Race 13 - Day 2
Crew Diary - Surviving seasickness: a guide for the perplexed
20 June
Part three of an occasional series.
True story: There was a girl on the first leg of this race, from London to Portugal, who spent four days on the floorboards, nestled between the vegetable storage bins and the man overboard dummy, Bob.
Amongst the cognosetti in the fleet, this became known as the Bob Affair, a torrid shipboard romance.
Romance, of course, was not what was going on. The girl was prodigiously seasick, wrenching her guts around the clock into pale green biodegradable bags through a storm on Cape Finisterre. It was all worth it, of course, because the boat was in first place, driven by a Skipper high on dodgy weather.
That girl lived, guaranteed. Because that girl is me. What can I say? I’ve always done well with quiet, nerdy men.
No one has ever told me I’m the most seasick person they’ve ever met. But once they’ve seen me in action, there is a certain look in their eye.
That ‘look’ is a combination of awe in the face of prodigious accomplishment, with a flicker of furrowed brow for the obviously obsessive determination required. Like you’d look at a Nobel Prize winner. Or maybe a serial killer. People can be hard to read, you know?
Most rational people (this means non-sailors) assume that people who sail do not get seasick. Because… of course. You don’t go to a church looking for atheists. You don’t go to a butcher looking for vegetarians.
No, honey. Just no.
Leaving Seattle on my current trip to Bermuda, my crew wore so many behind-the-ear seasickness patches, I suspected I’d missed a tragic-crew-outing-to-a-tattoo-parlour. From what I’ve seen, these patches go fuzzy around the edges after a few days, and sort of blend into your hairline. It’s all good.
I have actually met, in the flesh, people who never suffer seasickness. One iron-stomached friend, a combat war veteran, lost a portion of his guts to what he charmingly calls, ‘high-speed lead poisoning.’ And I’ve always wondered if this helps account for his resistance.
The same friend’s father was a naval admiral who never suffered – until one day, late in his career - and the admiral concluded that there is a wave frequency with everyone’s name on it.
I, apparently, pick up a lot of frequencies. My particular nemesis is what we call a ‘confused sea state’ - swells headed to your boat from multiple angles at the same time. Mother of God, spare me a confused sea state.
I know what you’re thinking. Ear patches. No, darling, those ‘other’ ear patches. That tablet they sell in the UK. The ‘less drowsy’ tablets. Ginger candy.
Trust me. With the exception of ear patches, I have vomited it all. Repeatedly. With gusto.
When a Skipper asks, I will stuff myself with these ridiculous tablets, despite my experience. Because I am the first-born child of two first-born parents, and four first-born grandparents. Rebellion is just not in my DNA.
A sailor in Cape Town I know swears by an epilepsy drug to stop seasickness. But my primary care doctor just retired. And swanning in to see my new doctor, asking for epilepsy meds will only get me marked down as Super Dodgy Girl, stat.
On this trip to Bermuda, however, I did have a breakthrough of sorts. I’m not a doctor, and I don’t even play on TV. And I’m not your mother, but I’m someone’s mother. So there’s that.
The problem with seasickness, beyond the obvious, is that it makes you completely phobic about eating or drinking. You develop sudden insights into anorexia. A skipper once offered me dinner, and I turned him away with, ‘Not today, Satan.’
And you can avoid food for a day, maybe a day-and-a-half or two. But if you’re abstaining on a boat, you will soon cross a dangerous line.
You will wake in your bunk at God-know-what-time, sick, miserable and needing to pee. And yet the Herculean effort of dragging your meat suit to the heads? No. Thank. You. You can just suck it, bladder. I’m going back to sleep.
This is the line you’ve crossed. You’ve emptied your viscera and not refuelled, and the smallest effort will look like Mt. Everest. Your dehydration will cause your legs to cramp. You will get all wistful about the days you were merely miserable.
And even though you haven’t eaten, you will mysteriously not stop barfing, as though there were no mercy in the universe. Because you have crossed the line into the land of Exercise Induced Vomiting, a whole new suburb of Hell. I realised I was there when I held up one of those biodegradable bags, and saw my own yellow stomach acid – and a still-perfectly-undigested seasickness tab. I didn’t vomit because I’d been seasick, but because I’d done too much climbing Everest.
And what has spared me this trip? Just what your mother warned you about – candy, candy, candy.
The news is bad, my friends. You must keep eating and drinking, even tiny bits. You’re looking for a lot of calories in a tiny package. Let a hard candy dissolve in your mouth. Sour candy will keep your mouth moist, and the sugar syrup from canned peaches will help.
No chocolates, no nuts, nothing complicated. Just full-on sugar, ending in -ose. And even with candy, you must be cautious.
I will be honest – I have thrown up sour candy. And I can testify that it does not harm a boat’s GelCoat. So there’s that.
This will not solve seasickness, only getting out of a confused sea state is likely to do that. But keeping up a slow and steady intake of sugar helped me from falling down a hole I know I’ve spent days crawling out of in the past.
That’s my story. And I’m sticking to it.