My dreams on the cruise were spectacular and even sexual. The chief player of passion one night was an actress from some TV drama. The dream took off into bizarre, cartoonish mayhem, flying through a roller coaster ride. Knowing it was a dream I forced myself to wake up but then had no idea where I was. After visiting the tight ass I fired up more bizarre dreams that vanished upon waking.

Earlier on the trip I dreamed of two beautiful androids that were my neighbors. I was cycling at night. Upon seeing them, I said something like, "must be twins" and they said their different names. Then one asked the other if she wouldn't mind plugging her in. Tired, she needed a recharge. Dream over.

The trip on Woodstock showed how cruising is done properly. Ideally, you'd have an affluent partnership to share costs, one of which was Rich's ongoing salary. I didn't know if there was an employment contract but there had to be some directive to keep the usual yacht stench from gaining a foothold down below. Yet, even under those idyllic conditions, on the third day, I once again found myself behind bars, imprisoned with no chance of escape.

The wind diminished to under ten knots and slowly clocked to the north. To maintain speed, Rich set a course farther west taking us out to sea, while ignoring the obvious option, one I mentioned, of jibing and aiming toward Cabo. The wind lost another five knots of velocity and the boat slowed to under a knot. The navigation radios modified our arrival time accordingly, blaring on its display, that we would arrive in fifteen days instead of one. Engine anyone?