The Sad Voyage of the H.M.S. Pukefest

Port Canaveral, Florida.  Here we go again. . .

Ahoy, readers.

As you may or may not recall, the last time the Whites were down here accomp-anying Dad and Cindy, we all went deep-sea fishing in the Gulf of Mexico.  Despite being overcast and a little windy, it was a great time - we scored a ton of fish and ate like kings (or successful fishermen, take your pick) back at the resort later that evening.  It was due to this past escapade that Yours Truly heartily signed on for yet another fishing adventure, this time in the Atlantic, out of Port Canaveral.

Alas, things didn't go so well this time around (I'm sure this entry's title tipped you off, there.)

Now, I've never been one to boast of his 'sea legs,' but I like to think I can handle myself fairly well on a fishing boat a few miles off the coast.  It's not like I'm being tossed around in a tempest, or trying to circumvent the Straits of Magellan or anything.  The last time around, I didn't get sea sick at all - if anything, the lack of sleep caused by waking up at 4am was a problem.

This was terrible.

This year, unfortunately, I decided to be an idiot and stay up 'til 1am watching The Hobbit: the Desolation of Smaug and drinking Manhattans.

'Cause that's what you're supposed to do the night before heading out to choppy waters at the ass-crack of dawn.

This was not.

I was sea sick sitting on my coach trying to put my shoes on at 4:30am, so when I heard the reports that the Atlantic was so choppy most other fishermen were saying 'screw it, we'll come back tomorrow,' I didn't have high hopes for the morning.

But don't take my word for it, readers - check out this year's adventure on the high seas for yourself:

Trolling out of Port Canaveral among cruise ships and tugboats.  It was an ominous sign that we were among the very few boats heading out to sea - all the other fishing boats were heading back to port, as the seas were considered by most (according to those over the radio) to be too choppy for fishing.

The Sea Leveler, our vessel this time around, was a lot less impressive than the ol' S.S. 100 Proof we took last time

Bradley and Bryan

Our captain (though I hate to use that term. . . it's not like he was commanding men or anything.  I think 'boat driver' seems more appropriate.)

Setting off into choppy water.  We hadn't even netted the bait yet and I was already feeling like a sackful of buttholes. . .

The swells were over  7 feet high, which meant that the boat was dropping 14 feet or so every time it crested a wave and plummeted back down.  Not nearly as much fun as it may sound.

It took about an hour and a half to get out to the point where we could actually fish, but it was far from the leisurely toss-and-reel we had experienced two years ago.  As our 'captain' said, "today you guys are going to have to work for it."

Some early spoils of the day (I contributed nothing)

After an hour or so out on the open sea, Bradley started to grow sea sick (as you can see, I'm still kickin' ass back there - our boat driver said that was the fastest he's ever seen someone get seasick on his boat.  I've very proud of this.)

Catching a siesta.

The boys had a similar notion.

It may look calm here, but it wasn't.

Blake held it together much better than his uncle, who now wears frilly lace and answers to 'Alice.'

Alice, still napping.

Helping Lazarus reel in dinner.

Heading back in to Port Canaveral. . .

That boat looked a lot cooler than our boat.

Not sure what Bradley's doing here - I think he's throwing the fish bait overboard.  Hopefully he's not eating it.

The U.S. Coast Guard.  On the prow for pirates.  Or Cubans.

After five hours, I was finally able to sit upright without vomiting my ass off.  I attribute much of this to the fact that I had absolutely nothing left in my insides to puke up.

Our point of berth.

The Sea Leveler

Hanging up fish for the usual photo op

The swarthy crew of the H.M.S. Pukefest

Fishermen and victims. . .

Reenactments for the public.

Our boat driver fulfilled his contractual obligations by gutting and slicing up the mackerels into nice fillets for us to take back (the bonita taste like shit so you throw those out.)

. . . otherwise the dead fish will float at the surface of the sea, attracting carrion and God knows what else.

When this guy woke up this morning, I wonder if he saw this coming.

These dudes got a feast.

Kids love gore.  Blood, that is. . . not the politician-turned-environmentalist.

Dad put a lot of effort into taking a picture of one of the dolphins that were hanging out along the docks - these things must be somewhat domesticated, for they feared no boats or human noise.

*    *    *    *    *

While we men toiled and puked away aboard the Sea Leveler, the girls had a somewhat more relaxed morning poolside. . .

Showing off their new swimsuits.  Or just being weird, who knows.

. . . and having fun with someone else's noodle.

Enjoyable for most, horrifying to my offspring.

Nana attempts to prove to Alayna that this fountain-thing can't kill her.

Obviously you won't see my kids on this thing any time soon.

Dog paddling.  We really need to get on the whole swim lessons thing - down here in Florida, the number one cause of death for children under 5 is drowning. . .  

There's always bizarre, drunk foreigners to converse with at the poolside bar.  I love living in a tourist Mecca.

Evidently it took a long, long time for Abby to muster up the courage to touch this intimidating pirate ship. . .

My kid's obnoxious.

The Houghs, Florida edition  (that chick off to the left is my eldest daughter from a previous marriage)

I have weird roommates.

Once we got back upstairs to the hotel room, Bryan White labored away in the kitchen putting fire and heat to the catch of the day.  He fried one batch and baked another with lemon - both turned out awesome, so it was deemed 'legit' to take the mandatory Facebook-ish foodie snapshot of the final product.

BAM

- Brian