You heard it right, lassies. I just hung up my sea legs and I’m ready to trade in scurvy for curvy. I’d say that the ink is dry on the divorce papers, but it’s hard to keep 200 pages of documents moisture-free when your ex is a vast and terrifying churn of waves, stretching towards the horizon. That’s right. I’m no longer married to the sea. Sure, I still have to pay alimony. So please don’t get weirded out when I’m out on the docks on the first of the month flinging a glass bottle of money into the ocean. But hey, we’ve all got emotional cargo.
And now that I’m single, I’m on the hunt for the ultimate white whale: love.
While I may be in my 50s, I’ve been told I look like I’m well into my 60s. So I need to stop wasting time. I have a lot to offer a woman, like strong hands and a pension from the merchant marines. I promise not to talk about my ex (the sea) too much. Also, after being married to a body of water for most of my life, I can hold my breath for a long time. Yes, I did just wink. I know it can be hard to tell because of how squinty my eyes are after decades of sun exposure. Let me be your pearl diver. Metaphorically in this case (the ocean is still pretty angry with me).
I’m interested in a partner who doesn’t make waves (that probably sounds like a pun, but I mean it). Also you should have a freezing point above 28 degrees. Bonus points if you live in Colorado, Wyoming, or another land-locked state. So let’s grab a couple of non-rum-based cocktails and get to know each other. Again, preferably on dry-land because of the whole once being married to the sea thing. I hear great things about ayahuasca and not being hung up on your ex.
If I’m the seaman for you, ring me up. I’m available by Instagram or morse code. All the best, Bob.
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