Voyage of the Damned
“Please, Mom,” my older son begs, “You can go hiking this afternoon. This is a chance to go halibut fishing with us.” I am touring Alaska with both my sons and my oldest grandson.
“Please, Nana,” my oldest grandson begs. “It’ll be fun.”
Instead of strolling through the Alaska wilderness admiring a pristine lake, I am in the midst of synchronized vomiting on a fishing boat. Small children, teenagers, and adults heave their breakfasts into plastic bags conveniently provided by the crew.
One fellow astounds us all with his brilliant red offering. “I had Flaming Hot Cheetos for breakfast,” he groans. “My wife told me not to eat them.”
A sudden squall has sent waves taller than this boat onto the deck. Instead of admiring the frolicking wildlife, I clutch the table and cradle my grandson who, it turns out, will not be selecting sailor as his profession.
David, one of our companions on this voyage of the damned, dove into the tiny bathroom and locked the door as soon as the waves rose. He has not emerged for at least 20 minutes. Or maybe it’s hours. I don’t care anymore.
My son pounds on the bathroom door. The crew pounds on the door. David makes no response. The captain thunders down from his post, pounds on the door. Still not a word from David.
The captain grabs the door handle and wrenches the door off its hinges. Poor David lies with head resting on the toilet seat, groaning.
“When someone calls your name, you respond!” thunders the captain as he runs back up to try and get us out of this squall.
“I just wish I was home with my knitting,” one teenage boy moans just before he makes another offering to the sea gods.
Eventually, the seas calm.
“Who wants to go fishing?” one of the crew asks merrily. My grandson and David lay their heads on the table.
My sons and a few other hardy souls jump up and race to the fishing poles. The cabin looks like the Atlanta railroad scene in Gone With The Wind. Bodies splayed on benches and tabletops; now-filled plastic bags clutched in their hands.
I can hear cheers as the halibut are hauled on board, measured, and either clubbed or thrown back into the sea. Now the aroma of dying fish wafts up through the cabin to mingle with the delicate scent of regurgitated breakfasts and Flaming Hot Cheetos.
As God is my witness, I will never eat halibut again.
© Susan Luzader 2022