9. THE SEASONING OF A SAILOR

During my childhood, I could never gather courage for the fun rides that everyone else seemed to enjoy. Whether it was a swinging boat at a local fair or a giant wheel soaring high above the ground, I always stayed away. Even simple boat rides in a lake felt terrifying. What if the boat sank? What if I drowned? My fear of motion and my fear of water kept me on safe, steady land.

And yet, life has a strange way of laughing at our fears. Today, I am a sailor’s wife-and by the teasing but affectionate words of one of our dearest friend, a “seasoned sailor” myself.

But the title was not earned easily.

I still remember my very first seasickness. We were crossing Sri Lanka, heading towards Mundra, Gujarat, when the weather began to turn. I was in galley, cooking, when I noticed something odd-the little oil I had poured into the fry pan was running side to side like it had a mind of its own. Through the galley’s porthole, I could see the poop deck, water rising and falling in restless waves. The poop deck is a small deck built at very back(stern) of the ship.

At first, I ignored it and tried to focus on my cooking. But soon that all-too-familiar feeling hit me-the same drop in the stomach you feel on a swing or a giant wheel, except this time it was sharper, deeper, relentless. The ship began pitching and rolling, moving up and down, left, and right. I froze, spatula in hand, unable to continue. My body was in rebellion.

I called Smith on the bridge. He rushed down immediately, took one look at me, and said, “Let’s go outside, you will feel better.” He guided me to the poop deck, and there, doubled over, I finally gave in. Seasickness had caught me.

Smith washed my face gently and helped me back to our cabin. But inside, chaos had already visited us-bottles toppled, perfumes and creams scattered across the floor. Together, we secured everything we could. Then with the kind of calmness that only he has, he peeled an orange and fed it to me while telling me the story of his own first seasickness. He had faced it as a cadet in the Bay of Biscay, eating, puking, and working for two days straight before his body learned to adjust. He laughed, saying that, after that storm he never once felt sick again.

I listened, reassured, and for a while I thought I was feeling better. But only minutes later, another violent pitch of the ship sent me running-and in my desperation, I made the mistake of puking into the washbasin instead of commode. The orange came back, clogging the basin, and Smith just shook his head and said, “this is why I told you to use the commode.” Then like the patient man he is, he cleaned it all up for me.

Lying on my bed afterward, sipping water, I realized how powerless seasickness can make you feel. Even as I gathered the courage to go up to the bridge, sit in the pilot chair, and watch the angry sea crash against the deck, my body still betrayed me. But watching the officers and crew carry on-eating, puking, working, repeating-taught me something. Their responsibilities left no space for weakness. Seasickness could not excuse them from duty.

That lesson became clearer later in the messroom, when I spoke with the GS, who had joined the ship with us. It was his very first ship too, and when I asked him how he felt, he admitted with tired eyes, “Yes madam, I have been puking and I have a headache, but I cannot rest. I still have my duties to finish.” He smiled faintly and carried on serving us. Around the table, other officers and engineers nodded knowingly. Each of them had their own story of the first battle with seasickness, but none of them had stopped working. They ate, puked, worked, and repeated.

I sat there silently for a while, realizing the difference. I had the luxury to lie down, to be cared for, to rest. They did not. They have fixed rest hours. That day I learned not only what the seasickness feels like, but also what responsibility means. It was humbling. It was a reminder of how privileged I was.

Seeing my pale face, our Chief Engineer chuckled and said in his half-serious, half-joking way:” You know what the old timers used to say? If you feel seasick, just take a gulp of sea water. The ocean will stop fighting you, once you drink a part of it.”

Everyone laughed, some teasing me to try it, others shaking their heads at the absurdity. But behind the playful banter, there was a grain of wisdom. It was not actually drinking the sea water- it was about learning not to resist, about accepting the sea instead of fighting it.

The light-hearted tale, told over clinking pates and laughter, strangely gave me courage. I began to see seasickness not as a weakness, but as the sea’s initiation ritual-its way of testing me before letting me belong.

And slowly I did belong. With time, I learned to walk with the sway, to rest with the rhythm, and to rise with each wave.

I also thought it would be my first and last battle with seasickness. But the sea has its own plans.

Years later, while crossing the Atlantic on a long voyage to the U.S., the weather turned wild again. For seven straight days, the ocean roared. That time, I was pushed to my limits-puking eleven times in a single day, unable to eat, unable even to pee because my body was so dehydrated. For three days, I could do nothing but lie on my bed, drained of energy, while Smith hovered in worry.

Finally, he convinced me to fight back. “You have to eat,” he said. With great efforts, I freshened up, drank some water, and forced myself to go up to the bridge. I started chatting with the officers, and when they teased me about my seasickness, I laughed and teased back. Slowly, I learned to trick my mind, to stop resisting the sea and instead dance with it. Literally-with every roll of the ship, I began doing Michael Jackson’s famous move against the gravity on the bridge, turning misery into humor

That is when Smith told our friend about me, and he said, “Our madam has become a seasoned sailor.”

Maybe he was right. Not because I no longer feel seasickness- I still do, every time. But because I have learned to live with it. To laugh at it. To fight it with stubbornness, humor, and a little bit of courage.

The sea tests you in a way you never expect. It strips away your comfort, your control, your dignity even. But in return, it teaches you resilience. And as I learned in those rough waves, sometimes resilience is not about defeating the storm-it is about dancing with it.