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Rough Seas

Ever since the day we went fishing my stomach has not been the same.

Last Friday during our vacation, the units, brother unluckyTrinidad, the boyfriend and I went out on a fishing boat. It wasn’t the boat we always go on but what is a trip to the Keys without a trip on the seas. We always come back boasting coolers (and yes I meant to pluralise that) full of fish, and this trip was not supposed to be any different.

We weren’t so lucky.

I think all of us would rather blame the location–and maybe even the oil spill–for the small amount of fish we caught, but it was mother nature who took us on that night because the fish were present.

The week was super relaxing, though we spent most of it watching football and planning all other events around the matches. When everyone supports a different team it just means dedicating more time to watching than just one day. (Note to self: Do not plan a trip with men during the World Cup.)

The weather was perfect, the people were friendly, and the island breeze felt good when relaxing by the pool, walking around town, and laying out at the beach. Who doesn’t like a nice breeze mixed in with some heavy sunshine?

About half the boat; that’s who.

We chose what we thought was the least windy of our days to head out to sea. We even decided to go at night to escape the tremendous heat. But it seems as if the trip was doomed from the start.

As a precaution, mother dearest, the boyfriend and I decided to take the seasick pill considering the fact that we are somewhat prone to it. (Sure you can take a moment to gasp. Yes; the mermaid gets seasick. Jaw-dropping shocker I know.) I definitely felt like that was the night I was going to get sick. In a sick and twisted turn of events–no pun intended–I was the only one in the group who didn’t.

The boat left the dock around 7pm and we sailed for about an hour and 20 minutes before finding the perfect location. By 9 o clock, half an hour later, about 20 of the boat’s approximately 30 passengers were hurling their guts overboard. All around me all I could hear–besides the splish-splash of the water on the side of the boat–was urghhh and aghhh and blechh. You would think that after a while of that you would want to throw up yourself. I didn’t. But everyone else caught on. It was something like an epidemic. One by one everyone slowly stopped fishing.

I won’t take credit for being the only soldier on the boat though, as there were a few completely weird normal people in the bow who fished the entire night as if the right-side-up-ness of the boat was not being threatened with every mini-tsunami. That impressed me. I certainly couldn’t fish the whole time, what with the wind blowing throw up in my face from all sides. Eventually, only about five people out of the whole boat were still fishing, and I was not one of them. I took the time to lay down and ensure that I kept what was in my stomach, in my stomach.

It took a lot of concentration.

Speaking of soldier, I have to hand it to the boyfriend who caught the biggest fish in our group. He will never be able to live down the fact that he was throwing up and reeling in fish simultaneously. Had all of us kept fishing no doubt we would have filled our buckets as we usually do; but the last thing on anyone’s mind were fish (They were too busy counting down the hours until the boat would start moving at 11 30.)

Looking back, everyone can laugh about it. (And the throw up really made for good chum. That’s why the lady in the back who fished all night ended up pulling in a massive gray snapper a few minutes after the boyfriend’s runner-up.) I know there were many prayers going around and many people yearning to go back to dry land where they can finally stay still.

The worst part of it all, though, is that the fish were certainly out–and boy were they biting.

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