So there I was on my honeymoon this past September. My wife and I decided to take a week-long sailing trip around Antigua. The boat was a fifty-foot catamaran (picture a big pontoon) with four guest cabins holding two people each and one crew cabin. The guest cabins were spaced in the hulls of the catamaran, two on each side. The crew cabin, which housed the captain and his wife, was in the middle of the boat.

The cabins were extremely small. And by that, I mean when you enter the door, the ceiling is just above you, the bed is directly in front of you, a small cabinet for clothing is to your left, and the bathroom door is to your right. You have literally no space to move, as the single step you took to enter your cabin is as far as you can walk unless you want to get on the bed. As for ventilation, there are two hatches on the wall that look off the side of the boat and two on the ceiling -- one above the bed, and one above the toilet. Both lead up to the main deck where everyone spends their time.

I've been on eight cruises in my life and I have seen small bathrooms, but this one was in another league. Here's how it works: you take a step into the bathroom. The space is small enough that you can sit on the pot and wash your hands at the same time. There is no separate shower area -- the faucet is attached to a hose that pulls out from the sink and becomes the showerhead. The space in there is barely wide enough to get in and close the door. When you are sitting down to pinch one out, you can just spread your legs. Maybe it's just me, but I like to spread my legs at least a little when I'm wrecking porcelain. Next time you're on the crapper, give this position a whirl and see how you like it.

I had a moment of realization when we arrived on the boat: if those hatches are open, people can look directly down on you when you're in bed and when you're in the shitter. I was not interested in the other guests seeing what I was up to in either location. (Remember: honeymoon here.)

Now that you have an understanding for the spatial inadequacies, let's describe the functionality. The bathroom has two buttons located on the face of the sink. One button pumps water out from the floor after you've showered. The other button "flushes" the toilet, essentially releasing water into the bowl and activating a macerator (think blender) that slices and dices your shiznit, supposedly working in perfect harmony to remove your waste to some hold that is likely just emptied into the ocean somewhere. The macerator is loud enough for you to hear one running at any point on the boat.

Now that I've set the scene, let the story commence. It was a lovely sunny day, around ten AM or so, and we were off to sea, sailing from our previous destination to our next one: a lovely beach with access to a resort. Along the way, I had felt that oh-so-familiar urge to push mud. Of course, since we were on vacation, the internal plumbing wasn't quite operating as it should. We were drinking all different kinds of booze pretty much non-stop, and I felt obligated to eat until I was completely stuffed since the crew would dump all the extra food over the side of the boat after each meal. I hate to see good food go to waste. The liquor, combined with the extreme summer island heat, had sucked most the hydration out of me.

As were sailing along I went down to our cabin, hopped in the claustrophobic box of a bathroom, closed the overhead hatch so the guests above didn't have to taste my reek, dropped pants, and squeezed my ass into the tiny space it was to occupy. I hated going to the bathroom in here -- the cabins weren't air-conditioned, and with that hatch closed, not only are you hot-boxing yourself, but you instantly start sweating beads in this cruel-ass sauna. Combine heat, smell, confined space, and dizziness from sweating out the last bit of your water, and you're in for a pretty awful experience even if everything comes out as it should.

Mine didn't.

After squeezing until I was shaking, I pushed out a King Kong-sized meatloaf. The problem: the meatloaf had been burned. I was so dehydrated that this thing was completely black. You would have needed a hammer to break this bitch up.

I wiped up as quickly as possible so I could get the hell out of there and dispose of the paper in the garbage can in the cabinet under the sink. (Yes, that was another luxury we had: no TP could go in the bowl.) I took one last look at my work. I remember thinking to myself, "Damn, buddy, you need to drink some water." I pushed the button and the water started flowing.

The beast slid halfway out of view and was converted back into ground beef by the macerator, instantly turning the water completely black. Wait -- Houston, we have a problem. The water continued to flow, but the macerator wasn't making good on its part of the deal. I stopped pushing the button. I knew I needed a plan, but there was nothing I could do. I couldn't see any solid mass at this point, just murky black water. And I knew that I couldn't break up the shit any more than a fucking grinder could.

At this point, the water was nearly at the top of the bowl. In one last-ditch effort, praying that I could get out of this unscathed, I pressed the button again, hoping that the machine would do its job.

I wish I could claim a happy ending, but I can't.

The swamp water reached the top. I couldn't believe that the rocking of the boat didn't toss some over the edge. I waited and hoped that the water would drain out -- at least then I could try the button again. Maybe it would work the second time.

The water didn't go down.

At this point I was drenched in sweat, dizzy, and at the point of vomiting. The extreme heat and the rocking of the boat had done me in. I was defeated. I had to get out of there and tell the captain that I had dropped anchor and got it stuck.

Coming out, I knew everyone on the boat knew what I was up to. After all, cranking that grinder is LOUD and you certainly don't need to keep it running as long as I did if you were only taking a piss. I emerged from the depths, covered in sweat. I casually made my way over to the captain and said to him, "So, is there any good way to unclog a toilet?"

"Ohhh, fuckkkkk," he replied. Another guest overheard and burst out laughing, yelling, "HAHA! He clogged the toilet with a monster shit!"

I felt embarrassed. The entire boat AND my wife knew what I had done. Ashamed, I waited on the captain's instructions. He explained to me that I would have to fix it. (He had broken his hand the day before when he slipped on the deck.) He wanted me to remove some floorboards so we could access the plumbing, detach the water line, and run the macerator without the risk of overflow.

Of course the floorboard was warped from the sea and humidity and we couldn't pry it loose. He would have to take the whole thing apart to fix it.

At this point, my wife announced her need to piss. I told her not to go into the cabin -- she would have to use someone else's.

Soon we arrived at the island, where we were instructed to leave the boat until four PM while the crew re-supplied, cleaned, refilled, changed sheets, and fixed the toilet I had completely wrecked. I expected everything to be fine by the time we got back. And it would have been, except that the Captain had to go to the doctor to get the bone in his hand re-set, delaying his return.

When we got back on the boat, and my wife went to use the bathroom. To our dismay, the toilet was in the same condition as before: chock full of black bean soup. Not only did she know about what I had done, now she had seen the carnage. I told her to get out of the bathroom, and that I was going to fix it.

Desperate times call for desperate measures. Who knew when the captain would be back? I needed to resolve this matter now and save the last bit of dignity I had.

I grabbed a cup from the main deck (of course, the only size available was a rocks glass, which barely holds a cup or two of liquid). I decided that my best option was to bail the shitwater from the toilet into the sink until the water was low enough for me to try the button again. And so I cleared the liquid out, cup by cup.

It was impossible not to get the water on my hands and floor as I carried it along. I repeated the process over and over and over again, clearing the ass soup and trying to get the toilet to flush; but nothing would work. The only good thing that happened is that the water eventually became clear from swapping the bad water with the good. I eventually gave up, realizing that the captain would still have to perform surgery on the toilet. Besides, I was eager to wash the shit off of my hands as quickly as possible.

I set the cup down and flipped on the faucet. What the fuck?? I could not believe my eyes: our fresh water tank had run out. I sat there for a moment wondering how my luck could be so poor. I knew that somewhere, someone was playing a cruel trick on me.

Pissed off, I left the cabin, washed my hands in the ocean, and then walked back to the resort to use their facilities. When we returned after dinner, I asked the captain if all was well. "Yeah, mate," he said, "drink some water."

For the rest of the trip, I was constantly reminded to stay hydrated. I also scared a couple of the guys to the point where they agreed that the toilets weren't made for people their size; they only used bathrooms on the islands for the rest of the trip.