It had been one of the best vacations I ever had until that point. Spending a beautiful week in Kauai was an experience I never knew I needed, and I was living high off of a beautiful private beachfront wedding and an obnoxious amount of Lava Flows. The necessary formalities associated with such an event were finally over and the hubby and I were able to let loose a little and participate in the activities we had listed out months before we arrived. My preferred way of enjoying paradise was sitting on a beach chair and stretching before the sun until my skin began to ache from the relentless heat, but unfortunately (okay, fortunately since I was in fucking Hawaii) it was time to step up and do the hubby’s choice–which inevitably took me to the docks and onto a boat so that he could put his relatively new scuba diving skills to the test.

I was perfectly happy to stay at the resort and pretend that I would eventually roll my way off of the sand and into the ocean, but I knew that my presence at the dive would be preferred, regardless if I participated or not (which I was absolutely not going to do because, let’s face it, I have a hard time holding my breath on dry land). So, I became the keeper of the crap ton of accessories that weren’t needed (and took up waaaaay too much space in our luggage) and the self proclaimed “worrier” of the group. I was just going to be there to scream and add uncomfortable interruptions should he accidentally kill himself during our once in a lifetime trip.

Sitting on the boat and stretching my body before the sun was just what I needed to calm myself down but I was so anxious about the long list of words coming out of the scuba leader’s mouth that alluded to regulators, bubbles, and the bends (glad I didn’t know so much about THAT before I sent my other half into the vast ocean) I couldn’t enjoy it to maximum capacity. Once the divers were submerged and beneath the boat, I found myself compelled to hang over the side to make sure he was okay and that he wasn’t being hunted by some Pacific Ocean shark. He seemed to be doing just fine and as my body started to finally release some tension I realized that my head was starting to spin and that I felt the overwhelming urge to vomit over the side and above the head of my most beloved (and yeah, yeah the other people too) who was currently dropping down dozens of feet beneath me.

Apparently, sea-sickness was a very real ailment that I had never before had reason to worry about (I exist in Colorado amongst the mountains and dirt and I did not own a boat) and it was coming home to roost as quickly as I tended to suck down those said Lava Flows the previous days.  I was so intent on not throwing up that I even found myself attempting kegels in case the nastiness decided to expel itself from somewhere besides my mouth (leave me alone, I was practically hallucinating). Let me just say that my body was in peak clutch trying so very hard not to embarrass myself on the boat in front of a bunch of strangers that I would probably never see again. 

Of course, I must have looked a fucking mess because I had the employee that was tasked with babysitting us observers rushed over to check on me. I couldn’t say much of anything with my mouth so I resorted to speaking via charades and overly expressive pantomimes. Turns out that clutching a stomach and acting out “gagging with a spoon” was known world wide. She started to rub my back and encourage me to breathe and I have to admit that she brought me back from the brink. Don’t get me wrong, I was hella appreciative of her efforts but also supremely frustrated that I was putting on such a show. Fortunately, I was able to calm down enough to concentrate on the movement of the boat and try to move with the waves instead of just let them happen to me. It wasn’t much of an improvement, but I DID feel better. 

With the crisis averted and a newfound interest in trying to find anything to do that would keep my mind off of the motion of the ocean bursting within me, I found myself moving over to where the employee was speaking to a couple of people while holding a pair of goggles and a breathing tube. It seemed that even though we weren’t actually diving we were more than encouraged to do a little snorkeling while we were out there. Normally not anything that I would want to participate in, I found myself wanting to partake of something I had never really done before (and get off of the fucking rolling boat) and found myself inviting myself to the party. 

It was such a nice moment–me trying something out of my comfort zone and participating with the hubby while not actually participating with the hubby–and I felt very grown up and accomplished. I pulled on all of my equipment and entered the salty water, mostly comfortable and ready to embrace the new and floated one, five, ten feet away from the boat. It was really nice–my body started cooling down and the water licked my skin in such a pleasing way–until I realized that even though I wasn’t in a rolling boat, I was currently in a rolling ocean! The queasy came back and I began to imagine myself beginning to vomit while the tube was still in my mouth. I squeezed my eyes shut and pushed away the image and swallowed down my discomfort. There was no escape from the sea-sickness, but I was going to postpone any embarrassing moments I might present to my fellow adventurers for as long as I could.

After a few minutes I found myself relaxing again and trying very hard to spot my other half somewhere down in the darkness of the water. I couldn’t identify him specifically, but I did see a few other humans so I knew he was more than likely okay. I began to twist my body so that my head was up and atop of the water and I could breathe under my own volition when I suddenly got hit in the face with what felt like a handful of pebbles. I sputtered as I tried to not choke on stiff rubber (oh, behave) and I wondered what in the hell had just happened. It was at this moment that I first realized that dozens of thoughts and actions could happen simultaneously within a two second span of time.

I went from a relatively happy woman floating atop the soothing waves of the ocean into a screeching bundle of fear intent on creating a new world speed record for swimming. As my brain tried to struggle to understand the large amount of information currently pouring into my brain I was horrified to note that I was now in the middle of a large frenzy of tropical wildlife that made me immediately remember the movie Piranha and the gruesomeness of killer fish. My mouth let out the most panicked screech known to man as I dragged myself to the boat. What in the fuck was going on?! I was scared and pissed and thisclose to having an actual heart attack.

My arms finally took me to the swim deck at the back of the boat and I flung myself up and out of the water (which was an amazing feat because I was no lightweight, I had many excess pounds of water affecting my body, and absolutely no upper body strength) to the sounds of laughter and dismay. I ripped off the mask and breathing tube and turned around to look back into the water from where I had come. There must have been about fifty fish twirling and flopping and biting in one giant cloud of bodies and noise. Actual chomping noise! Of gnashing teeth! And writhing, scaly bodies! It was downright terrifying. My heart started beating double time and I began to ponder that I might have just died. I might have just died above my husband as he was busy living his best life ever. What in the actual hell?

Well, it turns out that the employee decided that I would appreciate seeing all of those fish up close and personal. As I had just been pulling my head out of the water she decided to chuck a bunch of fish food on (that’s what the pebbles were) and around me. Without my knowing. Without asking. Without giving me a head’s up. Bitch! I was so unbelievably pissed and humiliated but I still managed to slink back to my towel without saying anything to her. I know, I know! I was young and scared of confrontation. Even if I would have had my arm bitten off I probably wouldn’t have said anything. (I am proud to report that I got over THAT shit!) I pulled the towel over my shoulders and slouched into myself in an attempt to put myself together. And after a few minutes (or twenty) I finally did. The employee stayed on her side of the boat and probably felt the wrath of my death stare on the back of her head–as that was about all I had to give. I’m sure she felt really bad at home snuggled in her warm bed that night. 

I grabbed some water and clawed my hands into my backpack to rip open a package of Starbursts (we had heard they could help with nausea and dry mouth) and willed the fun scuba trip to die a quick death. Finally (finally!) the heads of various tourists began to pop up and out of the water. I moved so that my knees would be on the bench and I could strain my body over the side of the boat to see the action, and willed my life partner to hurry up and get in the boat (which was a mere fantasy as he’s always the one to push the rules and linger longer than he’s welcome) so that we could get back to solid ground. I chanted, “up, up, up” in my head as I sucked on my candy. It was almost over. It almost was. Come on. Come on. Yes! His head finally emerged from the ocean and I felt a huge wave of relief all the way down to my toes. And, alarmingly, also a huge wave of nausea. I couldn’t hold it together anymore and I spectacularly vomited rainbow colored puke into the Pacific. 

Damn it. 

I became the center of attention again as I hung over the railing watching my regurgitated sweet treats being instantly consumed by about fifty writing, biting, scaly bodies of tropical wildlife. Nightmare fodder to be sure.

Damn it, indeed.

© DRB 2024

Photo by Taylor Rooney on Unsplash