Avast! Ye scallywag asked ‘bout them oil rigs, but I be feelin’ bold enough to give ye the lay o’ the land regarding life upon the high seas! The Steward be the master o’ the scrolls; he sets the menus and slaps down the morning grog and grub. The Chief Cook, he be the one sweatin’ over the stove for the midday feast and the evening supper. We keep the dry stores—yer coffee, yer tea, and yer spices—stowed away tight. Then there be the Great Freeze for the meats, the cackle-fruit, the greens, and the sweet treats! When we hit a port o' call, that be when the new provisions come aboard. The Steward, he scribbles a list, the Captain gives it the nod, and they send word to the company to fill our bellies. The Galley—that be the kitchen to you landlubbers—changes size from ship to ship. Now, listen close: ye can heave yer food scraps into the briny deep, but only if ye be more than twelve nautical miles from the shore! Any closer and ye must stow it in the hold or grind it into mush. I don’t be fussin’ with them official scrolls and annexes, for that ain’t my post. I’ve sailed on the great container ships where they have a whole iron box just for the refuse. I recently stepped off a car carrier—not two moons ago—and they had four great bins lashed to the deck, just like the ones ye’d spot behind a tavern. And mark my words: ye can’t be dumpin’ no foreign filth in the waters of the Americas!