It was a more or less clear day on the island of Gili Trawangan as my girlfriend and I enjoyed our English breakfast on the beach and waited for our boat to begin to take passengers. We were heading off to the island of Nusa Lembongan, whose cultural affiliations lie with its nearby Bali whereas the Gilis are tied to Lombok.
We’d had a marvelous time on Trawangan, doing little more than shuffling about from guesthouse to bar to beach chair and back, jumping out of the way of horse-drawn carts (there are no motorized vehicles in the Gilis) and eating more prawns than we’d ever know how to catch.
We were waved towards an arriving boat, paid our check, and ecstatically presented our ticket to the man taking care of the boat business. Two of our dear friends were meeting us in Lembongan with two of their friends we’d never met and we were looking forward excitedly to three or four days of much mirth.
We claimed our little hard plastic bench towards the back of the boat and grinned at one another, stoked to be on another boat, glowing. The motor started up and off we were.
Something bizarre and unexpected then happened. What had looked like a serene sea while we were eating breakfast on the beach had become progressively worse until we were deep in the nightmarish tumult of an incensed sea-demon’s rage.
While rocking violently, the bottom of the boat was smacking the water every time it came back down from going over a swell. There was so much water being sprayed against the windows that it was impossible to see out.
Our fellow passengers looked increasingly terrified, and although I usually have quite a bit of good natured faith in these things, I began looking about for something to smash the window beside us in case the boat flipped.
And then, people began to wretch.
Soon a girl who worked for the boat company was walking around with an armful of thin, black, plastic bags for everyone, some grabbing at them quickly, desperately.
The smell of vomit began to permeate the cabin. I couldn’t look at anyone who was about to vomit, in the process of vomiting, or had just vomited because then I would have vomited. My girlfriend was clutching my arm like a vice and I almost got up so we could stand near the edge in case the thing flipped.
I thought about all the times I’d read about these kinds of boats, specifically in Indonesia, capsizing, sinking, or catching fire. I was getting ready for the big one.
Someone missed their bag and vomit went all over the floor of the aisle near my foot. The boat boomed as it crashed back down to the water after going over a wave.
Children screamed.
A woman began crying.
I thought of how many months had gone by since I’d spoken to my family, and the dreams I had of being old and happy with my girlfriend.
Someone else ralphed just behind me. The air was thick with terror and barf and grief.
And then, as automatically as it had started, the waves had calmed, the tempest had subsided, sea water stopped spraying against the windows, and the sun seemed to come out. We could see our destination, and it was comfortingly close, probably enough to swim.
The barf bag lady came around to collect them, disgustingly, in a large cardboard box, and tried to comfort us by saying “today not bad. Last week bad.”