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Captaining a ship, manned with hordes and hordes of sailors who are trained in the art of survival on the high seas, with nary a complaint, halfway around the world, only to discover you've forgotten to pack the proper shoes (not entirely realising you were heading to India during the rainy season until you reached a decidedly soggy coast and were greeted by a good deal of people speaking something that sounded, based on your experience (which was null, and would perhaps have been more appropriately described as your imagination) like Indian and were handed plates of curry (quite good, after having spent the last three months eating copious amounts of oranges after hearing stories around the sailors' equivalent of a campfire (as setting fire to the deck, you told them at the outset, was not an option. They finally settled on painting the boards in one area of the deck a lighter shade of brown than the rest, to simulate light, you'd assumed) of scurvy, gangrene, and all sorts of other things that could be avoided by eating lots and lots of oranges (though at first they almost had you convinced you should eat a tremendous amount of cod liver oil to avoid scurvy. A good laugh was had by all before you'd actually drank any, thankfully.)). Oh, and realising that you were trapped in Samsara. Or perhaps that was just the tide, as your ship pulled in to the beach.) a slight disappointment, as you were expecting/hoping to land in Greece (or on an island. One of the ones where they have a good deal of alcohol that sits best in coconut glasses and they happen to have fostered a culture in which women were raised attractively (how's that for nature v. nurture?) and to tend to wayward (or not so) captain's needs, like refilling their drink, and turning their beach chair to face the sun, and massaging their feet (if improperly-shod). It really didn't matter, though apparently it should have possibly mattered more, as now you were sitting in India, wet, fed, but having gastronomic indignities, and not, say, on a beach, with a coconut-housed splash of alcohol, attended by hordes and hordes of women, all of whom are considerably more attractive and considerate than hordes and hordes of sailors, even if they're not complaining.), and that only serves to make an already difficult job difficult still. Moreso if someone handcuffs you to the mast.
As then you've no chance of getting the proper shoes, or perhaps bartering with some of the more well-shod shipmates down below.
disclaimer:
You can see a good deal of the city from the top of the wheel.
Including a bizarrely beautiful cascade of light and light and light before you disappear off into Versailles.
Or maybe it's the company.
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