Strong With A Spear does not get seasick no matter how rough the sea, no matter how small or large the boat, no matter who else is puking for glory all over the deck, no matter what he has eaten, no matter how dark the sky or ominous the waves.

He hauls me from the bed and drags me out to the corridor.

“Please,” I beg him, “just let me die right here.

“You have to get out of this room. This is the worst place for you to be.”

“I’m dying. I know it. I accept it. Just let me stay here.”

“Come on. I’m taking you up to the First Class lounge. It’s in the dead center of the ship where there’s the least motion. You’ll feel better there.”

Now here is the wonderful part of being married to Strong With A Spear.

He had managed to get a key to the First Class lounge doors. As we approached, me half dead, him half dragging me, he hauled out a large brass key and slid it into the lock. We passed through to the better half and immediately sank into chairs covered in thick maroon velvet. With the pitching and rolling noticeably reduced I managed a wan smile of thanks.

“You stay here.”

Where did he think I was going?

“I’m going to the pharmacy to get you some seasick pills. I’ll be right back.”

This is an accurate report of the content of his missive to me. However to be completely honest with you I must say that he does not actually pronounce all his letters, especially when the word is a contraction.

Therefore I’ll becomes I.

The phrase “I’ll be right back” really sounds like this:

I be ryeback.

Consequently I’ve spent a good deal of married time interpreting what Strong With A Spear might have said.
He disappeared and I sank back against the velvet and closed my eyes imagining that I am swimming away from the large whale although he is still pursuing me with that gaping mouth, still making waves that haul me up and down, up and down. This image refuses to leave. My stomach refuses to calm down. My head throbs. My body feels as if a large vise has gripped it and is pressing it. I sit there for a long time. Finally I hear a voice. I look up to see Strong With A Spear walking toward me with a very drippy blond woman hanging on him.

She is about 28. Her blond hair is long and wispy. She wears a lot of gold bangley jewelry, especially large gold hoops in her pierced earlobes. Bracelets clank and jingle at her wrists. Her black dress is pretty tight. I sit up.

“Here. Sit down.” Strong With A Spear deposits her on the couch opposite me disentangling her arm from his.

“Oh. Here’s your room key.” He fishes in his shirt pocket and pulls out a key, handing it to her.

I am feeling a whole lot less sick.

“This is my wife.” He says to her, although he says VIFE.

“This is Bambi.” He says to me.

Bambi rolls her eyes and collapses back against the couch.

Strong With A Spear hands me a little yellow pill and a small cup of water.

“I had to wait at the pharmacy. They were so busy. Everyone’s sick. Eighty percent of the crew is out sick.”

It’s hard to imagine but the crew’s living quarters are even farther down in the water than ours. No wonder they’re all down for the count.

“They don’t have anyone to serve dinner.”

And who could eat, except Strong With A Spear and maybe the captain? I start wondering about the captain. Is he still at his post? Or is he taking these little pills too.

“I was in the elevator going down to the pharmacy when the doors opened and Bambi fell in on me and dropped her key in my hand and begged me to take her to her room. I could see she was sick so I took her to the pharmacy with me and then brought her up here. She already took a pill.”

Four months into my marriage I’m of course happy to know that Bambi is not a fleeting elevator affair. Bambi is now stretched out on the velvet couch moaning.

“Oh, God. This is much worse than my last night in Rome when I got so drunk I took my clothes off and waded through the Trevi Fountain. I was with this wonderful man, Luigi, and he was so very in love with me he did not want to let me return home to America.”

Jangle, jangle. Bambi’s bracelets did their own talking.

“But, you know, he had his responsibilities and I had mine.”

Luigi, it turned out, was responsible for seven fine fat Italian children and one fat Italian wife.

After the gale passed and Bambi’s head and stomach returned to their proper positions in her otherwise healthy body, she attached herself to a Frenchman on his way to New York to a fellowship at one of our finer medical schools. No doubt she obtained a few free physicals.