Not necessarily because of the truncated romance (though I'm sure that's part of it), but because they're on a goddamn sinking ship. One of them dies and the other one almost dies. And I can sympathize.
Yes, that's right, sympathize, not just empathize. I don't have the best luck with boats.
Most of the time, when I get on any sea-faring vessel, it's usually not for too long. That's because more often than not, said boat is about to take on irreparable damage. So is my psyche.
On my first trip to Bermuda in something like the third grade (yes, I've been there three times; no, I'm still dirt poor), my parents thought it would be swell to rent a boat and sail around the islands. Seems like a good idea, right?
Wrong.
Do you KNOW about that place's track record with boats? Part of the sight seeing we'd be doing in our boat would be seeing the shipwrecks.
But we set off, in what appeared to be a tin rowboat (it could have been aluminum, not that it's any more of a consolation), not a sailor to be had.
 |
| Looks about right... |
The little catch about the weather in Bermuda: it's awesome most of the time, but it's kind of bi polar. Like, aggressively bi polar. Like criminally insane, aggressively bi polar.
Bermuda had forgotten to take its pills that day.
All seemed well, as things so often seem before they go horribly, horribly wrong, until the black thunderheads rushed in like a cab with a pregnant lady in it. So we, a family of three, with significantly less sea-going experience than the guys who likely perished in the shipwreck not 100 yards from us, just sat there being battered by a prescription-deprived geographic area reputable for its murderousness. Even as the 3rd grader I was, I'm pretty sure the words "Oh fuck, I'm totally gonna die" were ambling through my mind.
Since many of you don't know me, I'll fill in a little context. I'm not really one for panicking about things. So when I say "ambling through my mind," I don't mean "racing," I mean the words fucking strolled through there. The tone here is one of defeat mixed with ennui.
Apparently I get that from my parents, who, in response to our little tin/aluminum tub thing taking on way more water than it was supposed to, reacted pretty similarly. My Mom probably busied herself making me a PB&J sandwich for a last meal, but I can't remember what she was really doing, because I was too busy trying to figure out why my Dad was so batshit crazy.
"LOOK DAVE, THERE'S A SEA TURTLE!!"
Was there really a sea turtle? I don't think so; it was probably just some terror-induced hallucination. All I know is that I was minutely more concerned with how cold I was, the salt water in my eyes, and oh yeah, my immediate safety.
Luckily for me, Bermuda took a deep breath and calmed the fuck down and we were pardoned from a watery grave.
Three years later, when we went again with our entire family, my dad figured lightning couldn't strike twice in the same place. So there we were again, romping around Bermuda's bays and coves--this time on a pontoon boat.
Now, I love pontoon boats; they're awesome for lakes and little boat parties.
This only holds true for when you're not dealing with 10ft rogue waves, a mile or so from the coast.
So when I was all "nom nom hot dog," Bermuda was all "Can I haz a cheezeburger?" And when no one listened, Bermuda just reached up and bitchslapped our fucking boat.
Or maybe it was more of a grabbing motion?
Either way, we were sinking. Again.
I don't know where that fucking wave came from, or how it swallowed literally 5/6 of our boat. But it did. Just because it could.
This time though, my dad wasn't too busy spotting rare marine reptiles to have the sense to cut the engine before we actually pushed ourselves underwater.
So in the end, all we lost was a wedding ring, a seashell I'd worked damn hard to get, and another piece of our peace of mind.
There's another part of the story when we got back to shore, but I'll save that for later!
D
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