Nearly Overboard

 

“Other side!” 

The fishermen yelled nearly in unison one right after the other, down the line while each burly guy with his cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth, shot back from the starboard railing of the boat as it turned around for yet another pass over a particular patch of good fishing.  

I was told the ropes.  

“If you’re sick, take it over the side – do not come down into the cabin bathroom!”

The boat’s altered orientation continuously aimed it in a new wind direction as it circled; and the wind was strong and erratic.  

I was often forced to traverse a seriously rocking boat to get to the ‘other side;’ a side with a more appropriate wind direction for that moment.  In my state I did not have the luxury of choosing and changing sides mid session.  In spite of the fishing men’s repeated frustration, with my poor projection of wind, waves, and the captain’s zigging, zagging, and circling boat; my state of consciousness was not focused on which way the ever changing wind would be as the boat turned, it was intently focused on navigating the undulating slippery wood planks of the deck.  I was concentrating on not tripping on the crab trap rope coils, and not breathing when the smell of fish and cigarette smoke that gagged me.   

Since the deck hands would not hose it down until the evening when the boat was docked, I was concentrating on getting to the rail and trying hard to not add one more bit of smelly messy debris to the deck that we all would suffer smelling the rest of the day.  I tried to only see the ruby colored fish guts and heads strewn about the deck enough to not smear them under my boot and fall. 

This time, I had not made it to the ‘other side.‘  The wind was at my back when I arrived starboard, and it was a tail wind as I got to the side and leaned toward the water as they violently shouted, 

“Other Side!” 

– it was too late to change sides. Once at the rail, I could only hold tight and loose all I had, as the captain veered right – into the wind.  The fishing men who had been permanently perched at their sequestered spots shoulder to shoulder along the starboard rail, moved instantly in orchestrated succession like dominos, as they whipped their outstretched fishing poles and extended lines back towards themselves while falling against the cabin in fierce retreat as a horizontal stream of vomit flew past in the wind level with their heads, and closer to them as it got towards the bow.  Their reactions were quick; the main wavy liquid trail that tore by like a lost scarf, missed their recoiling faces by inches. Random spatters still hit them making them cringe and contort their rugged, salty, bearded faces.

“Ewww!” “Ahhh!” “Uhhhgh!” “Gross!”  They sounded as it went by.

Once the excitement passed they all lit up another cigarette, swigged on their beer bottles, stepped up to the rail and went seriously back to fishing like nothing ever happened.  Yet, they knew to look out whenever I arrived at the rail through out the day.

I might have laughed or even wished it were on film – yet, at the time, I was wretchedly stressed-out and unhappy.  

Serves them right for smoking!  I thought while I blotted the tears from my eyes, wiped my mouth with my sleeve, brushed the hair out of my face, and blew remains out of my nose on a paper towel.  

Then I calmly enjoyed the brief lull for the next few minutes before another stomach surge began.  Intermittently, for about three to five minutes just after barfing, the few minutes I was no loner overcome with nausea, (until the next wave of it) I felt well enough to sit on the turquoise blue seat covers of the padded benches and marvel at the beautiful surroundings.  I took in the beauty of the cliffs, heard the squawking seagulls circling above the boat and marveled at the breaks of sun light in distant clouds. Views that were stunningly beautiful, serene, blissful.

The rest of the time, I was gagging from the cigarette smoke and hating life so much I wanted to die.

I was on that chartered fishing boat for twelve and a half hours.  I had no sea legs at all.  

I had every patch, wrist band, herbal remedy and drug available – none of it worked.  

Twenty-eight out of the thirty-two passengers were chain smoking all day long.  I was loosing my cookies every ten minutes for eleven hours, and the internal contractions from retching were so severe I suffered bladder incontinence each time I threw up – all day long.  I soaked the layers of hip outdoor clothing I had on to keep warm while out at sea, fabrics to block out the cold weather.  I had on cotton leggings under my fleece pants, and waterproof nylon wind pants as a top layer to keep me dry. Those pants became a huge diaper cover that kept me wet, all the way down to my ankles.  The only seepage was into my socks and shoes – shoes I never wore again. 

There was rarely any ‘non-sick’ time long enough for me to use the bathroom for the right reason.  The few times I tried going down the steps into the lower section of the boat, to pee in a proper way, left me unable to peel off my cold wet tights, and the mix of fried foods, roasted coffee, with bran muffins and steamed hotdogs, and assorted other smells from the cafe sent me right back up the stairs to the deck, trying to calculate which way the wind was blowing so I could chose the correct side of the boat to hang over the rail and heave and not have it suddenly fly back into my own face.

Just after we got out of the bay and into ocean waters my pants were so soaked, not long after that, I reeked of ammonia that burned my chaffed skin the rest of the day.  It did not get better as the day wore on.  I felt so bad, I contemplated how long it might take my pee soaked fleece pants to attract sharks if I flopped over the side; or whether the ammonia would keep them away; or whether the salt water would sting the irritated skin of my raw inner thighs, and whether the cold ocean would chill all my sensations away.  

It was not that I was scared of falling over the rail; I considered jumping over and swimming back to the Golden Gate.  I was trying to calculate just how far north we had come along the coast, and how long it would take me to swim back, especially on an empty stomach in wet winter clothes.  I wondered whether the current would help or hinder me, and where was the closest place to get out once I got inside the bay?  

How long it would be before I might get rescued by another boat.   If the Marin coast had not been sheer cliffs, I might have thought to wash up there.  Seemed like a really cold and risky idea, yet one I could not let go; I needed an option to how I felt – anything was better than this!  I wondered if I would get hypothermia or drowned from exhaustion before the captain knew I went over. 

Eventually I was hoping I would simply die quickly and not feel unbearably sick anymore. I wanted the sharks to come immediately and take me out of misery.  Nothing was worse than repeatedly puking my guts out and feeling completely miserable.  I wanted to crawl out of my own skin; I wanted an out of body experience so I could endure the stress without having to feel any of it.  The captain would not spend the time nor fuel to take me back to the east side of the bay before thirty fishermen had their day fishing on the ocean, and I was in hell knowing I had many more hours to endure.

Sometimes Jon would come and sit next to me and check in with me, but mostly he was hanging out with his teenage son, helping Tim with his lures and line.They were having a fine time, they even enjoyed eating the lunch we had packed, something I could not even think about.  I forced myself to drink water to minimize the pain of dry heaves.  Not eating all day, left me really exhausted, yet sitting or laying down to rest only worked for a few short minutes.  

While I sat, I pondered how it was that I agreed to do such a disservice to my body.  Here is how my agreeing to go fishing began:

When I met Jon, nearly five years prior to this day on the boat, within a few weeks, he said, 

“I love you so much, I want to take you fishing!”  

That was the sweetest darn sports-geeky-guy thing I had ever heard! I was bowled over.  Yet, it took many years of patiently waiting for that offer to play out, so when it did, I could hardly retain my excitement about being gifted with a chance to share something with him that was usually reserved for his brother, dad and son.  However I was not thinking tough guy outing with a bunch of burly smokers. 

Instead, my idea was romantic and lovely.

The images that came to my mind were in paintings I had seen in art history classes – and experiences I had in my twenties on small lakes in row boats.  What I pictured was far from Jon’s experience fishing.  

I was imagining he and I on a small private lake in the Sierras, the kind you hike a few miles to get to, a lake that is set up with a cabin nearby, and has a surface like glass in the spring or summer time, when the weather is warm and relaxing. I was thinking fly fishing to catch trout from a boat the shape of an antique gondola.  

I saw myself in a long renaissance dress, with a parasol, a decoratively embroidered blanket with gold fringe and tassels on the corners - something cozy to lean back on. I pictured a few sandwich squares, a bunch of colorful sweet grapes, wine I don’t ever drink, chunks of diced sharp cheddar cheese.  I imagined, my warm bare toes brushing against each other in the sun, and my ungloved sultry hand sensually grazing the top of the water.  

I would watch my lover’s careful movements and precise coordination with adoring eyes while his fishing line briefly snapped down on the glassy surface of the lake forming ripples and rings around the spots Jon’s teasing the fish into thinking a flying insect has just lit on the water.  And because it is remote and no one else is around we might make love in that boat after lunch when the fish for the day are caught. Most of all, on that water, there is not one wave – ever – unless we make it.  There is no element creating discomfort I am forced to manage.  

I had a very different idea of what it would mean to be invited to “go fishing” with Jon and what the trip would be like.  The idea I had was completely peaceful and enjoyable.

In contrast to a dreamy warm afternoon on a lake, the chartered fishing boat left before 6 am Sunday morning, which meant we had to be there by 5:15 am.  I had in mind a fishing adventure that began leisurely in the afternoon amongst many restful days.  To not be late for the chartered boat, Jon, his son & I slept like sardines in the back of his aged banged-up Chevy Suburban, amongst our gear and the smell of gas and oil from the car parts he carted around in his car.  

It was a Saturday evening, the night after the fourth of July in 2003, we had no idea we would be awake most of the night due to repeating loud noise; explosions of leftover bottle rockets, fire crackers, and cherry bombs going off in the parking lot and shoreline where we parked in Emeryville, in the east part of San Francisco Bay.

Not only was our fishing excursion not romantic for either of us, at some point Jon lost his patience and he tried to make me to snap out of being sick.  He wanted me to simply decide to not feel bad, convinced that suggestion was all I needed to feel better, as if I had chosen to feel awful.  I did not know it then, but that fishing trip seemed to separate us; it was the beginning of us not being a couple. 

When the boat reentered the bay at 4:30 pm, I was hopeful we would come into the dock early on behalf of my extreme and unrelenting discomfort, but few fishermen had caught fish, so the captain cruised around the choppy waters close to the rocks surrounding Alcatraz island about five times before heading back to the dock, a half hour late, at 6:30pm.

I could not get off that boat fast enough and when I did, all I could think of was getting to stable ground and laying down in hopes of sleeping it off.  I did not want to get in another moving vehicle, nor share my nose-burning stench within the confinement of a vehicle. I had to get cleaned up, to rinse off the burning ammonia off tender flesh of my inflamed chaffed thighs.  

There was a few showers in the women’s bathroom, in the club room, the first building on land. The toilets were for public use, however, the showers were exclusively posted for the “Club Members Only” and each had a combinational lock on it.  Yet if held open to the next person in line, a nonmember could shower.  Jon got my dry clothes from the truck and I stood in line hoping I could catch the door at the right moment, before it closed when a woman exited the shower, so I could get in without a membership code. 

After 45 minutes, of my patiently waiting it was my turn, I was so close to relief I nearly cried thinking about it.

Yet the refreshed and perfectly primped lady exiting the shower snapped at me, when 

I motioned and pleaded with her, 

"please hold the door open for me."

“It’s for members only!” She said curtly.

“Please,” I begged, “I am in desperate need of a shower”

“Why?”

Isn’t it obvious?  I thought, Do you not have a nose?  Must I explain?

I wanted to take my embarrassing predicament behind closed doors, take off my nasty clothes and throw them in the trash when I came out and leave it all behind me.  As humiliated as it was to be standing there for nearly an hour reeking of piss, and ammonia,  I knew I could never feel worse than I had all day.  

I was shaking for being weak and seeped in ammonia, and I was in need of water and food that stayed in me. There had been no way to change anything I had been through all day.  Now I had a chance to doing something to feel better; I was determined to get that shower.   

All I could manage to reluctantly say was the truth.  “I peed my pants all day on a boat.” 

“Well, You shoulda used the toilet!” she exclaimed with pride - as if I were so stupid I had not considered that option.

 

She looked at me with a smirk of disgust and dramatically let the door close and lock shut while she stood in the way of me reaching the handle to prevent it from closing.

I stood there in shock of her lack of compassion, my jaw gaped open and my vision went blurry – eyes welling with tears.  I probably looked like the most drug crazed pathetic street urchin.  I was too stressed out to hold my composure.  Tears filled my eyes.

Just as I was about to give up and leave completely defeated, I thought, I have to get out of these clothes – now!   It occurred to me I could strip out of my soaked clothes right in front of the sinks and shamelessly washing myself in front of everybody. Then I heard,

“Here, use this one", a kind woman said in a low tone as she stepped out of the adjacent shower room like an angel, and patiently held the door for me while I collected my clothing and toiletries.  

I did not really see her eye to eye – I could not focus through my tears, and I was too embarrassed for crying, to meet her caring gaze.  

Above the upset of all I had been through, I simply felt deeply grateful for the opportunity to wash the burning ammonia off my skin, and transform a painful no-good day with the comforting warmth of clean hot water on my tired self during a really good long hot shower.