Land-lubber

"The worst day fishing is better than the best day working." Or so says Anonymous. Who wouldn't like sliding out into Trinidad Bay at a quarter past six in the morning, all bundled up against the fog and spray? Dark trees on the hills, gulls and bat stars and murres and sea lions, A reusable shopping bag with sandwiches, grapes, hard-boiled eggs, and tea. It was so pretty.

Even though the salmon seem to have taken a pass on the fishing season this summer, the rockfish were biting, and Dale, Capt. Tom, and I were hauling them up with regularity. So exciting, to look down and see your blue plastic tubby filling with black rockfish.

And I didn't mind going to the back of the boat and puking every fifteen minutes or so. Get queasy, vomit, feel fine, repeat as necessary.

Only, when the "repeat as necessary" became all the time, I started to not have fun. Dale says I actually turned green. So it was a mercifully short trip.

But, I'll say it again—up til I was continually, debilitatingly nauseous, I was having a great time. So yeah, I'm putting in a plug for Capt. Tom and the Jumpin' Jack out of Trinidad Bay.

(That's the Jumpin' Jack and some lounging otters off the Trinidad Bay Charters website.)

Now, the next four hours curled in a fetal ball in bed wracked with chills because I'd taken too many seasickness pills in a last-ditch attempt to salvage the morning? Entirely my own fault!