losing my serenity at sea

Today, my friend "Chica", also known as Optimist on Slapstick showed me a link to a hilarious post. A post  that belly-laughed me straight into a total body memory. The piece I refer to is by Skot on Izzle Pfaff! The post is called: White Whale! Holy Grail!  

I experienced Skot's post as brilliant and almost painfully funny. Because, I was one of the people on that whale watching expedition. Only, not really. The sail boat I was on was called a yacht, there was no watching for whales, and it was in a different hemisphere, at a different time with different people. But, I could have been one of his people and not known it, for Skot's description of what happened that day (his day) hit so close to home, it was as if he had a camera from above, filming my own dreadful trip.  

   *note: I have changed the names of those present on the following expedition, not so much for their privacy, but to save my ass from any of them coming down on me for sharing what was to become one of the most miserable days in my entire life. Yet, I live to tell.

   **extra note: about the photo ... it's not me, it's my friend Nancy, riding magical "Speedy" in the Gulf of Mexico. The photo's only link to the story is the water in the Gulf, and me also being a cowgirl. I did not have a photo of the alleged sailing vessel, and I chose to use this because it's more like me than the me in the forthcoming story. Besides that, I like horses and I like the photo. Except for admiring their craftsmanship and beauty from afar, I don't like boats.

Here it goes ... in email to Chica:

I share of my last, and final for the rest of my life, boating trip. I think I was on that same boat with Skot ... but, like I said before, my trip was not for whale watching in, I'm guessing, some waters in the far far north-west of here. 

Ours was on the annual Moonlight Regatta, a 24 HR (that's 86,400 seconds) sailboat race from Galveston to Corpus Christi, TX --  with my then boyfriend, I shall call "Bird". Our hosts were "Stacy & Mark" and several other nameless and innocent guests. Bird and I had been in the same community of the weekend warrior types with Stacy & Mark, where it was all about self empowerment, and healing our wounded souls. You know, recovering from the insanity of our adolescence, and reclaiming that innate wisdom and joy that on some level we all possess. 

Stacy's dad, dressed in a crisp white uniform, was the Captain of his beautiful 40 ft. sailboat yacht. Captain's First Mate was Stacy's fashionable mom wearing her matching whites. The rest of the crew was Stacy's hunky little brother, and his equally cute friend. Bird was also an experienced sailor, and I (desiring to please) was his timorous guest. 


Full moon still in the sky, we prepared and sailed out of South Shore Harbor @ 4:00 in the morning. Somewhat anxious in the gut, and like a good girl-scout, I was prepared with my ginger candy, ginger-molasses cookies, and acupressure wrists bands - all for preventive measures. It was a lovely pre-dawn as we set sail into the fresh quiet and morning's calm waters. Moments after appreciating the inspiring sunrise, I went below for a nap on one of the high and cushy platform beds. If you, my one reader, hold some any knowledge of sailing, you could be thinking, "recline for a nap below deck? ... big mistake, girrll." 

By the time we we were nearing Galveston Bay, about 3 hours into the race, 8 ft. swells were crashing up and over the sides of the boat. My ginger snaps did not appear to be doing the preventative magic I had hoped for. Bird advised that I might like to come above to ride out this adventure. He escorted me up the 2 steps past the Captain at the helm, then 2 steps more to be greeted by some "weather". The heavy clouds appeared so dark and close to the waves that the scene looked like an illustration out of "The Old Man and the Sea". Holi crap! What fresh hell was about to happen ...

We could hear through the static on the radio that other contestants were dropping left and right out of the race. "Storm coming!" (what the devil then was this squally nightmare?!) I prayed that our Captain would have mercy and turn inland. And, I prayed some more. But, Captain-dad was determined to sail onward. 

I was the first to go down. Couldn't stand up ... slumped over like a spineless rag doll on the deck. My Birdman suggested I move to the rail. Although, this was not exactly what he had in mind when he suggested I "move",  I clung to his calf and allowed myself to be butt-dragged to the rail where I could hang my head through the bars, puking up my soul. I puked and prayed, "I'm One with God, give me peace ... ohh lawsy-lawsy, just let me slide over the side ... I'll dog paddle the 2 miles in to the shore." (ginger cookies purged, dry heaving sets in) "I know there's a sand dune down there somewhere! ... I could walk? maybe dog-paddle? ... even drown! ... ohh, please God, just let me fall in and die! ... I'm One with God! ... oh, what would Deepak do?"  

Waves continue to soak my frozen and pitifully shriveled body. (it was August ... warm Gulf waters ... maybe hurling away your soul lowers body temperature? certainly, nearing death brings on chill.)

Stacy's graceful mom came running up from the galley with a tiny, I mean t-i-n-y plastic cocktail cup, offering that I might like to hurl into the cup rather than down the side of their lovely yacht. (could it matter-a-damn with the deck et al passengers being sopped by these mountainous crashing waves?)  I glared smiled meekly, then politely accepted the cup, for surely I must have looked like I was enjoying myself, glistening pale green and putrid in the rising sunlight. 

Mark-the-asshole fiancee, from a secure spot astern the rolling coffin, chirps out to me in his most supportive weekend-warrior voice ... "thank you, Pamela, for doing our work for us". This gave all a good cackle with Mark's humor at my expense.  My only response could be a weakly raised single finger gesture.

Just minutes later, seconds even, my angels gave up the last laugh. Ahh hahaha. One by one, each of the guests and crew were dropping, leaving only thumps of squall soaked bodies everywhere. Stacy's dainty mom was losing her breakfast bran-muffins overboard (sans tiny cup). At last, bounding up from the control station where he had been courageously commanding his handsome sailing vessel, came El Capi-tan - who commenced to spew away his dignity. 

From my shadow side, to the optimist inside of me, there came a wee bit gratitude for the comfort of feeling not-so-alone in this wet hell. My humiliation was now a shared experience.

Soon afterwards, Captain-daddy recovered enough to radio someone, somewhere, "#8, blah, blah, blah, dropping out ..." ("oohh, thank you! thank you! thank you, heavenly gracious goddesses and generous gods of the sea!") The boat turns, making headway toward the harbor. Yet, it was another gruesome hour and a half (5,400 seconds) of fighting swells before we were on solid ground. 

Superfluous to say, what little was left of me slithered and clawed my way like Gollum down the plank onto dry concrete where I found myself a very cool and dark corner in which I pretended to be dead. I laid still and silent, hoping no one would talk or attempt to move me. When I was capable of standing (somewhat) erect, there appeared a greasy-juicy hamburger to fuel my remains for the many-more hours awaiting a ride back to civilization (home).

In closure, I must give an honorable mention to the brave ones of the day who kept their sea legs about them. The only sailors unafflicted with the green misery were: Stacy's hunky little brother who had secured himself to the mast for the entire nightmare, and who was whooping it up like only a Texas grown hunky-boy could do; to his equally cute friend who kept on his own sea legs, and of course, my Bird-man ... standing pale and upright like a frozen yellow-slicker'd statue with his green eyes set on the horizon. 

Those few hours of unmitigated wretchedness were so deeply registered in my bio-computer as a great reminder of why I am certain ... that I always have been ... and I promise to always ... stay grounded on dry land as a tree climbing, mountain-loving, sky-jumping cowgirl ... who doesn't like boats.