Constant Waterman 

From the Journals of Constant Waterman

I gave him a twisted smile and wiped my mouth. We finally arrived at our destination. The skipper backed her down and headed her not quite into the wind and angled only slightly into the chop. The shuddering stopped: except where the doughnuts had recently caroused.

All about, people baited up and claimed positions to fish along the rail. The leeward rail maintained the most popularity: you don’t get spray – or other fluids – blown back onto your face. I needed the leeward rail for my penance, but no one seemed desirous of my company. The waist of the ship was the easiest place to fish - close to the water and least affected by pitching. I found myself ostracized to the bows where the pitching magnified.

Up, up, up and then - oohhh, not again - down. I decorated the bow of that boat and never charged for my service. The doughnuts were gone. The eggs and toast from six AM were gone. Last night’s supper was gone. Last week’s supper was gone. Nothing remained save lovely, lovely bile. That seemed destined to stay.

I staggered to the fantail. That proved considerably calmer, but even more diesel exhaust collected there. If you ever need an antidote for a good digestion, I recommend diesel fumes.

I finally lay down on a bench in the deckhouse and tried my best not to fall off it. I succeeded at this - ninety percent of the time. The scarcity of cooperative cod consoled me. After what seemed like weeks, we headed for port.

I stumbled ashore and avidly gulped some fresh water. An hour later, I tried solid food. Success! That night I slept like the dead.

In the morning my lover brought me coffee - and doughnuts.