No. 33 Seasick in Santa Cruz
Galapagos Islands
I am barnacled to the ferry seat for dear life. Everything about me is clenched. My arms are clenched around the seat back. My jaw is clenched as it digs into the headrest, eyes on the see-sawing horizon. My toes are clenched. My butt cheeks are clenched. As WAVES and WaveS and wAVEs crash against the ferry, I am wooden with determination not to vomit.
The pitching vessel is a ferry in the sense that it transports people from one island of the Galapagos to another, not in the sense that it’s a stable ship that can carry hundreds. In fact, there are only ten rows of seats in the fiberglass, Gilligan’s Island-sized boat. They are filled with people looking at their phones and chatting happily—like psychopaths—as though there wasn't a planet’s worth of water trying to drag them to the deep.
If I were feeling more romantic, I might compare myself to a backwards bowsprit, as I am the only one facing the horizon off the back of the boat, but there’s no romance in seasickness. I'm only puke-free 45 minutes into the heaving ride between Santa Cruz and Isabela Islands because of a prescription seasickness medication. At minute 46, I’m not certain it’s going to hold.
The transfer between islands averages two hours. If the sea is rough, it takes up to four. There was a 30-minute flight we could have taken, but didn’t because of some stupid man-reason like a budget.
What’s worse? In four days, we have to do this crossing back. I want to shoot a hateful look at my husband, Tim, but I can’t move my eyes.
Just below my nose, the fumes of four water-churning engines are working in conjunction with the rolling and rolling and rolling ocean to overpower my stomach. There are two Yamaha engines in the middle and two Suzukis on the outside. That means absolutely nothing to me except for a stray thought: I wonder if you shouldn't mix motors in the same way you shouldn't mix batteries?
When the next wave rolls through and slaps the boat, my stomach responds in kind. I wonder how many inches it is from the bottom of my stomach to the back of my mouth, picturing the tube of my esophagus like a thermometer from old cartoons where it gets so hot that the mercury bursts from the top. The sea-sicker I get, the closer my breakfast is to bursting from my mouth.
Why did I eat breakfast? Because of the rafts of advice on how to avoid seasickness, all of it written by smug people who don’t get seasick:
Hydrate so you can feel the roll of the ocean inside your stomach as well as outside of it
Eat something brightly colored beforehand because radioactive-looking vomit is best
Stop being a wuss; it’s mind over matter
Get better DNA
I had hoped that the two pieces of toast I had eaten hours before would act like the cork in a wine bottle, stopping all contents from spilling forth. Alas, the slow creep of bile reaches the back of my tongue. With not a dot of land in sight, all I can think is, this island, whose animals were studied by Charles Darwin, better be paved with solid-gold iguana poo.
I risk a glance over my shoulder. Everyone is acting like they’re not at all bothered. My dance with seasickness began when I was eight. My grandmother and her best friend, Ruth, took me to Boston for a whale-watching trip. Everything was happy sea spray and generational bonding until the boat stopped, and began to rock. It’s the tick-tock, sideways motion that does it. I didn’t see a single whale that day. Just my short life flashing before my eyes on the cracked ceiling of the snack area.
The name of our Galapagos ferry is the Queen Jenny, which seems a good omen because that’s my sister-in-law’s name and I like my sister-in-law. However, the boat is registered in Guayaquil, which seems a bad omen.
For those of you who aren't up to the minute on your news from Ecuador, Guayaquil is a hub for drug trafficking. Early in 2024, a drug lord escaped prison there. His henchmen took over a TV station with machine guns. The president rolled the tanks out into the streets and declared martial law. There’s also a major drug shipping lane between there and the Galapagos. And as the boat rolls over another wave, I think the drug smugglers on this route probably deserve a raise.
Across the wide wake behind us, a little rainbow blossoms in the sea spray. The waves have changed color, a lighter blue-green. They’re smaller than before. Maybe I can relax my grip on the seat. Blood rushes into my hands.
Was that big splash on the horizon a water spout? An exhaling whale? Oh! A stingray! Look how it glides through the water effortlessly. The boat has stopped rocking. We’ve eased into a harbor embraced by spiky, black volcanic rocks. They are covered in spiky, black volcanic reptiles!
My butt cheeks begin to unclench. Toes unfurl. I can see the bottom of the bay. It’s white sand below turquoise water. I’ve gone an entire five minutes without thinking about my stomach. I swallow. The esophageal mercury descends to normal levels.
Everyone is out of their seats to watch a sea lion weave up and down alongside the boat. The captain calls out to his friends in the water taxis who are waiting to take us and our luggage ashore. It’s almost lunchtime. I wonder what we should get to eat.
A traitorous thought steals into my head—maybe it wasn’t that bad a crossing. But don’t think for a second that I won’t be smuggling some of that gold iguana poo to pay for an airplane ride back.
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