Last Saturday we went whale watching. Under ideal circumstances it would have been an experience to remember, with us drinking beer on the yacht, taking snaps of the gentle humpback whales and porpoises and enjoying bonhomie with the fellow watchers.
Well, we did share a sense of camaraderie with the fellow passengers — throwing up! As the boat, a catamaran perhaps, left the harbor, the captain was quick to announce that the ocean was a bit rough and the journey was sure to be bouncy.
The waves surged up to about four feet and tilted the boat up to thirty degrees. Aayan was the first person on the boat to feel nauseous despite having a anti-nausea pill. He clambered onto my lap and stayed there for over an hour. He kept muttering the word “Hurting’ each time the yacht rolled against a wave.
I picked Aayan up and decided to walk way back towards the end of the cabin where I was told we wouldn’t feel the bounce that much. I lost my balance a number of times and made my way through the seats apologizing profusely until I reached the end where they where they served food and drinks.
There was a ledge on which I made Aayan sit and stared out into the ocean through the nearby windows. I could feel his little stomach contract and felt helpless. There wasn’t much that I could do except try my best to comfort him.
The people who had been standing outside on the deck could no longer brave the chilly winds and decided to get back into the cabin.
As we rolled out of the harbor, the captain’s voice droned on about a Deer Island that no longer was a island. Why? Something about the last hurricane causing water to recede and beaches were formed. I couldn’t make out the logic behind the two statements and was sure I missed some major chunk of the explanation between the muttered ‘hurting’ and my own stomach doing the wobble.
We were leaving Boston and heading into the deep cold Atlantic Ocean and I wanted out! Fuck the whales, fuck the once in a lifetime experience; my kid was dry heaving and I was about spill my McDonald Egg Muffin.
The Boston quarantine area that had turned into a moonshine area then into a hotel area passed us by and we were out of the harbor.
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