On (and off)
The Boat Again
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On the boat again. Can’t wait to get
off the boat again, to paraphrase the
Willie Nelson classic. I swore I would never step foot on a boat again. I broke that vow to myself.
What choice did I have? I was visiting Nancie and Pat. Neighbors invited us
to spend the day crabbing in Puget Sound. When we arrived at Dave and Kathy’s
house, I whined that if the water was the least bit unsettled, I would stay on
shore. Dave shot me the unmistakable stink-eye, a message loud and clear, that
I would board the boat and that I would not barf.
Poor man. He didn't know my history.
I get nauseated watching a whirligig. Several years ago we chartered a fishing
trip out of Westport, Washington. Before we had crossed the bar into open
waters, we were riding troughs and peaks deeper-higher than the Sears Building
in Chicago. I measured with my keen analytical eye.
A certain amount of fame or
notoriety, you choose, has followed me from that trip. “Remember when Mom
chummed salmon all day on that fishing trip?” In case you are a neophyte to
fishing, chumming is tossing feed to the fish in hopes of attracting the big
ones, he ones that usually get away.
Since I had to lean over the rail
anyway, I held onto a pole. The bait boy kept my hook baited. I dropped the
line into the water and chummed again. The line jerked, signaling another fish.
I handed my pole to whom-ever stood by my side for him or her to reel the
beauties onto the boat. “I” landed more fish than any three other people on
that trip.
During the first hour, I thought I
was going to die. That feeling segued to wishing SI would die. By noon I had
advanced to fear that I would not die. I didn't die, but I was sick for a week.
The following year, my family
planned another fishing trip on the same boat. Hey, the first trip was so much fun. This time I chewed seasick
pills ahead of time. Family and friends pushed me, pulled me, skidding all the
way, onto the boat. Again, I caught my limit and filled tags for a couple other
family fishers. Again, I prayed for death to ease my stomach. In addition, I
entertained homicidal tendencies toward certain family members who persuaded me
that “this time it would be different.”
The third year and thereafter, I
drove my family to the docks, watched them board the boat, waved “bon voyage”,
and spent the day shopping in antique stores in Aberdeen where I reeled in
bargains. I never went near the deck of a boat again.
So you can imagine how I approached
a day on the water with grim trepidation.
It took courage to climb aboard that
small boat. The back section, where the men tossed out the crab pots baited
with chicken parts, was about the size of the floor space in my small bathroom.
But we weren't on board for ballroom dancing.
We motored on protected waters, on a
calm day, between Whidbey Island and the Mainland. No matter, it could have
been a bathtub and I would have felt apprehensive.
Captain Dave’s friend Terry beat us
to the dock and launched his boat. We met up in the middle of the water. The
men tossed out baited pots, each connected to a buoy and a marker. Then we
played around, drove the boat hither and yon to give crabs a chance to crawl
into the traps. I had two jobs. Kathy was piloting the craft, so when the men
dropped a pot over the side, I called, “man overboard.” Kathy marked the spot
on the GPS screen. My other job was to hold tight control over my stomach.
I had queasy moments, but held the
course. The men in both boats pulled in the limit minus one. They threw ten times that number back into
the water with admonitions to grow up. I
silently congratulated myself for not turning greasy-green, a color I well
remember.
Back on land, after the boats were
hosed down, came the best part. We all gathered at Dave and Kathy’s home for a
feast of crab and fresh corn-on-the-cob. Kathy set the table with paper plates
on layers of newspaper. I ate my portion with gusto and a big thanks to friends
for a new experience. We piled up mounds of crab shells and corn cobs. After
the feast we rolled the paper, scraps and all, into a large garbage can. Dishes
were done.
Would I go again? On a sunny day in
quiet waters? No promises!
Sondra
Ashton
HDN: Looking
out my back door
August 28,
2014
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