The Worst Day of My Life

I was recently invited to go on a fishing trip with some of my buddies and, since it had been several years since I was last on the ocean, I eagerly accepted. How easily I had forgotten the seasickness and trauma I had suffered on a previous trip, several years before, to catch marlin off the southern tip of Baja California. Oh well, I thought, that was many years ago in rough seas on a small boat; this time would be different. I was told we had chartered a large seagoing vessel suitable for ocean travel.

My wife, Gail, thought I was soft and no longer possessed the fortitude to “live off the land” (or sea). In an effort to save me from myself, she offered to buy some fresh fish from the supermarket, and thought I was an idiot for subjecting myself to something I swore I would never do again. Gail had the notion that talents for hunting and fishing were relics of a bygone era and no longer necessary for human survival until I reminded her that there may arise occasions when it might become necessary to revert to those ancient talents and it was important to keep them tuned. In either case, I was anxious to bring in some fresh fish and prove to her that I could still provide for my family in the event of a nuclear winter or other cataclysm of biblical proportions. She tried in vain to talk some sense into me but my mind was set; I could do this. I was not going to let some long forgotten isolated event deter me from the enjoyment of an exhilarating ocean cruise.

We all met in San Diego on the night before our departure for a celebration dinner and drinks. It was a great night out with the boys and we partied hardy as we slowly adopted the roles and demeanors of our swashbuckling ancestors. We had Mexican food washed down with beer and followed by tequila shooters as an aperitif. Aaar’, I was loaded to the gunnels and was feeling pretty good by the time I found my way to the dock. I only lacked an eye patch and a parrot to complete a fine portrait of a swashbuckling adventurer of old.

As I approached the dock where we had been directed to meet, I was impressed by an array of sixty, seventy, and eighty foot fishing trawlers lined up like milk cows at a feeding trough. They were all waiting for their crews and the hearty souls who, like us, had chartered them for day-trips. I staggered up and down the pier looking for the “Misty Dawn,” and had made several forays before I found it nestled between two, very much larger vessels. At first I thought it was a dinghy for the larger boats, but then I saw the name clearly stenciled above the cabin. My god! Are we actually going to sea on that, I thought? It wasn’t an inch over forty feet, and there were nine of us, plus a crew of four! Surely they didn’t expect us all to fit on this tiny thing!

Where would we put the catch? Would we have to drag it behind the boat all the way back to port?
I instantly envisioned Spencer Tracey in the movie “The Old Man and the Sea.” After an epic struggle, Spence managed to land a very large Marlin but had to tie it to the side of his small boat and drag it back to port. Sadly, in spite of his constant battle with sharks, his fish had been almost entirely devoured by the time he arrived home. I could just picture our catch, half eaten by hungry predators; heads and entrails hanging from the weigh-in hooks; flash bulbs going off as we posed for the ceremonial photographs.

Had I been in full control of my faculties I think I would have backed out at that very moment, but the prospect of facing the derisive comments of my eight comrades for the next six months and the alcohol I had consumed during dinner, caused me to reconsider. Begrudgingly, I boarded and noticed how easily my weight shifted the tilt of the entire boat! I wondered if we would have to determine everyone’s body weight, take an average, and manage our dispersion to keep the scow from keeling over. And what about the fish, if we caught any would we have to redistribute ourselves to account for the added weight?


The aft deck was no more than twelve feet by twelve feet, and most of that was taken up by a bait bin located smack dab in the middle. There was a very small fore deck, suitable for one or two persons, a cabin with a table that seated four with effort, and bunks for ten. The crew had a separate compartment but we were not privileged to see it. I’m sure it included separate bedrooms, a game room with sauna, and a large theater for viewing the recorded antics of previous landlubbers as they jockeyed for position and crawled over each other trying to land their fish.

I picked out a bunk for myself and then took a seat at the table. “Aaar’, ano’er point o’ grog matey” I said, as I popped the cap on another bottle of beer. I engaged my shipmates in some small talk until the heavy food and alcohol began to take its toll. It was about midnight when we all retired to our bunks and the captain and crew steered us out of the harbor for the nine-hour trip to the pre-determined fishing spot. I was looking forward to a few hours rest while the boat plowed through wind and waves to the fabled fishing grounds. Why do they call it fishing grounds anyway, when it is so far from land? Shouldn’t it be called fishing waters or something equivalent?

At about two o’clock in the morning I heard a loud rumbling noise that sounded like large diesel engines, and thought a cruise ship had pulled up along side. It was my stomach! I felt the enchiladas trying to make their way back to the surface, and thought it would be better if I went out on deck to get some fresh air. The boat was bobbing like a cork running the rapids, and it took superhuman concentration and effort to make the twenty-five foot trip from my bunk to the rail on the aft deck. Seemingly, I was the only one awake and I am thankful for that. At least I could suffer what came next, privately.

I no sooner made the rail than the entire contents of my stomach were ejected in a fashion reminiscent of a scene from “The Exorcist,” an old movie about demon possession. The alcohol I had consumed must have known what was coming, because it moved up to the relative safety of my head to avoid being ejected with the enchiladas. I thought my system had flushed itself in that single spasmodic contraction, but the spasms continued for several minutes until I thought I was on the verge of turning inside out. I must have been a sight; eyes laying on my cheeks; face red and engorged from violent upheavals; soaked to the bone from sea spray, and hanging over the rail while drooling into the murky depths; aaar. If a “Great White” had broken the surface at that moment and lunged at my head, I would not have been able to move out of harms way. I couldn’t focus, everything was spinning, and my head was pounding like there was no tomorrow. Death would have been a welcome relief.

I must have hung there, like a wet sheet over a clothesline, for an hour or more before I could finally summon the energy and focus to attempt a return trip to my bunk. I made it about half way before I had to turn back for another round of bone jarring, muscle cramping, mind-numbing contractions. Surely, by this time, there was not an ounce of anything left inside me that wasn’t absolutely necessary for human survival. My body was rejecting everything, including water. Hopefully it would allow me to ingest enough oxygen to keep my cells alive, although I don’t think a small touch of gangrene would have bothered me much at the time. My face felt like it had detached itself and was hanging loosely from my skull and at one point my life started to pass before my eyes. I could have sworn I heard angels, but I didn’t have the strength to lift my head to look. Even if I could have lifted my head, my eyelids weighed about thirty pounds each and I would have needed help to raise them enough for a peek.

I somehow managed to make it back to my bunk before my crewmates awoke. How I accomplished this I do not know; I was soaked, cold, and blind. I tried to curl up in a fetal position and rest but I had to brace myself with both arms and both legs, against the constant rolling and heaving of the boat, to keep from being thrown from my bunk. I would have allowed myself to be ejected and gladly spent the remainder of the trip rolling around on the floor, but I wasn’t sure of the content of the gruel that was already swishing around and thought it might have been something I had done earlier.

When I next became aware of my existence, it was to the sounds of my shipmates preparing to face the day. They were acting like they were having a good time, laughing, joking, and ordering things from the galley. Things like chicken ova, slices of pig meat, and other disgusting things. I wouldn’t be a part of it. If they wanted to act like a bunch of howling aborigines, they would do it without me. What the hell was I doing out here with these Cro-Magnons anyway? People don’t hunt and fish anymore.

As I lay there, I became aware that my clothing was soaked with saltwater. I managed to gurgle “canagemembag” to some unseen entity who managed to find, and hand me, the overnight bag that contained my dry clothing. Getting into that dry clothing was another matter. Every action had to be reduced and broken down into minute and simple segments. A complicated maneuver such as removing a belt might involve fifteen or more steps, each step taking several minutes. As accurately as I can remember, it went like this:

1. Move left hand toward buckle until touching.  6.5 mins.
2. Pull belt up toward chin, making it easier to reach with right hand.  1.0 mins.
3. Begin moving right hand toward buckle until touching.  5.5 mins.
4. Rest.  5.0 mins.
5. With right hand, pull loose end of belt up, to form a loop above the buckle.  7.5 mins.
6. Pull loop until end of belt comes free.  3.5 mins.
7. Rest.  5.0 mins.
8. While resting left hand, pull loose end of belt until hook disengages from hole.  12.0 mins.
(This step may take several tries.)
9. Rest.  5.0 mins
10. Pull belt from first two accessible belt loops, on right side.  8.5 mins.
11. Slowly, roll onto left side, exposing rear belt loops.  4.5 mins.
12. Rest.  5.0 mins
13. Pull belt from rear belt loops.  14.0 mins.
14. Rest.  5.0 mins.
15. Lay belt alongside body.  2.5 mins.
16. Roll onto right side.  4.0 mins.
17. Remove belt from remaining loops.  7.5 mins.

Total    102.0 mins.

In this way, I was able to change most of my clothing and it only took about four and a half hours of concentrated effort. By this time it was about 1:25 pm and I only needed to hold it together for another twenty three trillion, three hundred & ninety nine million, nine hundred and eighty two thousand microseconds until I could plant my feet on something stable again. I started the countdown.

About this same time, the first mate offered to put a wristwatch-like device on me that, he said, would help relieve my seasickness, but it was expensive. I told him I didn’t care how much it cost; it was either that or radio for a helicopter to come out here and airlift me back to dry land. I thought he said it would cost ninety dollars so I said “give me four of them, one for each wrist and one for each ankle.” I figured I could take a second mortgage on my home to pay him off but as it turned out, it was only nine dollars! The device injected an electric shock of two seconds duration, every three seconds, and for the next six hours I twitched with epileptic vigor to the rhythm of that device. It did help, and after only a few minutes my vision started to return and I could actually see well enough to recognize a large tuna that one of my shipmates had just landed. That was the first, last, and only fish I saw on the entire trip. I was thankful for that also.

The return trip was excruciatingly long, but as soon as I set one foot on the dock I was as good as new. Dehydrated? Yes, Starving? Yes, but I was able to walk tall through the parking lot and back to my car, just like any one of the hundreds of other returning “men of the sea.” I had just survived the worst 24 hours of my life.