Cresting a particularly large swell, I'm sent headfirst into the wall by my bunk and woken by a sizeable headbutt. There are nicer ways to start the day; a smoking coffee and a fresh blueberry muffin in bed perhaps. The clock says 7am and we're out in open sea again. For a good hour I bemusedly watch our room rock from side to side. Cupboards creak open and close; the sink gurgles and water bottles freely explore the floor. I already feel a bit ropey, but try to put it to the back of my mind; I'm a great advocate of mind over matter and all that jazz. There are varying methods of avoiding seasickness and I've heard mixed reports of being bedbound in a rocking room. Nautical wisdom suggests a steady horizon and taking in fresh air.
Once the roomies rouse, with varying degrees of tinto headaches, we tentatively take the stairs down for breaky. Marginally less fishy eggs, bread, ham, pineapple yoghurt and coffee. In hindsight, if you put these ingredients in a blender and you're more than halfway to making vomit.
The boat was being bullied by the sea now and folk were struggling to walk, let alone carry trays of food. I mistakenly overfilled my coffee and pour a good half me brew over me tray. Upping the ante however, to a comedic degree, was a member of staff mopping the dining area floor. Talk about adding insulting lawsuit to injury. Several slipped, recovered and maintained their dignity, but one girl straight dropped on the ol' coxics. Good timing mop man.
Breakfast is served with a sickbag, which I make into a fetching hat. It turned out that at 6am the crew went round offering seasickness pills to guests. But it seems our room was missed or we slept through. Shortly after starting my meal, we're slammed by another wave and French Juliet's grim powdered peach squash tips itself over my eggs and bread. Excellent... just peachy. I continue to eat and almost finish, when all of a sudden I'm overcome by a wave of nausea. I take my leave and step outside to take in the fresh air.
Staggering about on deck it dawns on me that I do in fact get sea sick, cos I feel terrible. It's my first time, and the sea ain't being gentle. The horizon offers no assistance whatsoever, the mouth wets, I cop my hat and moments later get to see my breakfast again, this time in Technicolor! Today was a bad day to be wearing the afghan scarf, tassels blowing everywhere, catching every fleck. Hanging over my vombag I distractedly sniff, (I can't help it, I'm a sniffer) and the aroma is surprisingly unvomitey. Probably good for those around me. There's nowt like the smell of spew to set folk off.
They say no valuable travel experience comes without a dose of hardship, and I concur. It adds colour to events. Though I couldn't escape the irony that this hardship was to be found on a hard ship. However, akin to taking a drunken drive on the porcelain bus I felt surprisingly chipper after a good hurl. So I join the bright eyed, slightly mental German named Christoph up front. Fresh air and horizon. Fresh air and horizon. Together we ride the storm and admire the impressive girth of the waves. Again they're wave systems on giant wave banks, apparently up to 6m top to bottom. We ride up one and smash down into the front of the next, sending a massive shower over the bow.
I take a few photos of the bow being battered and watch ghostly folk chunder over the portside, splashing on victims downwind looking less than amused. Less amused than I anyway. Staff rock around helpfully distributing sickbags and tending to the sick.
It's not long and the bell strikes again for round two. Me vs. Seasickness. Not only are the odds not in my favour, but the fresh sea air is flecked with the smell of vomit and the faeces of a hundred head of cattle, horse and sheep. A second bag gets filled, this time with more precision and with the scarf tucked away. Not so many solids this time. Soon I'm retching on bile, which is never fun. This time, while making torturous noises over a plaggy bag I absently wonder if cows get seasick.
Feeling less chipper this time, and more beaten up, I find a bench outside to rest my weary bones. Throwing up takes it out of you, in more ways than one. I join French-German Sandra, who's sporting the same tell-tale bloodshot eyes of a spewer. We joke that we don't remember reading about this in the promotional material. Then I duck off again for strike 3. Pulling hard on nothing I almost put my shoulder out of joint. A biley concoction somehow finds its way out of my nose, leaving me with the opposite of an air freshener up my conk.
Lunchtime. No mate. Sandra and I, dressed in everything warm we have, share a blanket in the adjacent lounge and watch crap movies. The boat continues to be knocked senseless and diners plates plunge off lipped tables to an explosive doom. I hear one of the Aussy talk about an "ugly trip to the dunny" where he found the waves have stopped the bogs flushing.
That night, after 12 hours in rough seas and tentatively putting dinner away, I decide to stay away from the sauce and take an early night. At least until I get a beer. Beer's ok. And a cup of red Carmenere from Andrew. Then surprisingly I feel fine. Gather round peeps and get the cards out. Lets play Shithead... Leeds rules.
Barns
