It took thirteen days to vomit!
Hey, it could have been worse. I still haven't fallen off the boat. Or gotten tangled in a mooring line, crashed the ship, gotten keelhauled, or beaten by the skipper. But as green ordeals go, I'm less than pleased to announce that I wrestled with my first (and hopefully last) bout of seasickness yesterday.
We've been busy these last few weeks. Since the fourth--my second day here--it's been nonstop three- or four-day cruises. Take on passengers, into the galley for half a week, see 'em off, and turn around the boat to take on the next load later that same day. Fast-paced, maybe, but ultimately pretty straightforward. Once you figure out the routine, you focus in and get the job done.
Sea sickness, as I've gleaned from various anecdotal sources (and virtually no scientific ones) is essentially a disagreement. Your rational mind recognizes: "I'm on a boat, motherfucker"
You know where the floor is. You see the walls. And you know why the floor occasionally rolls by twenty degrees (see fig. 1)
Your gut, however, registers that, while the floor and walls aren't moving, you're being pitched around like a pinball. It's kinda like being drunk--sensors working for balance in your brain are misfiring left and right. And like being drunk, there's a standard operating procedure to rest it all--purge, baby, purge.
So, you know. I threw up around eleven. A lot.
It's interesting, though. My day can be handily divided into pre- and post-vomit. Tossing my lunch (breakfast, actually) stilled the vertigo, settled my stomach, and allowed me to get back on track.
Don't read too much into that--this isn't an issue of Cosmo. I'm not espousing the curative powers of throwing up. But in a way, spewing up like Jed Clampett's front yard felt like a very visceral rite of passage. Though I wouldn't recommend it, it almost felt like one more obstacle getting shot down between where I am now and actually getting the hang of this place.
Or, similar to my Confucian approach to dishwashing, I might just be waxing philosophical about vomit.
I'm about two hundred pages into the Odyssey right now. I'm torn. On the one hand, it's quite formal in its presentation, which can be occasionally trying--I'm not so invested in a full page describing how cattle thighbones are burned as a sacrifice to Zeus (incidentally, take note--when I ascend to almighty godhood, I will accept sacrifices of Serbian cevapi, Nutella, yogurt pretzels, and large denominations of cash).
On the other, it's a hell of a story--the moments painted by the text are epic in damn near every sense of the word. It helps a lot that the rocky shores, tossing storms, and vast expanses of water sound a lot like what I'm seeing and sailing through on a daily basis.
Side note--Odysseus is kind of a sociopathic dick. Lots of raiding and senseless murder. At one point he bemoans his unjust punishment after a botched raid executed by himself and his crew, still riding high on a kill-boner after the sacking of Troy. I mean, I get the heroics and the archetypes, but sheesh. He's a goddamn Greek viking.
Off on a week-long sail. This might get a bit ugly, but I took my first shower today that didn't involve cold water and a foot pump in two weeks, so I'm feeling good and limber. I'll let you know!
(P.s. The title is, besides a pretty uninspired descriptor, a reference to Seasick Steve, an outstanding blues guitarist. Give him a listen!)
Hey, it could have been worse. I still haven't fallen off the boat. Or gotten tangled in a mooring line, crashed the ship, gotten keelhauled, or beaten by the skipper. But as green ordeals go, I'm less than pleased to announce that I wrestled with my first (and hopefully last) bout of seasickness yesterday.
We've been busy these last few weeks. Since the fourth--my second day here--it's been nonstop three- or four-day cruises. Take on passengers, into the galley for half a week, see 'em off, and turn around the boat to take on the next load later that same day. Fast-paced, maybe, but ultimately pretty straightforward. Once you figure out the routine, you focus in and get the job done.
Sea sickness, as I've gleaned from various anecdotal sources (and virtually no scientific ones) is essentially a disagreement. Your rational mind recognizes: "I'm on a boat, motherfucker"
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Figure 1 |
Your gut, however, registers that, while the floor and walls aren't moving, you're being pitched around like a pinball. It's kinda like being drunk--sensors working for balance in your brain are misfiring left and right. And like being drunk, there's a standard operating procedure to rest it all--purge, baby, purge.
So, you know. I threw up around eleven. A lot.
It's interesting, though. My day can be handily divided into pre- and post-vomit. Tossing my lunch (breakfast, actually) stilled the vertigo, settled my stomach, and allowed me to get back on track.
Don't read too much into that--this isn't an issue of Cosmo. I'm not espousing the curative powers of throwing up. But in a way, spewing up like Jed Clampett's front yard felt like a very visceral rite of passage. Though I wouldn't recommend it, it almost felt like one more obstacle getting shot down between where I am now and actually getting the hang of this place.
Or, similar to my Confucian approach to dishwashing, I might just be waxing philosophical about vomit.
I'm about two hundred pages into the Odyssey right now. I'm torn. On the one hand, it's quite formal in its presentation, which can be occasionally trying--I'm not so invested in a full page describing how cattle thighbones are burned as a sacrifice to Zeus (incidentally, take note--when I ascend to almighty godhood, I will accept sacrifices of Serbian cevapi, Nutella, yogurt pretzels, and large denominations of cash).
On the other, it's a hell of a story--the moments painted by the text are epic in damn near every sense of the word. It helps a lot that the rocky shores, tossing storms, and vast expanses of water sound a lot like what I'm seeing and sailing through on a daily basis.
Side note--Odysseus is kind of a sociopathic dick. Lots of raiding and senseless murder. At one point he bemoans his unjust punishment after a botched raid executed by himself and his crew, still riding high on a kill-boner after the sacking of Troy. I mean, I get the heroics and the archetypes, but sheesh. He's a goddamn Greek viking.
Off on a week-long sail. This might get a bit ugly, but I took my first shower today that didn't involve cold water and a foot pump in two weeks, so I'm feeling good and limber. I'll let you know!
(P.s. The title is, besides a pretty uninspired descriptor, a reference to Seasick Steve, an outstanding blues guitarist. Give him a listen!)
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