I’ve been invited to go on a deep sea fishing expedition. This shouldn’t be confused with me being invited to the premiere of Deadpool, which I wasn’t. Even though the latter would cause everlasting happiness and joy in my soul. The former…Not so much. Why am I going then? I’m not really sure to be perfectly honest. I’ve never done it, so maybe it is a bucket list thing. A few of my mates are going, so maybe I’m just one big sucker for peer pressure.
So here I’m off, all Captain Nemo and shit.
Most people know that I’m not the world’s biggest fan of fishing. Especially not the deep sea variety because sharks view me as food. They don’t see a tall, semi-handsome, grey hair, middle-aged man with a sunny disposition and a great sense of humour. They only see protein.
If I was the world’s greatest open water swimmer then I wouldn’t have been intimidated by the fact that I’m going to be around 24 km (that’s like 15 miles) out to sea. But I’m not. So I am. Princess also asked me nicely not to die. I promised her I would do my best. Because my best needs to be good enough.
The other concern is whether I have sea-legs. I don’t know yet. If you have them sea-legs, you will produce a little less vomit than the next guy. The great news is that there are deck hands on board to do everything for us, as I wouldn’t even know when and where to begin with what. Therefore the only thing we need to do is stand around and catch fish. Or alternatively, crawl around and puke some more.
The mystery of whether yours truly will (1) Feed my dinner to the fish or (2) Bring home a fish for dinner, will be revealed tomorrow. I’ve gathered an assortment of remedies, including but not limited to capsules for motion sickness, pills for nausea, a wide array of ginger based products and as a last resort, beer to help me cope in the absence of sea-legs.
I’ll keep you posted on the outcome of my adventure and post a pic. Of the fish. Not the puke. Don’t worry. I’m not an animal.