An hour later, Ryan and Seth were untying the boat from the dock and
running a few last safety checks before casting off. Ryan had yet to have
another dizzy spell, and had attributed the morning's brief episodes to
weariness from a night of unfulfilling sleep. In any case, he was glad to
be free of the feelings and out in the fresh air, preparing for a trip out
on the water. He enjoyed the ocean more than he let on to Seth or anybody
else, but he felt at home with the sea, a luxury denied him back in Chino.
Ryan untied the last rope and stepped onto the deck of the boat, while Seth began to pilot the boat away from the dock and out towards the open water. Ryan took a deep breath of salty air and sighed with contentment as he stretched out in a chair on deck and closed his eyes. He could feel the waves move beneath the boat, gently rocking him, convincing him that this was where he belonged. The last thing he saw was Seth standing proudly at the tiller as he dozed off.
By the time he woke up twenty minutes later, any confidence Ryan had felt earlier about his infirmities started to quickly slip away. The spinning sensation he'd felt earlier was back, but this time it brought with it a wave of nausea that washed over him with not an enormous amount of force, but enough to make him swallow heavily and take a deep breath to calm his stomach. This was to no great avail, and he sighed in exasperation. Great. What was this? What powers that be were doing this to him? He finds somewhere he belongs, and it makes him seasick. Figures. Opening his eyes a second time, Ryan spotted Seth opposite him on the deck, reading a skateboarding magazine. The skateboarder looked up to see Ryan watching him, and grinned.
"Hey. Wondered when you were gonna wake up. You gotta check out these waves, man! Unbelievable, we have GOT to get out surfing later." With this he put down the magazine and stood up to peer over the side of the boat at said waves.
"I'm serious," he continued turning to face Ryan, "it's really cool lookin'. Come see!"
Ryan shook his head with a forced grin. Waves. Not good. Not now. Damn, he felt sick...
"Your loss," Seth shrugged, and went to sit back down in his chair, when Ryan interrupted him.
"But, uh, I might take you up on that surfing offer," he informed Seth, making his voice sound as even as possible. Anything to get off the boat and on steady land. That had to be the cause, right? His comrade obviously bought it, because he stopped his descent with a smile and a 'say no more' look. Ryan inwardly sighed with relief as Seth set the magazine down and took the helm, directing the boat back towards the marina.
After another grueling ten minute battle with his breakfast, Ryan was on the dock, securing the sailboat with a rope. And he was gonna puke. He hadn't thrown up many times in his life, but now that the feeling had surfaced, he recognized it, the telltale sensation building in his gut. There was a restroom just down the way, he could see it and needed to get there. But how best not to tip off Seth? Ryan glanced at the chef-turned- sailor; he was doing something with the fuel tank, hard to tell what, but as long as he was preoccupied. Ryan turned to leave.
"Hey man, where ya goin?"
Damn. Guess that fuel tank didn't have all of Seth's attention.
"To the can," answered Ryan without stopping. He was relieved when his friend made no move to follow him or continue the conversation. He quickened his pace to the small door with the picture of the stick-man on it and slipped inside.
Thankfully, the small room was empty. Ryan spied the nearest of three stalls and strode purposefully past the door, which he shut behind him. Out of habit, he latched it, then turned and leaned up against it. And waited.
This was the worst part, he thought. When you know it's going to happen, but first is that feeling of weakness, like it's hard to stand... as carefully as he could, Ryan got to his knees in front of the toilet. He swallowed hard, twice, feebly hoping he might be able to keep it down. But in the second it took him to prepare a third, he felt sour bile rise in his throat, burning it. He gagged, a grlooping sound passing his lips, and threw up. He tried to be as quiet about it as possible as he emptied the contents of his stomach, as if afraid he'd be heard. He did NOT want to be heard. Or seen. He hated to vomit, but he hated even more to have people know about it. Because vomiting showed weakness. Ryan hated showing weakness. He paused to catch his breath, praying that the episode be over. His prayers went unanswered when a thick wave of nausea racked him and caused his stomach to rebel again. This time was worse, if that were possible, because he had already lost most of his breakfast, and he felt like he was running out of stuff to throw up. Which was worse, he pondered to himself, throwing up or not having anything to throw up? He found himself amused that he would be wondering such things at the moment, but in any case was relieved when he finally felt some of the tension release in his chest as the bout receded. He stopped heaving long enough to pant and rest his head against the cool porcelain rim. God, he was glad that was over. Maybe this was the worst part of puking, when your body shakes afterwards, he thought as he glanced at his trembling hands. Who cared, it was over with now. Using the door handle for support, Ryan slowly stood up. As he stood straighter, however, he felt a sharp, stabbing pain in his lower right abdomen. He couldn't stifle a yelp as he hunched back over, leaning against the side of the stall. What the hell was that? He again straightened up, and the pain was blessedly absent this time. And none too soon, for at that moment a familiar voice entered the bathroom. "Hey, Ryan, you in here?" called Seth. Deep breath. Make your voice sound normal. "Yeah, be right out," Ryan answered, kicking the lever to flush the toilet. "Hurry it up, man, we got a date with a killer surf set." Hearing the door to the bathroom swing shut, Ryan took his cue to open the door to the stall and step out. He was a bit shocked to see the reflection that stared back at him when he looked in the mirror. His features were pallid, and there was a thin film of sweat on his brow. With a sigh, Ryan turned on the faucet and cupped his hands to bring the cold water to his lips. It took five hand-fulls before he felt he had sufficiently rinsed out his mouth. This was followed by another three to splash on his face, which he then dried with two paper towels from a stack by the sink. As he dampened a third and pressed it to the back of his neck, Ryan studied his reflection in the mirror again. He still looked a little out of sorts, but not so much that he thought Seth would notice. As he reached to turn off the running water, he knocked the stack of paper towels off the edge of the sink. "Shit," Ryan muttered, and bent down to pick them up. When he finished and straightened up, he was again jabbed by a pain in his abdomen. It wasn't so harsh this time, but still an irritating and unwelcome pang that prodded a hiss as he set the paper towels on the counter and pressed a hand to the painful area. The feeling again passed, however, and he shook his head as he strode to the door, walked through it and started down the dock towards Seth.
Ryan untied the last rope and stepped onto the deck of the boat, while Seth began to pilot the boat away from the dock and out towards the open water. Ryan took a deep breath of salty air and sighed with contentment as he stretched out in a chair on deck and closed his eyes. He could feel the waves move beneath the boat, gently rocking him, convincing him that this was where he belonged. The last thing he saw was Seth standing proudly at the tiller as he dozed off.
By the time he woke up twenty minutes later, any confidence Ryan had felt earlier about his infirmities started to quickly slip away. The spinning sensation he'd felt earlier was back, but this time it brought with it a wave of nausea that washed over him with not an enormous amount of force, but enough to make him swallow heavily and take a deep breath to calm his stomach. This was to no great avail, and he sighed in exasperation. Great. What was this? What powers that be were doing this to him? He finds somewhere he belongs, and it makes him seasick. Figures. Opening his eyes a second time, Ryan spotted Seth opposite him on the deck, reading a skateboarding magazine. The skateboarder looked up to see Ryan watching him, and grinned.
"Hey. Wondered when you were gonna wake up. You gotta check out these waves, man! Unbelievable, we have GOT to get out surfing later." With this he put down the magazine and stood up to peer over the side of the boat at said waves.
"I'm serious," he continued turning to face Ryan, "it's really cool lookin'. Come see!"
Ryan shook his head with a forced grin. Waves. Not good. Not now. Damn, he felt sick...
"Your loss," Seth shrugged, and went to sit back down in his chair, when Ryan interrupted him.
"But, uh, I might take you up on that surfing offer," he informed Seth, making his voice sound as even as possible. Anything to get off the boat and on steady land. That had to be the cause, right? His comrade obviously bought it, because he stopped his descent with a smile and a 'say no more' look. Ryan inwardly sighed with relief as Seth set the magazine down and took the helm, directing the boat back towards the marina.
After another grueling ten minute battle with his breakfast, Ryan was on the dock, securing the sailboat with a rope. And he was gonna puke. He hadn't thrown up many times in his life, but now that the feeling had surfaced, he recognized it, the telltale sensation building in his gut. There was a restroom just down the way, he could see it and needed to get there. But how best not to tip off Seth? Ryan glanced at the chef-turned- sailor; he was doing something with the fuel tank, hard to tell what, but as long as he was preoccupied. Ryan turned to leave.
"Hey man, where ya goin?"
Damn. Guess that fuel tank didn't have all of Seth's attention.
"To the can," answered Ryan without stopping. He was relieved when his friend made no move to follow him or continue the conversation. He quickened his pace to the small door with the picture of the stick-man on it and slipped inside.
Thankfully, the small room was empty. Ryan spied the nearest of three stalls and strode purposefully past the door, which he shut behind him. Out of habit, he latched it, then turned and leaned up against it. And waited.
This was the worst part, he thought. When you know it's going to happen, but first is that feeling of weakness, like it's hard to stand... as carefully as he could, Ryan got to his knees in front of the toilet. He swallowed hard, twice, feebly hoping he might be able to keep it down. But in the second it took him to prepare a third, he felt sour bile rise in his throat, burning it. He gagged, a grlooping sound passing his lips, and threw up. He tried to be as quiet about it as possible as he emptied the contents of his stomach, as if afraid he'd be heard. He did NOT want to be heard. Or seen. He hated to vomit, but he hated even more to have people know about it. Because vomiting showed weakness. Ryan hated showing weakness. He paused to catch his breath, praying that the episode be over. His prayers went unanswered when a thick wave of nausea racked him and caused his stomach to rebel again. This time was worse, if that were possible, because he had already lost most of his breakfast, and he felt like he was running out of stuff to throw up. Which was worse, he pondered to himself, throwing up or not having anything to throw up? He found himself amused that he would be wondering such things at the moment, but in any case was relieved when he finally felt some of the tension release in his chest as the bout receded. He stopped heaving long enough to pant and rest his head against the cool porcelain rim. God, he was glad that was over. Maybe this was the worst part of puking, when your body shakes afterwards, he thought as he glanced at his trembling hands. Who cared, it was over with now. Using the door handle for support, Ryan slowly stood up. As he stood straighter, however, he felt a sharp, stabbing pain in his lower right abdomen. He couldn't stifle a yelp as he hunched back over, leaning against the side of the stall. What the hell was that? He again straightened up, and the pain was blessedly absent this time. And none too soon, for at that moment a familiar voice entered the bathroom. "Hey, Ryan, you in here?" called Seth. Deep breath. Make your voice sound normal. "Yeah, be right out," Ryan answered, kicking the lever to flush the toilet. "Hurry it up, man, we got a date with a killer surf set." Hearing the door to the bathroom swing shut, Ryan took his cue to open the door to the stall and step out. He was a bit shocked to see the reflection that stared back at him when he looked in the mirror. His features were pallid, and there was a thin film of sweat on his brow. With a sigh, Ryan turned on the faucet and cupped his hands to bring the cold water to his lips. It took five hand-fulls before he felt he had sufficiently rinsed out his mouth. This was followed by another three to splash on his face, which he then dried with two paper towels from a stack by the sink. As he dampened a third and pressed it to the back of his neck, Ryan studied his reflection in the mirror again. He still looked a little out of sorts, but not so much that he thought Seth would notice. As he reached to turn off the running water, he knocked the stack of paper towels off the edge of the sink. "Shit," Ryan muttered, and bent down to pick them up. When he finished and straightened up, he was again jabbed by a pain in his abdomen. It wasn't so harsh this time, but still an irritating and unwelcome pang that prodded a hiss as he set the paper towels on the counter and pressed a hand to the painful area. The feeling again passed, however, and he shook his head as he strode to the door, walked through it and started down the dock towards Seth.