The chundering herd
There are no mariners in my family.
No pirates in the woodshed, either.
No sea legs to speak of. None whatsoever.
I spent 12 hours on a 55-foot catamaran on Friday, fishing for rockfish and picking up Dungeness crab pots near the Farallon Islands, some 27 miles from the Golden Gate Bridge.
It’s a two-hour ride out to the fishing grounds. I spent that time watching, trying to take notes, trying to take pictures.
And trying not to throw up.
Amid lots and lots of vomit.
The swells leaving the Gate were already kicking up to six feet; outside the bay, the swells reached nine feet.
I sat in the back of the boat and watched the waves nearly swamp the back end. As long as I watched the waves, I was OK.
But around me, 11 people were barfing into five-gallon pickle buckets.
I was too terrorized to puke.
All I could think of was my boss, and how I’d have to explain that I’d lost the $12,000 digital camera when the boat eventually sank. The movie, “The Perfect Storm” kept invading my brain.
There was this beautiful Japanese girl who got on the boat, and an hour into the ride, she looked like one of those apple carvings, all shriveled and gaunt.
She was next to me, her boyfriend at her side, chundering.
“Hey, what to I do with this?” he asked the deckhand.
“Isgot throw up in it?” he said.
“Yeah.”
“Give it here,” the deckhand said as he peered into the bucket. “Hey, turkey!”
He tossed the contents overboard and we shared a laugh.
“Wait until we stop,” the other deckhand said. “Then you’ll really see some hurling.”
A 55-foot catamaran on nine-foot swells – pushed around by a 4 knot current – is no place for sissies.
My coffee came up first. Then the contents of my gall bladder.
I had made the decision, early on, not to eat prior to leaving for Berkeley (at 2 a.m.) I did drink 10 cups of coffee (which seems like a lot, but, hey, I lost it all) and I resisted the temptation for an Egg McMuffin prior to boarding.
A wise choice.
Throwing up solids, I think, is worse than throwing up liquids.
But there were guys on the boat, guys who had done this plenty of times, who were drinking beer and eating roach-coach burritos. And smoking.
And throwing up.
And doing it all over again.
“Hey, you just gotta get through it,” one angler said. “Ain’t no big thing.”
We’d fish for a bit, throw up for a bit, and go right back to fishing.
It was somewhat surreal. On one hand, I was sicker than I had ever been; on the other, I was having a great time catching fish I’d never caught before.
In the end, I set new benchmarks for duration and volume of vomit (five hours, five, 16-ounce bottles of water and whatever fluids my body kept manufacturing for the cause) that I hope to never accomplish again.
Two days later, my sides are so sore that I can’t sleep on my back – I don’t feel I can get enough air into my lungs.
It was certainly Top 5 most brutal things I have ever voluntarily done to my body.
But it was fun, too.
Maybe there was a pirate in the woodshed somewhere.
No pirates in the woodshed, either.
No sea legs to speak of. None whatsoever.
I spent 12 hours on a 55-foot catamaran on Friday, fishing for rockfish and picking up Dungeness crab pots near the Farallon Islands, some 27 miles from the Golden Gate Bridge.
It’s a two-hour ride out to the fishing grounds. I spent that time watching, trying to take notes, trying to take pictures.
And trying not to throw up.
Amid lots and lots of vomit.
The swells leaving the Gate were already kicking up to six feet; outside the bay, the swells reached nine feet.
I sat in the back of the boat and watched the waves nearly swamp the back end. As long as I watched the waves, I was OK.
But around me, 11 people were barfing into five-gallon pickle buckets.
I was too terrorized to puke.
All I could think of was my boss, and how I’d have to explain that I’d lost the $12,000 digital camera when the boat eventually sank. The movie, “The Perfect Storm” kept invading my brain.
There was this beautiful Japanese girl who got on the boat, and an hour into the ride, she looked like one of those apple carvings, all shriveled and gaunt.
She was next to me, her boyfriend at her side, chundering.
“Hey, what to I do with this?” he asked the deckhand.
“Isgot throw up in it?” he said.
“Yeah.”
“Give it here,” the deckhand said as he peered into the bucket. “Hey, turkey!”
He tossed the contents overboard and we shared a laugh.
“Wait until we stop,” the other deckhand said. “Then you’ll really see some hurling.”
A 55-foot catamaran on nine-foot swells – pushed around by a 4 knot current – is no place for sissies.
My coffee came up first. Then the contents of my gall bladder.
I had made the decision, early on, not to eat prior to leaving for Berkeley (at 2 a.m.) I did drink 10 cups of coffee (which seems like a lot, but, hey, I lost it all) and I resisted the temptation for an Egg McMuffin prior to boarding.
A wise choice.
Throwing up solids, I think, is worse than throwing up liquids.
But there were guys on the boat, guys who had done this plenty of times, who were drinking beer and eating roach-coach burritos. And smoking.
And throwing up.
And doing it all over again.
“Hey, you just gotta get through it,” one angler said. “Ain’t no big thing.”
We’d fish for a bit, throw up for a bit, and go right back to fishing.
It was somewhat surreal. On one hand, I was sicker than I had ever been; on the other, I was having a great time catching fish I’d never caught before.
In the end, I set new benchmarks for duration and volume of vomit (five hours, five, 16-ounce bottles of water and whatever fluids my body kept manufacturing for the cause) that I hope to never accomplish again.
Two days later, my sides are so sore that I can’t sleep on my back – I don’t feel I can get enough air into my lungs.
It was certainly Top 5 most brutal things I have ever voluntarily done to my body.
But it was fun, too.
Maybe there was a pirate in the woodshed somewhere.
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