boat trip

everybody vomiting. most people more than once. for me, twice. the first one was a slow, sickly false alarm, i was more interested in it than it was in me, but the second was the inexorable tart, puckering, rush of saliva to the tongue, like inspiration to a romantic poet. the running the last few steps to the bathroom kind, and once through the first door, holding a mouthful in your cheeks. some people, like the owner of the slick eight paces from the bathroom, didn’t make it, some people though, didn’t try. they tilted their heads. little children cried the whole time and fair enough, their parents had brought them here and had failed to remove them from the situation. i would have vomited on mine deliberately. footage of refugee or concentration camps of some sort give you a list of images to describe them, and we had people sitting resolutely but pathetically with their small child on one side and their vomit on the other staring diffidently into middle distance. there was a spanish father who attempted to make it all seem okay by talking too much and joking, which his children received with the appropriate disgust. nobody likes a funnyman. and there were full-grown adults (of both major varieties) crying out at the top of their lungs as they vomited: oohhhhhhhhhhhhhh, ahhhhhhhhhhhh. obviously they thought they were going to die, and if i’d felt any steadier onmy feet and in my stomach they would have been right.

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