Scrappy Little Nobody(64)

We arrive at the marina and spot our hosts, looking spectacularly nautical. (I would describe the size and style of our vessel, but I don’t know anything about sailing, so I’m trusting you to picture a boat.) The rest of the party is already onboard: Whitney and her new husband, Brian, and her childhood friends Katie and Cecily. Whitney’s father tells me his name but I forget it immediately and hope that referring to him as “Captain” for the rest of the trip will be endearing. Then Whitney introduces me to her brother. Oh, unrelated: You know that thing when you meet someone and you’re immediately like, Huh. We’re totally gonna have sex—anyway, his name is Luke.

We throw our bags belowdecks and get settled into a cozy little section of the cockpit to enjoy the fresh air. Being from Maine and not knowing how to sail is one of those things that earns me lots of incredulous looks. Yet being from Maine is not the same as being someone who summers in Maine—so I don’t want to ask too many questions right away. Whitney’s father does appear to be the captain of the ship, and I surmise that Luke is a kind of default first mate. Oh, crafts this size don’t have a first mate? Cool, I’m gonna call him that anyway so us poor kids can keep following along.

The Captain is having a conversation with someone on the dock about high winds. It sounds ominous, but we are so excited to take our trip that we choose to interpret the phrase “not quite gale force” as a green light. The family—except for Whitney’s husband, Brian, who is on the bow reenacting scenes from What About Bob?—finishes readying the boat, while the passengers with no sailing experience chat and pass around a bag of chips. Luke is fiddling with something just behind me and leans down to whisper in my ear.

“Listen, I’m sure those chips are delicious, but this weekend you’re the only girl I’m gonna see in a bikini that I haven’t known since I was five. I’m counting on you.”

This is presumptuous and rude, but I am twenty-one, so instead of jamming my keys through his calf, I find him incredibly charming. I make a big show of eating another handful of chips, then put the bag away and resolve to restrict myself to alcohol-based calories for the remainder of the trip.

We get out on the water and it is beautiful, but we are met with high winds as previously threatened. We try to take photos but most of them are blurred as the boat is tossed from side to side. The water is so choppy that a cooler of beer falls overboard and Luke leaps to action. He jumps into the dinghy and goes after the cooler. Everyone onboard watches with bated breath as he rescues the cooler and a couple runaway beers. He lifts the final can of PBR over his head and we cheer from the deck for our returning hero. I have a couple blurry photos of this, and that’s where my pictures from this day stop.

Once Luke and the cooler are safely back onboard, the wind gets progressively worse. The boat is being thrown more than tossed now. We get past the breakwater, and I don’t know it yet, but that means shit is about to go down. We take our electronics belowdecks and wrap ourselves in sweatshirts and jackets. Luke trims the sails—which is a thing you do on a boat—but it doesn’t feel like it’s made a difference. The conditions are a little distressing now and we look at each other with goofy, surprised expressions, the way you do when an elevator jolts. It’s scary but it’s fun and we can already imagine ourselves telling the story later. We make roller-coaster noises to confirm that yes, this is fun, we’re having fun.

The water gets rougher and starts crashing over the sides of the boat. I’m worried about my hair getting wet and having that “attacked by a raccoon” look in front of this new boy, but I don’t want to seem high maintenance at a time like this. The swells only get higher, and soon what’s coming over us isn’t foamy spray but thick sheets of blue water. I want to ask if this is normal, but I don’t dare. I’m afraid of drowning but more afraid of looking ignorant and hysterical. Now that we are wet, I am unbearably cold. I go belowdecks to change, and maybe to do the cowardly thing and stay down there for a while. Turns out the feeling of motion sickness is fifty times worse belowdecks, and I run back up, still in my soaked hoodie. That’s fine, I think, better to be up here anyway. Solidarity and all that.

The wind gets worse. No one is joking or making roller-coaster noises anymore. In fact we can’t remember how we could ever have been so cavalier about the sea. The Captain is at the helm with a tight smile, reassuring us that he’s not worried; he’s seen worse. Luke is crouched down, bracing himself. He looks serious and ready for a fight. The rest of us are stone-faced, white-knuckling anything that’s nailed down, as wave after wave comes over the boat. Then, before I even realize it’s happening, I am throwing up.

I manage to thrust my body toward the side of the boat but I’m still clinging to the center of the cockpit with one hand, so my breakfast, the handful of chips, and the hippie Dramamine go all over the deck. I stay in my awkward position, not wanting to face the group of seasoned sailors. I know that under the circumstances no one will be angry, but I’m still humiliated. With waves coming over us at ten-second intervals, the evidence is washed away almost immediately, but I still don’t turn around. I am a pathetic, weak-stomached crybaby and I’ve never been so embarrassed.

Then, before I even realize it’s happening, Luke is throwing up beside me. For one moment I am relieved but it is short-lived. The first mate is violently throwing up next to me. This is a terrifying development. I’m a girl about to die on a boat, who just moments ago was a girl embarrassed about throwing up on a boat. I long for that simpler time.