(Here's what happened first - http://southernfriedchildren.blogspot.com/2012/12/things-beyonce-didn-do.html)
The plunger was clearly not the answer. Now I'm sweaty and panicky and there is a very good chance I have splashed some pee on myself. There has to be a button. I must find the button. I grit my teeth, steel my nerves, and start feeling around. The wall, the door, the counter, the toilet itself. I slid my hand over god knows how many layers of fisherman pee, groping the base of the toilet. I'm pretty sure that's when I started to cry. I fell back against the sink and my hand touched something small and black and round. It was the stupid button, nowhere near the damned toilet. I pushed, it flushed, I went to wash my hands.
I nearly fell out of the bathroom. The boat was really rocking now, and I walked out of the dimness of below deck into the bright sunlight. I felt...not so good.
"Hey, are you okay?" Sean looked concerned.
"I need to sit down," I said. Just then, a wahoo hit on of the lines, and the first of our crew jumped in the fighting chair. For a few minutes, I forgot that I was covered in the pee germs of countless people. I watched him reel in the big fish and cheered as First Mate Marvin held it high. I was still feeling pretty good as he threw it in the cooler. Things headed south for me when they started to wash the blood off the deck.
"Dude," I whispered to Sean, "I think I'm sick."
Marvin sprang into action. He wedged me into a corner and put a bottle of cold water on my neck and told me to stare at the horizon. "If that doesn't work, we'll go to Plan B," he said. Plan B involves barf, I thought.
Plan B actually involved my turn in the fighting chair, fighting a wahoo who ended up being eaten by a five foot bull shark. I reeled the shark in next to the boat, just close enough to see and and feel like a badass before they cut it loose. Plan B worked! For a few minutes, anyway.
"Dude," I said to Sean. It's all I could say. "Dude."
"She's gonna blow!" Sean yells to Marvin, and he hustles me up and to the side of the boat. He carefully folded a towel and placed it on the ground, so I wouldn't further sully my knees. "Now here is what I want you to do," he said, and proceeded to tell me how to puke off the side of the boat.
MARVIN. Friend, I have had three children, all pregnancies plagued by morning sickness. I have barfed in restaurant parking lots, in office building and amusement parks. Additionally, I have suffered from a nervous stomach since I was six, and am well known in my family for my ability to puke on command. Furthermore, I have hurked up more gin and tonics than I can count, and once, quite famously, barfed out the window of a Prius going eighty miles an hour down the interstate.
There is absolutely nothing you can tell me about blowing chunks that I don't already know.
So, Marvin is explaining the finer points of boat hurling, and I am looking at him with crazy eyes and making a sweepy-pointy hand gesture, which is the international sign for you need to move your ass, there is throw up in my mouth.
And as I flung my torso over the side and ejected fruit punch Fanta into the glorious blue sea, I thought, first-
I am glad I have short hair.
I am glad I didn't opt for the Mexican omelet breakfast.
Oh God, please do not let me pee myself.
Those three children who put me into the ranks of champion barfers also wreaked havoc on my poor bladder. A single sneeze requires me to cross my legs; who knows what will happen under this kind of duress. Puking in front of my brothers and a new sister in law and a handsome Spaniard and a boat full of swarthy fisherman is bad enough. But to piss my pants, too? I'd have to throw myself overboard.
Finally, the puking stopped. My pants were still dry. My sweet, sweet husband out a cool cloth on the back of my neck and whispered, "Feel better?"
I looked up at him and said the first thing that came to mind - "I bet Beyoncé didn't puke off the side of a boat."