Deep Sea fishing off the coast of San Diego two years ago was one of

the worst experiences of my life. We were having fun. This was one of

the best trips that our family had ever taken. My grandparents and two

of my uncles and their families took that major first trip to southern

California together with my family. Los Angeles was the first stop on

our vacation. Two days of Disneyland is all the happiness that a sane

person should be able to handle. Other than Disneyland, there isn¹t

much for a bunch of people from Utah and Montana to do in L.A., so as

soon as we were finished at the happiest place in the world, we drove

down the coast to San Diego.

After being in San Diego for a day, my dad thought it would be fun to

go deep sea fishing. At the time this seemed to be a very good idea.

What could be more fun than fishing? Once we got off that boat we

realized that lots of things are more fun than fishing. Some of these

activities include: major surgery, leprosy, and everyone¹s favorite,

cannibalism.

    We boarded the boat full of sunshine and optimism. Our wishful

thinking was quickly squashed. Not long after getting on the boat we

were checked for illegal drugs and beer. Surprisingly enough we had

neither and the boat left port. By now we were finally realizing that

this boat was covered with fat, cigar smoking men, and everyone of

them was a potty mouth.

    "Maybe I should take your sisters down to the galley," my mom decided

after a fisherman made a derogatory comment having to do with another

man¹s mother and barnyard animals.

    "That might be a good idea for ye, ye take the wenches downstairs and

let the men capture ye food, aye!" My father had suddenly transformed

into Long John Dorko, the most feared idiot on the boat.

    Fifteen fishless minutes after my sisters and mom went downstairs, my

brother started complaining about feeling sick, at least that¹s what I

thought he was complaining about. He threw up before he could finish

his sentence.

    "Dad, I don¹t fell too, blurp gag gurgle gurgle gurgle." For those of

you who don¹t know, blurp gag gurgle gurgle gurgle is the official

throw up sound. My brother got pretty good distance with his

projectile too, at least he would have if he hadn¹t missed the side of

the boat and hit the wall. I really can¹t blame him; the boat was

seventy feet long in thirty foot swells. I was even feeling a little

queasy.

    I didn't want to get stuck with the task of cleaning up the mess and

tried to walk down to the galley. The galley was warm and had what

looked to be newly refinished tables and couches. My sisters were sea

sick and drinking pop.

    "Mom, I think I¹m going to throw up," my sister Lacee said.

    "Just drink some more. We'll be done soon."

    "OK."

    Now a word to the wise, if someone tells you that drinking pop

will help settle your stomach, they're on drugs, because as soon as

she took another sip, she blew chunks all over the new couch cushions.

At the hearing of the official throw up sound, the galley cook ran

out of the kitchen to yell at us. I never did find out her name, but I

respectfully christened her, Porko, tempest of the Seas. She was fat

enough to have a tight squeeze walking through the galley door. Her

extreme porcine features were complimented by her unholy body odor. A

slaughter house smells better then she did.

    "Get out, get out of my kitchen now. If you can¹t handle the ride you

shouldn¹t be down here," she vented.

    "What do you expect, lady? This is the first time we¹ve been on the

ocean. No one told us about this barf thing." This was not the time to

mess with my mom, she was becoming sick.

    "I really don¹t care. I¹ll tell you this just once more, get out of

my galley, you¹re ruining the atmosphere." Porko commanded.

    We got up and started to leave, but before we made it upstairs my

little sister turned around and threw up. The thing is, the fat galley

wench, Porko, was standing behind her. My sister had eaten spaghetti

the meal before and now Porko was wearing it. With that burden out of

her, she exclaimed, "Lady, you stink!"

    Once on the upper deck again, I felt very sick. Some guy smoking a

cigar and wearing a beanie told me that if I lay down on top of the

roof, my stomach would be settled. Now, another word to the wise, if

some guy wearing a beanie tells you to lie on top of a roof on a boat

in the ocean to settle your stomach, he is also on drugs. I took his

word and did this. I¹ll tell you now, it didn¹t work. Once on there, I

threw up. It rolled off the roof and fell down stairs to the galley.

Porko stuck her head and politely screamed some expletives directed

towards me. By the time I felt the situation safe to get off the roof

without her attacking me, I did. I felt pretty good by then. Until I

threw up again, and again, and again. I had a grand total of five

regurgitory experiences. My family had a total of 27 of such

experiences.

    The captain turned on the search lights to look at the

water, and there was a trail of barf following behind the boat for

hundreds of yards. Because of this, we were blamed for the lack of

fish caught during that excursion. In fact, not one person caught

anything. The captain said the fish had been feasting on our

"leftovers", so to speak, and were too full to eat anything the

fisherman threw at them.

    Our first ocean fishing experience was anything but successful or

fun, but on the bright side, as a result of our hunger caused by the

sea sickness, Jack In the Box sold $56.32 of hamburgers and milkshakes