It's become a bit of a cliche to say that two cowboys lost at sea during wartime will inevitably fall in love. It's not true in every case. There was once a time when I was a cowboy, but in my defence I didn't know any better. It was 2003 and we'd just invaded Iraq.
I found myself trapped on a raft in an unknown ocean with a fellow cowboy named John. We were both the straightest of heterosexuals and neither of us harboured any supressed homosexual feelings of any kind.
Within three hours of being on that raft we entered into what many would call a 14 month love affair, but anyone who would call it that would be wrong. Yes, we'd kiss, cuddle, make love and talk about how much we cared for each other, but it was nothing more than an elaborate game of Gay Chicken. Neither of us wanted to be the first to say "Hold on there, I'm not gay" for fear of being labelled gay. We captured a seagull and raised him like a child.