Visiting family friends in Florida, my company and I agreed to experiencing the deep sea coasts of the Sunshine State. Having peacefully gone on these savage quests once before, I assumed no trauma would ensue.
With this jolly, casual mindset I began the day consuming a lavish breakfast. Our family friends created one elaborate and complicated and wonderful buffet. To my immediate right, there were poppy seed, salted and raisin bagels, with velvety cream cheese and butter as options for their crowning. Freshly pressed orange juice paired perfectly with my omelette and bacon, which was crispy as a Florida tan, laid on my left.
For dessert our hosts plopped toasted croissants, bubbly cappuccinos and–as the final death blow–a tub of luscious Nutella. Without hesitation, I slapped a few inches of that hazelnut spread on my croissant and (for a moment) enjoyed a foretaste of heaven on earth.
I ate everything. And I ate everything well, not knowing the stuffing of one’s face before a deep sea trip will often backfire during an excursion.
Ignorant, I chose to sail on into the oceanic expanse, with breakers banging and daring the ship to go further. Thirty-minutes later–seeing the belly of the sea wanted not to share with me–my literal belly rocked and shocked me with the most awful nausea. For one hour I endured the most devilish feeling, as if a maniacal fiend reveled in knifing my innards all while pouncing around.
Eventually, I could bear the infernal sensation no longer, and, as I scurried towards the railing, a long stream (as powerful as a fire hose) of vomit catapulted itself from my guts to the guts of the sea, giving those stubborn sea creatures a free meal.
As the ship’s fishermen began chanting “chummer,” I bolted for the bathroom, and shamefully swabbed barf off my body.
And that, all you sea-idolizers, is the definitive reason I fiercely avoid deep sea fishing.