<?xml version="1.0" encoding="UTF-8" standalone="yes"?><oembed><version><![CDATA[1.0]]></version><provider_name><![CDATA[The Dish]]></provider_name><provider_url><![CDATA[http://dish.andrewsullivan.com]]></provider_url><author_name><![CDATA[Andrew Sullivan]]></author_name><author_url><![CDATA[https://dish.andrewsullivan.com/author/sullydish/]]></author_url><title><![CDATA[Reds]]></title><type><![CDATA[link]]></type><html><![CDATA[
<p><img alt="APPLESJeffTGreen:Getty" class="asset  asset-image at-xid-6a00d83451c45669e20134893ea557970c" src="https://sullydish.files.wordpress.com/2010/11/6a00d83451c45669e20134893ea557970c-550wi.jpg" style="width: 515px;" title="APPLESJeffTGreen:Getty" /></p>
<p>Christopher Buckley <a href="http://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2010/12/my-year-at-sea/8295" target="_self">recalls</a> his year working on a Norwegian freighter ship:</p>
<blockquote>
<p>At sea in those latitudes, temperatures on the ship’s steel decks  could reach 115 degrees. During lunch breaks, I’d climb down the long  ladder to the reefer (refrigerated) deck at the bottom of Number Two  Hold. There were mounds, hillocks, tons—oh, I mean <em>tons</em>—of Red  Delicious apples from Oregon. I would sit on top in the lovely dark  chill, munching away, a chipmunk in paradise. One day I counted eating  eight. I emerged belching and blinking into the heat, picked up my  hydraulic jackhammer, and went back to chipping away at several decades  of rust and paint.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>(Photo: Jeff T Green/Getty.)</p>
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