While Peter hummed toward socializing, I drafted evacuation plans in my head: grab the VHF, three life jackets, the flare gun if I still had time, and do not under any circumstances stand near anything that smells like melted rubber. If someone wanted to film our last minutes, they’d get a masterpiece — half-panicked bosun, half-cheerful captain smiling as the world melted around them. Oscar bait.
The “Disney adventure” rolled by, coaster clacking, tourists waving like it’s a parade. I waved too — the way you wave at a passing ambulance when you know you’re about to be part of the story. Peter waved back like an idiot, and I realized the whole scene was perfect: a smell of imminent electrical doom, a clown-ship of flashing lights, and my own captain treating it like a picnic.
We docked. I checked every terminal I could reach with fingers that didn’t want to be singed. The smell lingered like a bad prophecy. Peter went ashore to talk about “character” and “stories,” and I stayed behind, suspicious, resentful, and half-convinced the seals on the sandbar were taking bets on how long before a spark flew.
One of them winked. I did not take it as a comforting sign.
