The Boat

So we make our way down the coast and finally pull up to the boat. Only we weren’t allowed to get out until the Customs Agent said it was OK. This is where I should have realized that Mexico doesn’t care who enters the country, but they really care who leaves. Anyway, since we were on the bus for an hour or so looking at our boat, I’ll describe it. Boats are described in a way that makes them sound big until you see them. A 110’ boat sounds like a battleship, but when you see it, you think, “Ummmmmm, that boats going to rock a lot.” The MV Islander is a fairly Spartan looking boat. No sleek lines, no cool tinted windows and no helipad. It’s a work vessel, and it’s our home for the next five days. The shark cages, there are two of them, are in the back of the boat, with the galley (or vomit reload center) on the main deck, and living quarters below, with the crews cabin and Bridge on the third level.

Once we get the OK, we depart the bus, embark the MV Islander and begin our inspection. We start with the living quarters. There’s AC, but it’s plugged into the only plug, so in order to use anything else, you have to unplug it first. But there are four bunks, and the emergency exit is in our room. I like being right next to the emergency exit, it’s like a teddy bear for adults. The view you ask? None. No windows not even a porthole. What was Luke alluding to when he said it was where he’d want to be? I just assumed it was because it had the coolest view. Guess not. It’s right below the galley, which makes it noisy. But we settle in, which means unzip our duffle and lay on the beds. Only Sander is so excited that he wants to take a tour of the boat.

So we head up the stairs and walk around the boat. Where we find our next security blanket. The inflatable lifeboats “they inflate the second they hit the water,” says Luke (which makes me wonder what happens when it rains) are Elliot brand boats (spelled wrong, but I figure it gives us “dibs” if there’s a need to fill them with people. You know if something happens in Great White Shark infested waters…). This is where I figure the family lineage splits between the One T and Two T Elliott’s. Apparently that extra T was lost as sea by the seafaring Elliot’s. Because the when it comes to the ocean, the Two T Elliott’s wouldn’t focus so much on the life raft, as inventing a better sea-sick bag.

As we round the stern, we come across the cages. I give them a hefty look over with my discerning eye, rattle the cage a little and feel exactly like I feel when I’m at a car lot and the salesman says, “So, want to look under the hood?” “Sure,” I say, and then proceed to stare at the engine, thinking, “Yup, that’s an engine all right,” but mostly do my best impression of an impressed nod while looking for something obvious to comment on. Like if it says, “Cast Aluminum block” I’ll say, “Wow, a cast aluminum block, sweet” and then try to get away from the engine as fast as I can. Same with the cages. The only way I’d be able to comment on the structural integrity of the cage is if it had bubblegum holding the bars to the frame, and even then, I’d probably say something dumb like, “Hey, is that Hubba Bubba bubblegum holding the bars to the frame? Well, that’s a pretty strong gum, sweet.” But I do notice that on top of the frame there’s a big yellow sign that says, “Swimming with sharks is not advised. Remain in your cage at all times.” Then it hits me, why are all warning signs so polite? I mean, my mother raised me and I’ve made it to the ripe old age of 38 and she was never, ever that polite when it came to my safety. If she wrote the sign for the cage it would say something like, “If I catch you swimming outside this cage, I will beat you into chum for the next divers. You may as well live out there with the sharks because I WILL make you cry in front of all the other divers. Do you hear me?” And, lo, I would not swim outside the cage. But “Swimming with sharks is not ‘advised.’” “Advised?” Who listens to advice? You can “advise” me not to stay out late on Sunday night because I have to go to work the next day, but if I do, no ones going to eat me. You can “advise” my buddy Erik not to bet against me in anything, but when he does, I don’t go into a feeding frenzy and devour him (just his money). I just think all these warning signs sound like the mom with the spoiled child at the supermarket. “Johnny, Mommy would like it if you didn’t throw grapes at the other shoppers.” Maybe Johnny needs my Mom to say, “JOHN! If you don’t put that GRAPE down this second you WILL regret it. Do you UNDERSTAND me?” and then grab his arm so hard it makes his eyes water. Just notice this next time you read any kind of warning label, they don’t really sound like warnings.

Finally, we’ve done the tour (there’s only so much you can tour on a fishing boat) and we’re looking around the dock area and I notice the Ensenada port sign. For whatever reason, Ensenada is the land where whales swim under mushroom clouds. I can’t read Spanish, so I’m assuming the sign says, “In the event of global thermal nuclear war, please find a friendly whale who will take you to safety beneath the ocean’s surface.”

Anyway, the boat is declared ship-shape and its time to depart. We settle into the galley for our briefing and again my ears perk up on the talk of the sea voyage. Luke says there’s a storm coming, but that it shouldn’t hit until we’re there, and in any case, the trip over shouldn’t be “that bad.” Now, anytime anyone, ever, says something won’t be “that bad” its going to be bad. For example, if your doctor says, “X thing I’m doing to you won’t hurt ‘that bad,’” brace yourself. It’s the ramification of over accustomization. The more you do something, or see it done, the easier you think it is. A world-class gymnast says, “Just do a double reverse pike with a Sukahara twist,” I hear, “Don’t try this, you’re going to break your neck.” When an experienced seaman says a trip “may be a little bumpy, but it won’t be that bad.” The room envisions a glass like surface with a couple of little bumps (wheeeeee!), when in reality it’s going to be like the final voyage of the Andrea Gail. It’s just the way things are, especially when you’re traveling and talking to locals. So I start planning our night, make sure our magic ear stickies are stuck, and try to feed Sander as soon as possible before the rockin’ starts knockin’.

So we eat dinner and retire to our cave. Then we break free from the bay and the waves start coming in, well, waves. And this tiny ship was tossed. And we are getting tossed in the bow, and cookies are on the verge of getting tossed. Sander is the color of pea soup, which isn’t helping my personal situation any one bit. It’s time for drastic action. I track down Luke and ask if there’s another bunk at the back. He says there should be, he’ll check. So in the meantime, I take Sander above deck to the mommy arms section. We’re sitting there and the boy’s really starting to feel it. I mean, he’s REALLY feeling it. See, the magic stickies work, but in a weird way. I’m not sure what’s really going on, but I’ll tell you how it seems. My guess is that for some reason the “throw-up, NOW” pathway from stomach to brain runs behind both ears. Because with the stickies you feel the ocean move, you feel like you should be sick, like you could nauseous but your not. It’s like your stomach is franticly sending out, “Throw up NOW! NOW YOU FOOL!” but the stickie is blocking the message like a school traffic officer. So you’re stomach feels sick but your brain doesn’t. It’s a strange feeling, but thankfully, not as strange as throwing up for five straight days. So we’re sitting at the stern, and Sander says, “Dad, I really want to go to our room.” So I find Luke again, and he’s found us a room. It’s the one the researcher is using, and he’s a very nice man who agrees to move. So we stagger over to our new quarters and find a bunk with three beds (I take the top one, Sander the middle) and a sink. It looks like the prison cell from Shawshank Redemption. Now, I’m by no means a giant of a man but my toes can touch the ceiling and our duffel takes up all the room on the floor. Oh, and once again, no windows. They must think because we’re small we’re gnomes or something. Exactly two cabins on the whole boat lack windows, and we (and I suppose the researcher) have now bunked in both of them. Oh well.

So we settle into bed, thankful for the stickies, eat some peanut M&M’s and go to sleep tired, sick and genuinely excited about the next morning.

Next up…Sharks! Duh.