BEWARE the Porta Potty By Rich Johnson Ordinarily, I wouldn’t want to
talk about the subject we’re about to embark upon, but for the purpose of contributing to the more well-rounded nautical education of the reader, here goes.
It was a glorious day, with
temperatures right up there in the comfort zone. The sunshine felt so good, in fact, that it just about erased all the negative emotion I felt about the chore I had to take care of — cleaning out the porta potty. But I couldn’t put it off any longer, because the 6-gallon- capacity holding tank had only about a teaspoon of room left. And I knew that there was no time to lose, ‘cause Becky had that look in her eye. You know the look
— one minute she was innocently laid back reading a book, and then her eyes strayed from the page and she gazed at the ceiling for a long, thoughtful moment. The next thing I knew, she looked straight at me, and I could see a question forming before she even said a word. Knowing that I could read her mind did not slow her down, though, and she said the words anyway. “Honey, have you cleaned the porta potty yet?” Dang! The answer to that question
required no words on my part. I just got up, opened the door to the head, and started working on the situation. We’ve had our porta potty longer
than we’ve had some of our children, and now all the kids are grown up and have moved away, if that tells you
anything. In all those years of potty ownership, no other member of the crew has ever volunteered to share in the joy of maintaining this essential appliance. That privilege has been mine alone, and I have performed the task so many times I couldn’t even begin to guess at the number. Actually, I shouldn’t whine — it’s a simple (although disgusting) process, and if one’s brain is engaged even just enough that you are capable of holding your breath for a minute without passing out, nothing can go wrong. At least that’s what I thought until this particular day. There must be something about
All the “enthusiasm” that had built up inside the holding tank
suddenly rushed for the door as if someone had yelled “fire” in a crowded theater .
high ambient temperature that promotes enthusiasm inside a full potty holding tank. Whatever is in there (and I don’t want to dwell on that question) must enjoy the warm sunshine as much as I do. It does make one want to burst out laughing, strip to one’s skivvies and run down the beach. In other words, go crazy. And if the sunshine and warm temperatures will do that
to me, maybe the potty feels the same way. Who knows? I don’t pretend to understand all these things. All I know is something unusual
happened inside the potty on this warm and beautiful day. I reached down and unlocked the top half of the porta potty. That’s the part that holds the freshwater that is used for flushing. I lifted it off and set it aside, then inspected the lower compartment. This is the disgusting compartment. It has a slide valve that you open manually when it’s time to flush, then you slide it back shut to lock all the nasty stuff
in the holding tank below. Invariably, a little bit of water (or something that looks like water) collects on the top of this slide valve. So when it comes time to empty the tank, I always open and close the valve real quickly to drain this moisture into the tank so it won’t slosh when I pick up the lower half of the potty and carry it to the disposal site. There is a button on the porta
potty. I never used to pay any attention to this button, but after the events of this day, I investigated its function and discovered that it operates a pressure- relief mechanism. Now that you know that bit of information, I’ll tell you what happened next. Oh, by the way, I now operate that button. Live and learn. So, on this warm and wonderful
day, I bent over the lower half of the potty, looked at the offending moisture, took a good grip on the slide handle, and gave it a tug. The handle worked perfectly, as it always did. The valve opened, as it always did. But then something happened that had never happened before. All the “enthusiasm” (or whatever it was) that had built up inside the holding tank suddenly rushed for the door as if someone had yelled “fire” in a crowded theater. There was a “Whoosh” and, before my sunny-day-mellowed brain could react enough to close my mouth, I had moisture (and who knows what else) all over my face. “Aargh!” I exclaimed, jumping
back and knocking my head on the door.
“What happened?” Becky asked, sitting up and laying her book aside. “The potty exploded,” I sputtered,
reaching for a paper towel. “You’re kidding,” she laughed. I could feel the humor drain out of
my eyes as I turned to face her. “Does this look like I’m kidding?” I pointed to my dripping mug. “Wow!” she said. “Has that ever happened before?” “No.” I continued wiping my face
and spitting into the paper towel. “Not only that, I knocked my head on the door,” I whimpered, hoping for some sympathy. “Well, don’t ask me to kiss you
better,” Becky said, lying back down and opening her book again. “I’m not touching those lips.”
48° NORTH, JANUARY 2012 PAGE 37
EXPLODING
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