As I child I suffered from motion sickness, making lengthy car drives an ordeal. I loved spending time at the cottage in Muskoka but it was a long trip, the last part involving hilly roads and sharp curves, and I always arrived at our destination more than just a little sick. Our car was a small Ford Studebaker, a vehicle which offered little space for our family of six, and I was always instructed (and for good reason!) to sit beside a window. I loved my mother dearly and am sure she loved ME, but mom simply could NOT refrain from smoking during the long trip and, although she cracked the side window open whenever she lit up, the tobacco fumes never failed to herald the onset of a queasy stomach. By the time we got to the cottage my stomach would be empty and my face rather green, that particular car ride was never a pleasant experience!
When I moved to Bequia at the age of 21 it didn’t take me long to realize that I would probably never be a good sailor. Any boat ride longer than 20 minutes made me queasy whether the sea was rough or not, but I grew more and more determined to conquer sea-sickness. A lot of Bequia’s social activities involved climbing into a boat, and I didn’t want to miss out on fun day-sails to places like lsle Isle de Quatre and the Falls of Baleine. I tried my best of overcome “the queasies”, but sometimes my best wasn’t good enough!
Early on in our budding romance Mac was asked by a friend to deliver his Swan 65 to Castries, having decided that the crew member taking care of the boat was not experienced enough to do so alone. Mac asked me if I wanted to come along for the ride; we would leave Bequia Friday night, arrive in St. Lucia Saturday morning and catch a ride back on another friend’s boat Saturday night. I accepted eagerly after being assured I would not have to help sail the boat in any way – I wasn’t used to boats, especially fancy luxury yachts, and had no idea how to be anything other than extra ballast.
We ate dinner on board the lovely Swan, then prepared for the sail of approximately 70 miles to Castries. It was a lovely, moon-lit evening and I stretched out in the cockpit to enjoy the trip, taking care to stay out of the way as Mac winched the sails to his satisfaction. The Bequia channel was fairly calm and, as the sails filled with wind, the yacht heeled over and skimmed across the waves gracefully. When we passed the north end of St. Vincent the sea began to get a titch rough, and I did my best to ignore the gradual onset of seasickness. A school of dolphins helped take my mind off my stomach, they swam alongside the boat leaving a glow of green fluorescence in their wake. It was a beautiful sight, and I gazed at the swimming mammals happily until Mac’s voice disturbed my revery;
“Ah shite mon, dere go de genny!”
Apparently, the genny was a sail, a sail that was now torn and flapping in the stiff breeze. Mac stumbled up to the bow of the boat and began to haul the useless sail down, then went below to get a replacement. During this period of time the yacht bounced up and down on the water in a corkscrew motion, and it wasn’t long before I was offering my dinner to the creatures of the sea. The damage was done, and for the rest of the trip to Castries I was miserably sick – a sailor I was NOT!
The worst was yet to come. Anticipating a spell on dry land, I was dismayed to learn we would be boarding the vessel taking us home pretty well immediately. This was no Swan 65, rather an exceedingly shabby wooden cargo boat that resembled a trawler, and to my jaundiced eye it didn’t look in the least seaworthy. My heart sank even further when we were invited down below for breakfast; the smell of eggs frying in bacon grease along with the stink of the ship’s diesel fumes proved too much for my weak stomach, and while Mac ate a hearty repast with the crew I remained on deck, my poor empty stomach heaving. I did what any sane person would have done in my situation. I got off that rickety stink-pot and FLEW home to St. Vincent. I was NOT a sailor!
An unfortunate situation, especially living on Bequia.
Great story Judy, I can totally relate having done my fair share of “chumming” while under sail! Luckily I discovered that a Guiness or 2 gave me the “courage” to conquer the quesies.