Didn’t want to act on the selfish thought of keeping this awesome sauce to myself. We went on a boat. A sail boat! Hopped on and set sail just as the sun was burning a whole through the pocket of the sky.
This trusty work of wood and polished braun is the baby of Benoit and his girlfriend, Lyssia. They call her (or him, I’m not sure) El Vegabundo. She’s a fourty foot masterpiece. Our Walter was only 31 feet and worth every inch. But he didn’t float very well.
For $50 a person, we were treated to a half day on the water. The animated crew came around with wine, beer, and hard liquor. We also dug into some decent appetizers including a fine guacamole (my personal favourite). A taste of smoked salmon on crackers helped my stomach stop dancing the ocean tango.
I forgot to mention: I got a little sea sick.
As the sun dipped into the ocean like an apple into a vat of blue caramel, we hoisted the sails. Okay, I actually had nothing to do with that part; it just sounded helpful. Benoit and the rest of the crew did all the work.
The stars blinked their eyes open and we gazed back at them, drunk and merely human. This was one of those times I wished time travel was affordable. I wish we could have captured them on film, but the boat was too tippy for a tripod.
Do not lay down on a rocking boat to stare up at the sky unless you want to hurl your guts out like chunky stars. I needed to combat the nausea, so I stepped out onto the bow of the schooner. The only thing protecting me from the surge of the sea was a waffle of wood paneling and a metal railing the thickness of a garden hose. I never felt safer nor more apt to keep my food down. I stared down into the inky water. As my eyes began to adjust I noticed flecks of bright green spiralling up to the surface.
The momentum of the boat was stirring it all up to the surface, which caused fish to go apeshit, streaking after it. We watched fish dart zigzags along the front and sides of the ship as it pounced through the water. It was tough to tell if they were little mackerel or gargantuan manta rays.
The night was pert near perfect. I suggested to Trav that we do a romantic boat trip for our upcoming anniversary. Then I excused myself to go use the washroom below deck. As soon as I dropped down the steps, the green in my gills increased tenfold; my body tried desperately to make sense of the fact that the toilet was bobbing in time with the waves. That anniversary idea flopped, needless to say. Guess we’ll see a movie instead.
This is Travis looking surprised that I suggested anything other than a movie for our anniversary.
The little row boat that taxied us to the ship has to remain tethered to the ship at the end of the night. In the past, Benoit found it laying forlornly on the beach without a motor.
I guess motor theft is a bit of an issue along the beach here. Consequently, Benoit gets two daily swims: one in the morning to pick up the row boat, and one in the black ocean after dark, to tie it back onto Vegabundo. That’s a good 150 metres twice a day, folks.
I took two ‘non-drowsy’ Gravol to quell the surge of my own esophogeal tides. They didn’t kick in till I was already off the boat, sitting at a old gringo karaoke bar, stoned out of my head. My father-in-law drove me home before ten.
Lesson to be learned here? Double the dose & order a few tequilas. Then stand up and belt out some Jimmy Buffet.
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