Hostile Ferries and (F)ery Good Hostels

So last time I rode the ferry from Wellington to Picton, and vice versa, picture pristine, rippling water. Slightly hazy blue sky. A hilly harbor with small houses ranged over the slopes and a small, sheltered town with tall sail boats all along the forest-edged waterfront.

Today was a little bit different.

2:05 p.m.
Ferry exits dock at Wellington Harbour. Sailboats. Crisp, clean wind. Rippling water. Salt spray. Check.

2:20 p.m.
Ferry exits Wellington Harbour to cross the Strait. Wind picks up. Waves pick up boat. Jen’s stomach registers protest. Onset of seasickness.

2:30 p.m.
Attendant from Interislander: “Ma’am? Are you all right? You should probably move to the back of the craft. You’ll feel it less.”
Jen: mute, green-faced, climbs to her feet and half-walks to the back lounge, breaking into a run to counteract the sudden vanishing of floor beneath her feet when the boat rolls.

Two hours of status quo with varying levels of misery. Note to self, trying to breathe with the waves (up–in, down–out) is only marginally and psychologically helpful.

4:20 p.m.
Jen realizes that she can now sit up without concentrating on not vomiting. Boat has entered the Marlborough Sounds and is now predominantly vertical. So is Jen. Fresh air on upper decks, green hue begins to fade. Commence appreciation of the aforementioned beautiful sights of the ferry trip.

5:15 p.m.
Disembark in Picton, shiftily avoiding sympathetic looks from the several passengers who witnessed ignominious flight from the front lounge.

The end. Of ferry rides. For Jen. Or other activities on open water. Without Dramamine. For a long time. Probably.


(Made up for largely by a lovely, cozy, carpeted hostel in Picton, with a fire. And tea. And free chocolate pudding. Which my stomach might actually accept.)


Published by Jen

The author of Snark on the Side is not your average run-of-the-millennial generation. Jen is a contradiction in terms: a graceful klutz, a smart blond, a math-savvy English degree-holder, a southern liberal, and an adult amateur equestrian who doesn’t match her saddle pads. Snark on the Side is a work in progress, born out of years of rambling email newsletters and anthropomorphized Christmas letters, small town observations, and the ever-present irony of pursuing a career with a degree in English literature. Thanks for visiting!

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