Well Ive never had claustrophobia, engine rooms are just hot and unconfortable. you spend most of your time on deck though, you dont stay in an engine room, just make rounds sometimes to check on it or if it needs work. Its unsafe to be in that heat for long.

But pretty much, only certain people get claustrophobia

Greg has a nice taste in music. He prefers Edith Piaf, Chet Baker, Phil Collins, and Dusty Springfield. He also prefers early punk music like Iggy Pop and the Stooges. He has a few custom made CD's that he plays on a boom box.

How can you say someone has a nice tatse in music when they don't even have any Judas Priest? FAIL

You fail for not having a more diverse taste in music. ;)

Have him play judas to pump him up before workouts, or battle.

He doesn't seem like a dude who'd listen to Judas Priest

I have to say, you go way further in-depth with your characters than I ever have. Usually my character bios consist of a single 4 or 5 line paragraph describing their course in life from where they were born to present day.

Here's another part of my manuscript:

A hot, caramel colored liquid poured from the coffee machine and into the pot. Greg grabbed a coffee mug off the table and poured himself a cup. He then opened up the refrigerator and started searching for cream. He found a small carton of it on top of a six pack of Castle Lager beer. Greg slowly poured it into the coffee until the pitch black liquid turned into a creamy brown color.

When he had finished his first cup, a six foot tall man walked through the door. He had light brown hair and bulky, muscular arms. He had slate grey eyes, cold as steel. He wore a muscle shirt with a few grease stains, a pair of cargo pants, and black boots. A pair of dog tags hanged around his neck. He carried two pistols, one in a belt holster and the other in a shoulder holster. The belt pistol was a Mark 23 .45 pistol, a fine gun exported from Germany. The other was a .44 caliber Desert Eagle, a custom gun he had got from Israel. The frame of the pistol was stainless while the barrel and slide was black. He sat down in a chair and scratched the back of his head. The man's name was Anthony Childers. Everyone on the boat called him Ares, since he seemed like the modern day god of war.

"Mornin', Ares. Coffee?"

"Sure. Black and add a bit of brandy to it."

Greg grabbed a coffee mug and a bottle of Cognac. He filled the mug a quarter with liquor and the rest with coffee. He handed it to Ares, who took a sip of it.

"You mind if I ask you a question?"

"Go ahead. Shoot."

"Why do you put liquor in your coffee?"

"Well," he said leaning back in his chair, "It gives it more flavor. The combination of the two keeps you awake and puts out the fire in your gut."

"Interesting theory" Greg said, lighting another cigarette.

"You know if you keep smoking those every five minutes, you'll have to start carrying an oxygen tank and smoke from a hole in your neck."

"Relax, this is my second one of the day. Besides, you smoke cigars."

"Yes, but once in a blue moon. Anyway, when will we get back home?"

"In about four hours. I'd better get Johnny up. He's the only person on this boat who knows how to properly pilot this damn thing."

That's pretty good, man

Here's more:

Greg left the kitchen with his cigarette in hand. He walked down the hall and stopped where the music of Steely Dan was heard. He knocked on the door. No answer. He knocked again, this time louder. Still no answer. Finally, Greg kicked the door down, startling Johnny. Johnny was around 27 years old with jet black hair, green eyes, a stubble beard, and skin that had been burnt to a tannish color by the sun. He always wore an olive green flak jacket with a t-shirt underneath, cargo pants, and a pair of Reebok tennis shoes. As of now, he was lying on his bed with a thick, hard cover book in one hand and a Glock pistol in the other.

"You know if you draw a 9mm on a former soldier turned mercenary armed with a .45, you better be ready to use it."

"Jesus Greg, you scared the shit out of me. Have you ever heard of knocking?"

"I did knock. Twice. You obviously didn't hear me since you had your music on so loud."

"Yeah, sorry about that." Music was one of the things Johnny loved most, besides reading and fishing. His taste varied, ranging from Creedance to Beethoven with The Clash, the Stones, and The Doors in between.

"Anyway, listen up. We're about four hours from Cape Town. I want you and Chief to plot out a course. I've had this floating piece of scrape metal on automative drive ever since I headed in for the night. You can get yourself a cup of coffee in the kitchen if you like."

Greg shifted his gaze towards the other side of the room. In another bed was a sandy haired young man with blue eyes. He was nervously clutching a rifle.

"Good morning, Todd."

"Seriously Greg, have you ever heard of knocking?"

"I have, but it doesn't work on Johnny." he said heading towards the door. "If you want me, I'll be in my cabin."

"Should we knock or kick the door down?"

"I'd prefer the former."

Greg walked down the hall and entered his cabin. On the righthand side of the room was a cast iron framed bed with a quilt in place of a blanket. On the lefthand side of the room was a dresser with two framed photos on top of it. The first picture was of his unit during his time in the South African Special Forces. The second was of him and Katie. He didn't remember when it was taken but had a feeling that the two of them had been drinking heavily that night. In front of him was a desk and folding chair. On top of the desk was a desk lamp, an ashtray with a few cigarettes in it, and a cleaning kit for his .45. The attire and weapon of his Rwandan mission were scattered across the room.His vest and flak jacket was on the floor along with a khaki shirt and pants. His belt was on his bed, fitted with a Fairbairn-Sykes fighting knife, a half empty canteen, two spare magazines for his handgun, and three unused soviet RGD-5 hand grenades. His R5 assault rifle leaned against his desk.

Greg sat down at the desk and pulled his handgun out of its holster. On one side of the slide read "Kimber" in fancy letters. Below it in smaller letters was "Warrior II .45 ACP Serial No. 03161995". He unloaded it and pulled back on the slide. The chambered bullet flew out of the ejection port, and he caught it with his hand.

Greg turned on his desk lamp and began to disassemble the gun. He pressed down on the disassembly hatch and pulled the slide off. He then removed the barrel and looked through it. It was fairly dusty. He took a bore mop and ran it through the barrel three or four times. He took a swab and cleaned out the magazine well. He then put a thin coat of oil on the weapon. Lastly, he reassembled the gun, loaded a magazine into it, chambered a round, and engaged the safety.

Greg reached under his desk and took out an old stereo. He then opened his desk drawer and among the cluttered mess of pens, coins, and bits and scrapes of paper, he took out a CD case. It was a soundtrack he got made. It mainly featured Chet Baker and Edith Piaf. He took it out of its case, put it into the machine, and hit the "play" button. La Vie En Rose soon filled the room. He adored that women's voice. He loved that beautiful voice. He thought the women's voice was God's gift to man. Greg laid on the bed and closed his eyes, letting his mind go blank.