Booze Cruise Review, or Why I Wish I Were A Stronger Swimmer

Funds finished for the day my manager (the one who set up the whole booze cruise), the kid that I hate, and a few other managers left work and headed over to a bar near the harbor to kill some time and watch some of the Red Sox game before the boat left.

The Sox took the lead in the early innings, and despite being in a group that included the kid I hate and the oafish manager who might be dating the pretty girl, I was having a decent time. I think drinking Sam Adams and watching the Red Sox had a lot to do with me not hating every living thing in the bar that night.

So eight o’clock rolls around and we all head over to the boat. It is, without question, the most un-seaworthy craft ever set afloat in Boston Harbor, including the crates of East India’s finest dumped overboard during the Boston Tea Party. The “boat” was small, rusty, old, noisy, and unsteady. The air horn, which normally sounds a long blast before departure, sputtered and coughed in two attempts, and then died. I’m not going to talk about the restrooms. I’m not going to talk about the crew. I’m not going to mention the way the propellers groaned at every revolution. I will say I probably could have piloted a cast iron bathtub better than this tub ran.

The band started to play as soon as we left the dock. I don’t want to talk about the band. I don’t like insulting anyone who gets up on stage to perform. Even if they deserve it.

The bar sucked. Two teenage kids during probably their last weekend of a summer job handed out twelve ounce cans of Miller Lite or half liter bottles of Mike’s Hard Lemonade for five and six dollars respectively. If I’d stayed at the bar onshore I could have continued drinking Sam Adams for three-fifty a pint.  


Traditionally, land-based drinking with the office can be fun. There is a possibility that getting coworkers drunk will provide an enjoyable evening. You hear stories that shouldn’t be told, you hear drunken confessions, sometimes people dance. There are three groups of people that show up at these bar nights. First, the group that only goes because it’s a work thing. These folks may not even order a drink. They just want to make an appearance so their managers won’t bug them the next day, and catch a train home. Second, there are the wild drunks. These folks are out every night anyway, drinking and carousing, so of course they’re out. The third group is everybody in the middle. They show up, if it’s a good time they’ll stick around, and if it’s lame, they leave.

The biggest problem about a booze cruise is this: If it’s lame, you can’t leave. And, much to my dismay, Friday night’s booze cruise, was L-A-M-E.

If I weren’t such an optimist, if I’d been just a little more cynical, I would have thought to myself “Shit, look at this boat, this boat is a dump. These people are all losers. These drinks suck, and are overpriced. Fuck it. I’ll eat the ticket cost, and just get off the damn boat before it leaves.” But no, alas, poor readers, I did no such thing. Instead I spent the night trapped on a floating piece of rusted metal not drinking overpriced beer and trying my best to not listen to the crappy band, and not thinking about punching every other guy there in the face.

I got off that boat two hours later fuming. I stalked around the city. From the harbor up through Government Center, back down through the financial district, and then down Beacon st. to Kenmore. Angry because I’d wasted an entire night in the worst way open to me. Angry because I had to spend the night talking to an AVP and his administrative secretary from some other floor because they were the only two not trying to make out with me by the end of the night. Everyone else was drunk. Everyone else was trying to hook up with anybody else. But, mostly, I was pissed at myself for getting duped into this.

Never again.
-t


Recommended downloads:
Oasis, Part Of The Queue
And
Bowling For Soup, The Worst Day Ever