Me and . . . Open Water

Somewhere out there are whales . . . and nausea. In no particular order.

Water and I have a thing.

We love each other.

Okay, so I love water. I really don't know how it feels about me.

Moving on . . .

We were going whale watching off the west coast of California.

I was . . . ummm . . . excited. I loved water. And things in the water. And boats.

I should maybe point out here that the sum total of my water experience consisted of my river and Chin lake. Not necessarily in that order.

We put on our life jackets.

Oooo! Stylin'!

Climbed aboard.

So far so good.

The engine started.

My heart rate increased.

We pulled smoothly away from the dock.

Still fine.

We skimmed lightly across the bay.

Okay, so, it was a fat, clumsy boat, loaded to the gunwales with tourists . . . and people. But I chose the word 'skimmed' and I'm sticking with it.

My more daring family members were already hanging out over the rails, looking down into the amazingly blue water as it slipped past.

I managed to find a seat inside the little 'house' part.

So, yes, I was a little trepidatious (real word - really!).

We cleared the bay and moved out into open water.

And then the boat started . . . for want of a better term . . . bucking.

Now, I should point out here that I'm used to bucking. In fact, bucking has been a daily ritual in the horse corral since forever.

Just not this kind of bucking.

The deck under my feet rose up. Then, just as I bent over to see if my stomach had actually fallen out and been deposited somewhere under my bench, the deck fell.

And I mean fell.

Worse than an elevator. (And elevators and I do have a history . . .)

Worse than when I fell off the barn roof.

In fact, most of my inner parts were rapidly in danger of becoming . . . outer.

And, just like that, I was sick.

Really sick.

I had been told to stare at the horizon.

I tried.

But the horizon was going up and down along with the boat, the tourists and me.

Maybe it shouldn't be called 'seasick'. Maybe it should be 'seesick'. Because there sure is a lot to see.

Okay, so horizon staring wasn't going to work.

I began to count the steps. Four to the doorway. Four more across the deck.

Could I make it?

I mean, before something . . . icky . . . happened.

Another heave of the deck.

Okay, so the choice was taken from me.

It was sprint or die.

I sprinted.

I needn't go into the details of what happened next. I suppose you can furnish your own particulars. Suffice it to say that I lost everything I had ever eaten.

Or even thought of eating.

Funny thing about being sick on a tourist boat.

Everyone suddenly has something else to look at.

On the opposite side from you.

I was abruptly, gratefully, alone.

Okay, yes, the boat was tilting alarmingly to one side as people scrambled to be somewhere else.

But at least, my humiliation and I could happily enjoy our time together without danger of being interrupted.

I don't remember much about the rest of the trip. We saw some whales. I was hauled out of my bench in the cabin in time to see a whole herd (erm . . . pod) of them.

They were neat.

And wet.

And . . . splashy.

And never in my whole life was I so relieved to stand, later, on real, solid ground.

I didn't kiss it. I didn't dare shift that much.

But I knew that it, and I, were very happy to see one another.

There is a codicil.

My husband took me whale-watching off the coast of Maine.

I stayed outside and kept my face into the wind.

And my lunch stayed where it had been instructed.

We came upon a cow/calf pair of  whales. (I'm ashamed to admit that I can't remember what kind of whale. They were neat. And wet. And splashy.)

The mother left her baby and dove. The calf stayed where it was, lolling in the waves and the sun. Occasionally batting at the water with a flipper.

Every few minutes, our guide would say something informative.

Finally, she said, "I bet none of you can say that you've sat beside a sleeping whale!"

My husband glanced at me.

Okay, I admit that, when hugely pregnant, I have described myself thusly (another real word).

I hit him anyways.

Grant vs THE BLOB



Grant, age 3.  Jelly Fish rescuer.  And cutie.

 It looked like a blob.
It was a blob.
A blob of jelly-like substance, trailing long streamers and lying inert on the dark, sandy shore.
We stared at it. Walked around it. One of my brothers touched it with a tentative toe.
Yep. Blob.
The rest of my family soon lost interest and walked away. I squatted down and continued to study the strange . . . thing.
We were children of the prairies and knew, intimately, the frogs, snakes, minnows and other creatures that inhabited our little river. But here, facing the great and awesome expanse labeled 'ocean', we were . . . out of our depth (pun intended) . . . so to speak.
And this? This was something new. Something unheard of. Something mysterious.
I think it was a jelly fish, but, somehow, admitting that takes away the magic.
I continued to study it.
It didn't move. Probably a good thing, considering that it was roughly the size of a chicken. And we all know my apprehensions concerning the members of that 'feathery' set.
I narrowed my eyes. Something about the creature was wrong.
Oh, I might be from the prairies, but, believe me, I know when something is out of place. And that jelly fish was definitely out of place.
Somehow, in my mind, I could picture it . . . floating happily.
That's it! Floating!
I was a genius!
All I needed to do was to somehow get this creature back into the water where it belonged.
I walked around it again. Maybe I could pick it up . . .
I reached out. Then stopped and looked at my hands. Then back at it.
No. That didn't seem right.
Another circuit.
I had it!
I would find something to lift it as unobtrusively (and yes, that is a word) as possible and send it home.
I ran up and down the beach, and finally spotted a worthy tool for the job at hand. A long plank, weathered and beaten by the waves.
I drug it across the sand and carefully maneuvered one end of it underneath my . . . erm . . . blob.
Gently, I slid it further and further, careful not to jar or disturb my stranded friend.
Finally, I had pushed it completely underneath.
I was ready.
Carefully, I lifted the plank.
With . . . most . . . of the jelly fish aboard.
In horror, I watched the strange creature disintegrate.
I mean, I've heard of going to pieces, but this thing . . . really did.
Imagine trying to lift a blob of jello with a board.
Soft jello, like my Mom makes. Not the concrete kind that they serve in restaurants.
You get the picture.
This was worse.
It left it's legs and arms and a good portion of the rest of it on the sand.
Umm . . . Ick.
Panicked, I swung my board and threw the portion I had managed to collect into the water.
The rest, I abandoned.
What would be the point?
I'm pretty sure both halves were dead.
Or at least very, very ill.
Who is it that says that no good deed goes unpunished?
They were right.