ugh

The day my dad took me deep sea fishing started off appearing as one of the most exciting days of my childhood. Fishing was my addiction and nearly everything in my life revolved around the water. Many people looked at the hobby as something boring or a just waste of time sitting around not catching anything, but it never was to me. I always caught fish constantly in my backyard canal, and in every other freshwater area I went to because I knew how to do it very well. I learned my way about catching fish from complete strangers throughout my past; techniques and odd tricks that seems insignificant but it made all the difference between sitting aimlessly and catching one fish after the other.
“Acorda!” my dad yelled, shaking my shoulder telling me to get up. He used words in Portuguese sparing like this only when he got frustrated. This time is was because I wasn’t waking up. The previous night I didn’t fall asleep until very late, anticipating and excited about the next day. Rolling out of bed, I put on some pants, still feeling groggy, but that feeling left me when I remembered what day it was. We were going fishing on a charter boat and I was anxious to leave. I jumped into some worn out clothing for the trip and went to wake my brother, Brian, who was still asleep. I guess my dad hadn’t bothered waking him since he knew I’d be the one to drag him out of bed. Brian always slept in late, and never showed enthusiasm towards anything. Even the things he liked or was good at he would go about in a disinterested manner. Waking him made me feel guilty even though he was the one sleeping late. We ate some eggs for breakfast, and I gobbled them down fast, not even feeling hungry. My brother, of course, took his sweet time, taking longer to eat than even my dad who still eats slowly.
We left the house about 9 o’clock and my dad drove us to the dock. Driving down the beach always made me feel good. There’s a relaxed feeling in the air that can change my mood into a good one. When we got to the docks, we waited for about half an hour, feeding the tarpon that encircled the boats under us. They were some of the biggest I’d seen, from about 6-8 feet in length, while the average was much smaller. No one bothered trying to hook any of them, although they are one of the most popular game fish. We watched boats pull in, and fishermen dumping buckets of chum into these schools of fish. Chum is a mix of fish parts and blood that worthless as food, but excellent for baiting. When the blood mixes into the water, larger predator game fish are attracted to the area.
“Why are they doing that?” my brother asked, oblivious to the method.
“I’m not sure, no one is even fishing here,” I responded, confused myself.
“Well I think that’s a waste,” he replied.
The three of us walked along the dock towards our charter boat, already filled with maybe 20-30 people. We all had to jump a short distance to get on, but my dad stood there and thought about it for a while before doing it. Rods and reels were provided, along with the same rig on every one of our lines. We all marched down either side of the boat and sat down as we were asked. I reluctantly did this, disappointed that I didn’t bring my own rod, even though what they gave us was far more appropriate for the kind of fishing we were about to do.
“What’s the point of this,” my brother complained, “We’re gonna float in the ocean with all these people and hope that we catch something?” I thought about it for a moment. There were more than 30 other people, all with the same exact bait and same exact rig.
“This isn’t fishing, it’s gambling” my dad laughed.
“And we’re betting sardines?” I joked as my optimism was slowly killed by reality.
The charter boat finally pulled out of the dock and left the inlet. I looked back at the land wondering if I would rather be fishing in my own backyard. Watching the water around us transition from a light green to a deep, darkened blue put that idea away. I wanted to know what was swimming under us.
I have no idea where we stopped, but it was definitely in the middle of nowhere. Around us, miles of blue water stretched. “I wonder how deep this is,” my brother said.
“Yeah, me too,” I responded.
Some old man walked briskly down the side of the boat to bait each of our rigs with a sardine. This wasn’t fishing anymore. I bet if I hooked a fish, they’d probably take my rod and reel it in for me too. I tossed the bait into the water and started letting out line for what seemed like an eternity. I looked around watching more than 30 heads doing the same thing, in the same spot as me. Thinking about the billions of fish in the sea wasn’t anything when you realize that there was infinite sea. For sure, I wasn’t going to catch anything, I admitted finally.
This wasn’t my disappointment though. Everything was going as I’d expected until about two hours into our trip. As I sat there tapping my foot nervously, my head slowly began spinning. I never had a nauseous experience, except for once on a fair ride. It was nothing, I’ll just breathe a little bit more and I’ll be fine.
I realized I WASN’T fine when I barely was able to stand up. I inhaled deeply depending on oxygen to fix my head, but this was seasickness and land was the only thing I needed. I walked over to the rod, not even caring about how many fish there was in the sea or if I was going to catch anything. It was becoming worse, and I realized that puking was inevitable.
“You drunk?” a voice next to me echoed in my head, and at these irritating words I leaned overboard to throw up. I shook my head and continued to puke. Why would you ask a young kid that? When I thought I was done, I went back to my brother.
“I hate boats,” I said.
“I hate fishing,” he replied, “but at least we’re leaving in a few minutes the captain said.”
This was the first time I’d agree with him about fishing. My dad gave me some crackers to eat, and I drank some water. Those were pretty good intentions but I went puking overboard a second time minutes later. “I’ll never go on a boat again,” I promised myself to temporarily satisfy my hate for the sea. By the time we got to the dock, I finished a water bottle but still felt dehydrated. The rest of the day was miserable and I tried napping it off much later.
I guess I should have considered everything before wanting to go. Sometimes we’re lured into things because they’re associated with things we like; in this case, fishing. Walking barefoot in a shallow stream to hunt for bass wasn’t exactly being confined to a rocking boat for three hours. Dissatisfaction happens when we pursue what we think we love and the actuality is far from what we perceive as reality.