Today, our private car (a taxi, actually, hired in Port Douglas) carries us to the Quicksilver headquarters. The goal: take the ninety-minute trip out to the Great Barrier Reef aboard the company’s huge sight-seeing boats, then snorkle to our hearts’ content.
Despite the high seas warning, the first half-hour of our trip goes well. The first indicator of trouble: members of the crew begin circulating with white sea sickness bags and cold towels. The farther from land we go, the higher the waves become. The ship bashes up and down, sending spray high into the air and over the decks. One by one, the folks around us grab their bags, lean to one side, and begin heaving.
For the first hour, I am unaffected. In fact, I feel a little superior. But slowly, inevitably, I start to feel uncentered … my stomach starts doing little flip-flops each time we take on a wave. With thirty minutes to go, I break down and ask for sea sickness medication.
“I’m sorry,” the staff member tells me. “It’s too late for that. We’re almost to shore, and it wouldn’t kick in until we’re there.”
I sit in my seat, literally turning green. Clyde, too, looks pale and drawn; we’re both at our limit.
By the time the ship docks at the floating platform over the reef, I am unable to get up and disembark. Around us, the hardy Aussies strip down, peeling off street clothes to reveal mounds of sun-starved flesh. As they pull on their Speedos, I’m forced to lie down on our row of seats, my head spinning uncontrollably.
After a short nap, I recover … mostly. Clyde does, too, and actually goes on one of the optional forrays on a submersible vehicle. I manage to feel well enough to nibble at the buffet, but never quite recover. The sounding of the horn that announces our return to shore sends me to the bar for Dramamine.
The drug helps some. Despite even higher seas, I last about an hour. Finally, though, the queasiness overcomes me, and I’m forced to sit in my seat, mad at myself, eyes squenched tightly shut, desperately trying to stop myself from vomiting for the second time on this trip.
Now, hours later, I’m still not quite right. Sitting here in the resort’s little Internet cubby, I’m aware that the floor, which I know is solid and immobile, is also tilting gently from side to side. My eyes are jittery; I can’t look at a fixed point without them dancing slightly. The queasiness eases off if I sit completely still, but, if I move my head in the slightest, I feel like a kid on a schoolyard merry-go-round.
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