Critter Scat
You know, this travel life-style is really difficult sometimes. Having to choose between red wine or white when neither complement your meal, not knowing which stretch of beach will be the best to lounge on all day without burning and having to cope with the visual pollution that is scantly-clad women strutting in thongs and tops with boob spillage the likes of the Valdez. Then there are the frustrating days on the Great Barrier reef diving and drinking, diving and drinking, diving and drinking, and if I'm not on the reef under the water or on the beach full of skin, I'm in the thick and thack of the rainforest up to my pits in spiders, lizards, and everything else fucking tropical or tumbling down mud-brown streams and rivers looking for crocodiles, trouble and a good time. Sailing is the next in the string of my seemingly endless binge for adventure. Looking at the travel brochure it looks like something similar to three days out sailing the islands on an ex-America's Cup racing yacht while you stop to frolic upon beaches, drink domestic beer and lick smoky barbecue off your fingers. Rough.