In this journal entry: a story about being a sea-masochist, a cinnamon bun eruption, and feeling Poseidon’s fury. Welcome to The Vomit Fest.
Sea legs made of jelly
Yesterday, we set sail on a maritime escapade from Huahine to Moorea, just a breezy 90 nautical miles ahead. We knew the elements wouldn’t be playing nice — the forecast warned of 20 knots of wind and 2-meter waves.
Not exactly ideal, but hey, we’ll tough it out. We’d been island-hopping through Bora Bora, Taha’a, Raiatea, and Huahine for too long, and Tahiti was calling, our cruise’s final stop with a date at the shipyard looming in less than a week.
We battened down the hatches, taped closets and cabinets shut, attempting to safeguard everything against the fury of the ocean outside the reef. Then we braced our guests for a rough ride. “Pop a pill an hour before we cast off,” I advised, “another pill the moment we weigh anchor.”
You’d think, after almost a year of floating life, I’d have built some damn sea legs, but they’re still made of jelly. Not wanting to doze off on the pills, I settled for my acupuncture bracelets.
Maybe I’m nothing but a sea-masochist because my body keeps telling me “You don’t belong at sea,” yet I say “Screw it,” every time and endure the wretchedness of seasickness.
This time would be no different.

The beginning of the end
We bid farewell to the protective embrace of the reef, the waves promptly swelling to respectable heights on the other side of the passage.
We were serenaded by a horde of humpback whales bidding us adieu, playing in the distance. My eyes were fixed on the horizon, my body riding the boat’s rhythm. “I’m feeling fine,” I reassured myself repeatedly. And for the moment, I was.
BANG! It didn’t take long for the chaos to begin, stuff crashing down from every conceivable place we apparently hadn’t secured properly.
Mirrors shattered, cutting boards became airborne projectiles in the kitchen, and seats were thrown into disarray. But the worst was a guest who tumbled out of her bunk, crashing into the sharp edge of a drawer, leaving a cruel red mark on her back.
Who can lose their lunch the fastest
By late afternoon, our first guest made a generous offering to Poseidon. Shortly after, three more joined the queasy party. I don’t recall any of us signing up for a “who can lose their lunch the fastest” competition, but suddenly, everyone seemed eager to partake.
What a shame we had devoured those cinnamon buns earlier, I lamented, watching the thick brown paste shoot out of people’s mouths, only to be swallowed by the dark blue abyss below.
I wasn’t in a rush to contribute to this vomit extravaganza, but deep down, I knew my turn was approaching, though I kept staring at the horizon thinking, “I’m feeling fine.”

Poseidon throws a tantrum
As the hours dragged on, the weather worsened, throwing a tantrum that even the forecast hadn’t predicted – wind roaring at 31 knots, waves flaunting their might at a formidable 3 meters.
It was tragicomic, really, scanning the lounge and seeing people contorted in all sorts of Twister-esque positions, looking like dementors had sucked the life out of them.
So, me and my two crew mates decided to take shifts at the helm. My watch was from 2 AM to 6 AM, so after witnessing the most breathtaking moonrise, I retreated to my cabin.
Oh, how I would regret that decision.
Cinnamon bun eruption
The interior of the boat was stifling, the humidity oppressive. I had been following the boat’s movements on deck, but now my body lay in a position that clashed with the waves.
Per experience, I had stashed an emergency plastic bag in bed with me, and, boy, did I need it. My once delightful cinnamon bun, now a mushy version, erupted from my mouth along with acidic liquid. I must’ve expelled at least a liter before lying back down, thinking, “I’ll be fine.”
By the time I got up for my 2 AM to 6 AM watch, the ocean had granted me four stomach purges. I felt and looked like a zombie, though I guess I shouldn’t be complaining about getting a complimentary cleanse.
Staying awake wasn’t a concern, though. Thunderous waves crashed down on deck, baptizing me in saltwater, and I felt gloriously, outrageously alive.
Perhaps even more alive when, minutes later, I turned my head and spewed out the remaining content of my stomach on deck – nothing but a thick, transparent juice. As I used the hose aft to wash it away, I couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of my life.

Stay Delusional
By 7 AM, we arrived in Opunohu Bay in Moorea, a place I knew all too well by now. It felt like a warm embrace sailing through the reef passage in the morning’s golden hue, the mountains welcoming me home — and then a humpback whale and her baby graced us with a fleeting appearance.
I was sticky from saltwater, my clothes drenched. I hadn’t eaten or had anything to drink for several hours, and I was utterly destroyed after this nautical odyssey. As I lay in bed a short while after, I thought to myself, “Well, that wasn’t too bad.”
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