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61 LIVING RESISTANCE Funnel as Phallus Sara L. Crawley I’ve been an avid boater since age sixteen. There is something mystical about skimming the water under power or sail while watching for fish, dolphins, sea birds, stingrays , manatees, and sea turtles. As a young transplant to South Florida, I was initially unaccustomed to subtropical waters, beaches, and sun, but after my teenage years spent around boats, I came to love anything that floats. Once you experience time on (or under) the water, it gets in you—the feeling of being at the mercy of the sea as your body rises and falls with the waves; the beauty of a sea turtle drifting just above the reef as you absently hear your own breathing through a scuba regulator; the synchronicity of boat and captain as the mainsail and genoa align perfectly on a close reach while you enjoy a cold, cheap beer. It’s addictive. It becomes one of the highest priorities in a life well lived. It becomes a problem to figure out where to pee. With all the beauty and communion with nature that is part of the salt life, an abiding problem is the dearth of public toilets. The subtropical heat requires constant rehydration, which translates quickly into the ever-present need to pee. Indeed, it feels like part of nature—its very calling, as it were. And it is no secret that my fair share of Bud Light intensifies the problem. In summer 2005 after twenty years of patient waiting (for financial security, the end of grad school, you name it), I bought my first fishing boat—a twenty-two-foot open fisherman–style panga with a center steering console and an outboard motor, completely open to the elements—think large, open dinghy with 115 horsepower. With every necessity to get us out on the bay, it was missing only a head (i.e., a toilet, for you landlubbers). This lack is common for most boats under thirty feet, because an enclosed cabin only weighs down the boat, costing fuel and creating a kiln-worthy hotbox. As a result, any female-bodied person addicted to the water must fashion a solution to the problem of where and how to pee among friends. Historically, there have been two solutions: drop your pants and bare your assets to everyone aboard while peeing over the side or in a bucket—which turns out to be fairly common—or jump over the side and warm up the water. But there were two obstacles to the usual tactics: I had purchased this boat to fish Tampa Bay, where sixhundred - to eight-hundred-pound sharks inhabit the channel, and I was expecting to spend a good bit of time around men on board. I needed a new option. I was at the auto parts store one day buying oil for my next oil change when I found my solution—an oil funnel with an oblong-shaped aperture about three inches by four inches and an off-center spout about twelve inches long. It looked perfectly anatomically correct. It was. For $1.29, I had my solution—something just the right size to accommodate the task and just long enough to keep the outflow away from my pants. It seemed like a simple solution to a silly problem, and it worked like a charm. 62 Embodied Resistance Little did I know that I was challenging perhaps the single most significant gender boundary. To explain, most male-bodied people simply walk to the stern (because you really want to pee astern, which is with—not against—the wind), lean one knee against the motor and one against the transom, and relieve themselves while the rest of the crew stares at the back of his head. Quick and simple. Apparently, nature’s true advantage. My funnel would allow me the same advantage. On the next boating excursion, I simply followed the same procedure. Chocking my knees in place, I leaned slightly against the motor and unzipped my pants, positioning the funnel under my crotch with the correct angle to allow physics to do the job, and just let go. It worked like a charm. My butt remained covered and my front parts fully private. Zipping my pants and dunking the funnel over the side, I then turned to see the incredulous stares of the men on board. That’s when I realized I had traversed the most sacred boundary between females and males—a practice...

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