Seasickness is merely a state of mind over matter. Any person who succumbs to violent illness while traversing the wonders that are the world’s oceans is only demonstrating his own weakness of mind, body, and spirit. Knowing this statement to be pure fact, when a friend of mine asked me last week if I wanted to go to Bodega Bay and fish for Rock cod and Dungeness crab, I wrapped myself in the cloak of my own testosterone and said, “Absolutely! I would love to go. Can’t wait. Here is a ridiculous amount of money to reserve my space on the boat!”
With a smile, my friend – who we will just call “Bob,” since I have not yet decided if I am going to kill him – took my money. He told me the chartered boat leaves dock Tuesday morning at exactly 5:30 AM; that I should pack a lunch and bring even more cash so I can rent a fishing pole, purchase lures and bait, pay the deck hands to clean any fish I catch, and tip the crew. Still in the deep grip of my own self-delusion, I again said, “Sure. Can’t wait.”
A few days passed and, as promised, I was on board a fishing boat in Bodega Bay on Tuesday morning at 5:30 AM. Me, and about forty other people on a vessel designed to carry no more than twenty and still maintain a reasonable certainty of not sinking or capsizing. The Captain welcomed us aboard with a cheery, “pay me before you go on the boat,” then directed us to find a location at the railing that would be our designated fishing spot. My friend hooked me by the elbow and dragged me to one side of the ship, indicating that I should place my gear on the deck at my feet to reserve the twelve square inches I was allotted.
When everyone was finally situated in each other’s pockets, the captain’s voice came over the loudspeaker, indicating that we would be leaving port momentarily. He stated that we were going to a favorite fishing location of his a few miles out and that we would be fishing until approximately 11 o’clock. At this time, he would turn the boat around and, as we headed back to shore, he would begin pulling up crab pots that he had dropped a few days before. True to his word, we were soon underway.
The water was rough that morning; what sea-going folk might call choppy, or blustery, or whatever the hell sea-going folk call really shitty water. Swells taller than the boat kept picking us up and dropping us back down as we made unnoticeable progress forward. During the first hour of this type of treatment, I held up fairly well, keeping my mind focused on all the crab and fish I would be bringing home for my wife to clean. It was about fifteen minutes into hour number two that I started to feel like I might be in some trouble. I told Bob that I hoped we were going to reach our destination soon. He took one look at me and asked, “Are you okay?”
I think I missed his boots. To be honest, I am not entirely certain what I did and did not manage to avoid as I turned to face the rolling waters beside the boat and attempted to eject half of my bodily organs out through my mouth. I have read that it is physically impossible to die from seasickness. I spent fifteen minutes retching over the boat’s railing, afraid that the author of that piece of information was entirely wrong. After that, as my body purged itself of everything I had consumed over the past forty-eight hours, I became even more afraid that he might be right. Death would have been preferable to the hell I was enduring.
At some point during the nauseated haze that dominated the rest of my fishing trip, the boat at last came to a stop. The Captain announced that passengers could now drop their lines, and he wished us all good luck. Somehow, I succeeded in rigging my fishing pole and putting a hook in the water. After that herculean feat, all I could manage to do was to curl up on the wet, slippery deck in a ball of sick misery. I do recall that every once in a while, Bob would kick me with the side of his boot and shout, “You have a fish on your line. You want me to pull it in?”
With a small wave of my shaking hand, I would indicate to him, “Yes, please. I would like you to reel in my fish as I have not yet finished vomiting onto my shirt and pants. And would you be so kind as to not drop the fish on top of me as you did last time?”
In this manner, over the next several hours my stomach emptied, and my bag of fish filled up. When everyone had caught their limit, including myself through the repeated “help” of my friend, the Captain’s voice requested that everyone reel in their lines because it was time to go collect some crabs.
The trip back to shore is a complete blur. I do recall the boat stopping frequently, and passengers talking excitedly as crab pots were pulled to the surface. I also have a recollection of Bob waving a clawed monstrosity in my face and yelling, “Dude! These babies are huge!” I think I threw up on it. I couldn’t tell you who was unhappier at that moment; me or the crab.
Finally, after nine disastrous hours at sea, I found myself mercifully on unmoving land holding a bag of dead fish in one hand and a bag of live crab in the other. My friend held up his own catch beside me and told me that he had a blast, and that we definitely had to do the same trip again next year.
And that is when I said probably the dumbest thing I have ever said in my life. I looked Bob square in the eyes, and I told him, “Yup. Sounds like fun.”