A mouthful of marbles

We were sitting amongst the throngs of tourists with beach bodies only produced in America. Tacky souvenier shops, restaurants of every description touting their deep fried wares on the sidewalks.

But we were with locals here on Lauderdale-by-the-sea beach so we definitely picked the right one.

It was one of these fusion/not so fusion places where the sushi chef is relegated to a corner on the other side of the patio and the waiters drop of his menu as an afterthought.

Our host and I decided to share some sushi rolls as a starter. I should have known then. But no, I was in the festive spirit.

When the waiter explained something about the separate kitchen for sushi, my friend volunteered to go order the rolls directly. Maybe I should have been a bit worried. But no, by then I was people watching, blabbing, laughing too loudly, sipping my well rum and Diet Coke.

 At some undetermined time later, plates of food arrived on our table. One of the dishes was our fancy looking sushi roll. I tucked in. Just like that. Without a thought. For my health, my decisions, the ramifications. It was good. Wasabi burn. Head rush. Woo hoo! Then wait… a strange texture. But just for a second. And then I suited up the next piece with a sopping of wasabi laden soya sauce. I was halfway through that piece when the texture hit me.

My stomach bottomed out. That was shrimp! The whole tourist world spun around me in nauseating circles. The faces and voices around me blurred behind my sheer rising panic.

With my eyes betraying my terror, I asked

“Peggy, what was in that sushi roll?!”

“I don’t know. It was a recommendation of the chef.”

“BUT WE CHOSE A SPECIFIC ONE!”

She read my redness and realised I was not just a picky eater.

“Could there be shrimps?!”

“Yes, I guess. I’ll go check.” She ran off.

Conversation at our table had come to a stand-still. Everyone was now looking at me. Was I going to explode into a thousand pieces?

“What do I do? I’m allergic!”

“Go to the washroom and vomit!”

For a split second I figured that was a ridiculous suggestion. All my previous reactions came flooding through my head. Maybe I was just being a 21^st century princess?! Maybe an antihistamine would do me just fine and just maybe I shouldn’t be creating this highly disruptive event on our previously pleasant evening out with friends at the beach…

But within seconds I fled for the loo hearing the discussion at the table behind me – something about an Epi Pen, antihistamines, clinics nearby, types of allergies etc etc…

Four years earlier I had found myself on a cold November evening in the Captain’s Lounge in St Augustine where our boat was hauled up onto land. I was itching and scratching as we sat in front of the TV. I was convinced there was literally ants in my pants. A quick trip to the ladies that time revealed a case of hivey-welt-things that proceeded to cover my whole body. In my ears, under my arms, in every crevice.

Marita brought me an antihistamine while we tried to determine the cause. I had never had an allergy to anything in my life besides exercise. But I remembered I’d scoffed a plate of peel-n-eat shrimps earlier on special. Something I hadn’t ingested in ages. Hmmm…

6 months later, anchored in an idyllic anchorage in the Bahamas I was once again covered in itchy welts. This time it followed an indulgence in fresh caught lobster tail in lemon butter. Oh No! An unofficially confirmed seafood allergy!

But I LOVE seafood, AND I live on a boat in the tropics! Oh Sod and is law…

One antihistamine didn’t cut it that time and I needed a few more to ease the symptoms.

I knew I’d have to become a bubble kid around seafood from now on. But then calamari is not a shellfish right? And it’s covered in batter with garlic aioli! Who could be allergic to that?!

Well, me, it turns out. Found out the hard way after a ladies tapas night where the calamari landed in front of me. Spent that evening gasping with acid reflux, breathing problems, hives, shaking… diarrhea… it was not a pretty sight.  But it cemented my knowledge, that despite my reluctance to accept, I WAS allergic to seafood.

Forward to Lauderdale. Bent over a toilet, retching and apologizing to each unsuspecting lady that entered…

“Not bulimic folks! Food allergy… didn’t realise…” followed by more retching.

Soon there was a crowd at the door. John was there with a waitress and my sister’s expired Epi Pen that I carry around with me in case something like this happens. But I just couldn’t. I believed if I got all that poison out of me I would be ok.

Marita and Peggy arrived back from the pharmacy with Extra Strength antihistamines as well. It was an impromptu allergy party. I popped out of the stall, and with my eyes bloodshot and watery, I tried to maintain an atmosphere of relative calm.

“I’m ok guys. I’ll be fine.” I swallowed two strong tabs and headed back to the table.

I was embarrassed. In seeking fame, no one wants to be the center of attention for intentional barfing at a restaurant. The questions came at me – all way too much information types, but there I was. The evening had been derailed at this stage, so I went for it. Explained all the previous incidents and then this one.

“I’m going to pass out soon after those Benadryls!”

So we tried to get back to other topics. Ordered other food and drinks. I tried to sit quietly. But then someone would look over at me.

“Are you sure you’re ok?”

“Yeah, for sure!”

Until I wasn’t. My tongue spontaneously inflated and hardened. It was like a pressurized tire in the middle of my mouth. My eyes became saucers again and before I knew it, faces were huddled round my open mouth, observing the phenomenon.

The stringy thing under my tongue was a large marble that the rock hard tongue sat on. I breathed carefully. I realized I couldn’t speak. It felt funnily enough like I had a mouthful of marbles. But still, that Epi Pen in my purse didn’t tempt me.

Stabbing my leg through my jeans?! Really? Seems so extreme… The others fussed and doted. Paid the bill and we were in the car. Should we go to the clinic? NO.

“Let-th wait and thee how I feew” (marble talk). “Let-th juth-t doh home”

And we did. But inside I was terrified my tongue would kill me. I Googled allergy stories and read about all the deaths…. Bloody shrimp!

Finally I fell ath-leep, but woke all through the night having difficulty breathing. By morning my tongue had only half deflated and the stringy thingy (which I've since discovered, is called a frenulum), was still a round hard marble.

It took half a day to recede completely.

So now I know I actually have a food allergy. And apparently you have to take these things seriously.I'll never look at a set of chopsticks the same... :(

I've learned a hell of a lot more about this topic than I ever wanted to know. I could be allergic to the iodine in shellfish... somehow I am still able to eat clams, mussels, scallops but I get more wary of trying any seafood after this last fiasco! Luckily I can eat all the regular fish I want. Salmon, tuna, mahi, snapper etc etc etc... Chances are this spontaneous allergy will never go away though :(

And since reactions tend to get worse with each exposure, I will have to look the other way when our cruiser friends appear at the back of our boat with their spears and trophy lobsters proudly in hand, mumbling about the garlic butter they will have to melt... 

I will now have to be a real princess at restaurants, only ordering for myself and asking all those annoying questions about what might be in a particular dish, and what it might have come in contact with…

Or I could just stay home. Hmmm…

I guess I’ll have to live with being annoying! 

Anchor watch: Poseidon's folly, sailor's sleepless nights

Imagine an erratic stream of 3 foot nautical bucking broncos under your floor. The deep, angry howling sound of their leader Poseidon above, below, permeating everything.

The boat is at their mercy. Our anchor, a muddy claw, reaching deep into the mysteries below us, chain for muscly arm, holds us against the onslaught. All night. 

And we sit in the darkness peering around in our floating capsule, the hopeful against the futile – perhaps by our well wishes and generous doses of worry – that we, and all the other boats, will have strong anchors too.

We employ technology to confirm what we know – the chartplotter, on and ready for duty at the helm reports 33 knots - the wind is pumping. The digital display at once comforting and terrifying. The wind is definitely pumping and no one but us is here to deal with whatever emergency might ensue. And it’s 2am. It’s always 2 am.

This is a relatively common practice called ‘anchor watch’. It always happens in the dead of night, when, by Sod’s Law, all the storms happen. Poseidon loves to taunt the sailors. But tonight he is particularly the bully. The wind begins as forecast about 11pm. It’s now 7am and the seas are still agitated. The wind is still pumping. There is a massive system off the east coast of America and we are feeling it’s wrath.

Weather dictates our life. Weather is our life in many ways. Our plans and destinations and timing – weather. We are sitting in Nassau at this very minute because we calculated the potential for this storm and figured this would be the safest place to ride it out. Hemmed in on all sides by Atlantis Resort, cruise ship docks, marinas and massive bridges.

“We’ll be protected by the buildings” we said.

“And by the cruise ships!” we also surmised.

Well it all came to nothing as the wind and the waves bypassed our imaginary security measures and hammered us all night.

It’s not like we didn’t know this was coming. But we’ve learned there’s nothing much to do but carry on as normal until the wind hits the boat! Or the shit hits the fan. Sometimes those are two in the same.

But yesterday in the calm before, we feigned regular tourists for the day. Hid ourselves in the plain sight world of overfed cruise ship visitors.

We are even sporting our version of the farmer’s tan with it being the beginning of the season and all…

We literally joined the ranks of people who are in the festive holiday mood. Sampled the free rum, walked the town, perused the art galleries and marveled at the beach bodies of every shape and size. 

We pretended we would also be heading back to a secure cabin or hotel room for a hot shower and a prepared meal and maybe take in a show or hit the casino.

We looked just like those who would be hitting their pillows without worry of their homes dragging through an anchorage into a concrete wall or another boat while they slept.

But what is sleep to a cruiser on anchor watch? Something he’s not getting tonight.

Later today – if the weather permits - we will sit at the pub just over there on solid ground, amongst the fans and party folk, watching the Superbowl adverts and the halftime show.

Nothing to give away our secret, except maybe a few dark circles under the eyes or an extra grey hair. Nothing but a twinkle in our eyes to hint that we are living at the edge of society’s safety illusion. Living with the wind as our master. Living a life unknown, where the highs are higher than the highest skyscrapers and the lows involve anchors dragging through the mud.