Paradise…not

Honolulu.

The plan was to spend time with my close friend Sheryl and her new husband, Mark. I should have known what I was in for when I went to their wedding reception and Mark swung his long chunky leg over a chair, grinned at me and said, “Oh, I’ve been so many places and I’ve done so many things.” I guess acting like a pompous ass was one of them.    

But Sheryl wanted me to visit. Said they had a spacious guest room and weren’t far from the beach. We could go many places and do many things (well, she didn’t really put it that way), please come. I hadn’t seen her for nearly a year and I’d never seen Hawaii. I decided to put my reservations about Mark out of my mind. Why not focus on the positive? My girlfriend loved him so he couldn’t be that bad.

And he wasn’t. But she was.

“I’ve never seen you this heavy,” Sheryl informed me, oh, about thirty minutes after I arrived on the island (upon graduating from college I had become depressed and put on fifteen pounds). Hmmm. Well, I wasn’t happy about my plus size either but this wasn’t quite the “aloha” I was expecting.

We spent the evening lounging on the couch, watching an Olivia Newton John concert video (I wish I was joking) and sipping Long Island Ice Teas. I was exhausted from the trip and the five hour time change. The combination of jet lag, tequila, and Ms. Newton John’s “singing” conspired to turn me into a limp guest. As I made my way up the stairs Sheryl told me we had to wake up at 6:00 to go sailing. So much for relaxing on the sands of Waikiki.

The next morning, dazed from Dramamine (who knew sea sickness medication could make you feel so stoned?), I boarded a 55 foot sailboat along with approximately twelve of S and M’s good friends. The weather was a tropical wet dream and the Pacific Ocean looked like it would play nice with us. I found a shady spot on the boat and took a horizontal position as we set sail, the boat skimming smoothly through the water. Ah.

“We’re getting ready to heel” shouted the skipper.

Huh? I must have nodded off. Say that again?

“You’d better grab onto something,” he yelled. “You don’t swim too good when you’re unconscious!”

I started to slide with increasing speed towards the starboard side of the craft. Somehow I managed to grasp hold of a railing just before finding myself positioned, feet first, on the edge of the tilting boat, staring up close and personal into the moving water.

“Hang on,” the captain shouted again. “We’re havin’ fun now!”

Is that what this was?

When we finally, years later (slight exaggeration but only slight), dropped anchor off Diamond Head, everyone popped open their coolers and out came the beer and Mark’s specialty, homemade spring rolls. Permanently traumatized, I gulped a Miller Lite despite my drug induced state. Maybe if I got high enough, this would seem like fun.

“Don’t you want another spring roll,” Sheryl asked, pushing the Tupperware towards me. First I was too fat; now I wasn’t eating enough of her husband’s fried food?

“I don’t think so. I feel kinda queasy.”

“Suit yourself,’” Sheryl said and snapped the lid on the container before marching off to the bow of the boat with a couple of her gal pals.

“Why did I come on this trip,” someone behind me moaned.

My feelings exactly! I turned around to find out who the other miserable sailor was. Ooops, wish I hadn’t. A deeply tanned guy with huge biceps was leaning over a handrail, emptying the contents of his stomach into the ocean. So much for the spring rolls.

“He shouldn’t have come today.” One of Sheryl’s gal pals had sidled up next to me. Her white bikini was tiny. Her implants were not. “He’s hung over. We’re going to drop him off at the port before going back.”

Gee, could I get off there, too?

“We’re heading in,” hollered the skipper. “There’s a squall warning!”

The good times just kept coming.

After a short jaunt to a nearby dock to unload the upchucking passenger, the skipper steered us towards home. Of course, our side trip only ensured that we run into the squall. Around the time the boat began its slow bounce up and down a series of small waves, Sheryl decided it would be a cool idea if she could try steering the boat.

“Sure,” the skipper cried, “why not?”

Why not? Maybe because she’s never sailed a boat and it’s storming?

Delighted with herself, Sheryl plopped behind the wheel while I sat and prayed. It was windy, raining, the sun was going down, and my soon-to-be former best friend was guiding the boat.

After docking (the skipper had smartened up and taken the wheel from Sheryl at that point), we disembarked and headed for the car. We were soaking wet, tired, and hungry. Well, at least one of us was.

“We’re going to bed early,” Sheryl informed me when we got back to the apartment. “If you want something to eat, you can heat up some left over spring rolls. Goodnight.”

It was going to be a long vacation.

End of Part One.