Hitting the Wall

Well, it was bound to happen. I’ve been just too darned happy. You can’t tempt the Gods that way; they don’t like it, and they’ll make you pay.

The problem really started when we left Block Island and I chose to go without a scopolamine patch. Rick knows a number of sailors who suffer from seasickness and they tend to adjust after a week or two. We have both wondered if that might happen to me; the big question is whether using pharmacological seasickness aids would interfere with my ability to adjust. We’ve been on the water for two weeks now and I’m ready for an experimental sea-trial. Besides, I figure if I run into trouble I can always take a Zofran.

We motor out of the harbor at Block Island and set our course for Cuttyhunk, the westernmost of the Elizabeth Islands. I set to work washing dishes. Rick and I have a fairly traditional division of labor aboard the boat – he does the heavy lifting and the mechanical business of sailing and I do more of the tidying up. This is not because Rick is above such things, but rather because I am somewhat limited in my ability to contribute. I’m learning more about sailing every day, but I’m still not that strong or knowledgeable, so in the meantime I pitch in by doing the dishes.

I stay up on deck for the duration of this 8 hour trip because I’m very aware that I am patch-naked and I don’t want to set off a bout of seasickness by going below. When we start out it is sunny and lovely, with a light breeze behind us, and we fly the spinnaker for a good half of the day. I am amazed at how “normal” I feel – perhaps a bit dull and dimwitted compared with my usual self, but definitely not sick. As we approach Cuttyhunk, the sky begins to cloud over and the wind poops out so we motor the rest of the way into the harbor.

Rick actually doesn’t want to stay here; the boats are really packed in tight and it feels like a waterborne RV campground. We’re really only here to get oysters and clams from the Raw Bar boat – Cuttyhunk’s version of the muffin man, except that instead of peddling baked goods it’s seafood they deliver. To our great disappointment, they are sold out of oysters, so we have to content ourselves with clams and some expertly cooked shrimp cocktail.

There are some interesting boats here. We are temporarily anchored next to a brand spanking new, forty-two foot Hinckley – the Cadillac of traditional sailboats, and VERY expensive. We watch their kids dangle from the mast, one in the bosun’s chair and another in a similarly rigged up sling. We presume that the owner, who is from Andover according to the stern of his boat, must be a snooty, self-important jerk, probably a lawyer, and we are humbled and embarrassed when he turns out to be an utterly sweet man. From the short conversation we have with him, it is clear that while we suffer from a bit of boat envy for the size and sophistication of his craft, he, on the other hand, is quite wistful for the simplicity and freedom of our small boat. 

After scoring our seafood from the Raw Bar we set out for Nashawena Island, just a short hop away, and anchor close to shore. We are the only boat here, and other than seagulls, cormorants and a pair of seals who poke their heads up periodically, we have the place to ourselves. I feel like we have established pretty clearly that I have adjusted to the motion of the water and that I am no longer in need of medication – a red letter day to be sure. I am a bit more tired and flat than usual, and I probably should be at least a little concerned about that, but I figure after a good night’s sleep…

In the morning we take the dinghy in to shore. Nashawena is a privately owned island, and we know we’re really not supposed to land there, but the landscape looks like Ireland and we just can’t resist. We don’t see any people or houses, so…  We hike through the bay bushes and make it to the top of a bluff where we have a look around. Suddenly, Rick sees what looks like a dog, or maybe a coyote or similar dog-like wild animal. Rick knows that there are cattle on this island so it’s not much of a stretch to think that there might be a dog around to keep strangers out, though this critter really doesn't look or act like a dog.  Rick searches around for a rock or two that he can use as a weapon if we get attacked, but the place is littered only with large boulders and cow pies and he comes up empty-handed. We see the animal eyeing us from a fair distance, its large pointy ears making a forbidding silhouette against the morning sun, and we hightail it back to our dinghy.

Safely back on Tortue, we decide it’s probably time to leave. We start up the engine and motor through Quicks Hole on our way to Martha’s Vineyard. The wind is finally up – way up - and Rick happily sets the sails for an engine-free afternoon. As soon as the sails are up, the boat heels to one side – a familiar phenomenon to sailors, but a rare occurrence on this Baltimore to Maine voyage. We have done precious little actual sailing, and while it’s very true that I am adjusted to the motion of the sea, I am adjusted to it from the perspective of a basically horizontal motor boat. As soon as we are heeled over I start feeling very, very bad. Rick gets me a Zofran, which dissolves on my tongue and I immediately feel better. Almost just as immediately, I fall dead asleep – I completely check out.

I wake up just as Rick is pulling down the sails; we are entering the harbor at Vineyard Haven. I am fine, although still a bit groggy and feeling more than a bit defeated by the events of the day. After anchoring, Rick suggests going into town and I am all over that idea. Anything to get off that boat. We stop for ice cream – something we can’t have on a boat with a simple ice box – and do a little walking around.

That's MINE on the right!

It’s regatta weekend at the Vineyard and there is a huge assortment of sailboats in the water. The line of competing boats stretches well out into the Sound. The schooners are particularly impressive with their big gaff-rigged sails and their multi-man crews.

I wish I was more into it.  At this point, all I want is to be magically transported home where I can take a real shower, put on clean DRY clothes, curl up on the sofa, and watch Ally McBeal reruns in a house that doesn’t move. Is that just too much to ask? Rick allows that maybe we could break our “no Netflix on the boat” rule, just this once, and I find a particularly vacuous romantic comedy for us to watch. I would have loved to have popcorn too, but my stomach just isn’t up for it. That alone is a clear indicator of just how badly I feel. Less than half way into the movie, Rick is getting restless – my philosopher husband needs something a bit more challenging, so we switch to some BBC Masterpiece Theater production of an E.M.Forster novel. We can hardly hear the dialogue due to the practically nonexistent volume coming out of my computer speakers, and who really cares anyway since we can’t decipher the strong British accents. The whole thing is a bust. I love Rick very much, and I know he is very secure about my feelings for him, but right now, I really want to be alone. Easier said than done on a little sailboat.

At the very least, I’ve learned that I need to use the scopolamine patch all the time while on the boat. The patch really does counter seasickness, where Zofran only deals with the nausea. Sleepiness is a symptom of seasickness, which is why I basically passed out for the entire time we were under sail today. It really is kind of silly to try and go medication-free when the only side effect of the patch is a little dry mouth. So I sound a little like Lauren Bacall…  All right, sometimes it’s more like Jimmy Durante, who cares?  I slap on a patch and go to bed. Tomorrow will be a better day, I’m certain of it…