No Place to Swing a Cat
No place to swing a cat.
2m wide x 2m long. Divided by 2, our triangular cabin is about 2 m2. Less than a double bed.
In this space we have to hold our belongings, two bunks and a part of the chandlery. I don't know the area of a space station but when, lying in my bed i'm contort myself to thread my offshore equipement ,apart the moisture and the color of my suit, i don't see a lot of differences.
Yet we have managed to make it our own space. Bot of us have our own side, both of us have our personal effects. For Mark a picture of a bad impersonator of Elvis Presley, a tooth brush and a sketchbook. For me a picture of a Queen recovery group, a tooth brush and marines charts.
Every day demands from us a precise organization to live together in this cell.
First each of us puts his sleeping bag in a common red waterproof bag, then puts his pillow in an almost sealed bag, then each takes his clothes located in the "spider" ( a web made of bungee cords from the ceiling where we get stuck folded clothes) and squirms while lying to get dressed.
Only then, when both of us is done with his work and lies straight on the bunk, we open the door with a common effort. This is the only way to properly open it without tearing a muscle.
After that we successively leave the lying position, putting our feet on the cold and wet anchor's chain that lies between the two beds to finally step outside.
We thoroughly ventilate the room for escaping moisture outdors mixed with wet food and dirty socks fragrances.
It is at this moment that we have an overview of the cabin. We check if all goes well, the moisture on the walls, the water level in the bilge, the condition of the bags located around the mast. This daily exercise keep us the control over our environment.
Promiscuity imposed by our accommodation yet has never posed problems, we naturally found the coexistence mechanism and made it our home.
Say that we will miss this cave is not so exaggerated.