The First Night on the Boat (Florida Boating, Post 20)

Thursday, February 11

The strangest thing happened to me in the middle of the night. I’m fairly accustomed to sleeping on little boats, and in little camper vans, and in tiny tents. I’ve never had problems with it before. But Thursday morning at 1:30 AM I suddenly woke up with the clear and immediate sense that I needed out. Like now. Get out! Out!

I stood up, grabbed my phone and turned on the light. I tried to open our hatch door to the cockpit, which slides across the top of the boat, but it got stuck up against the solar panel on the top of the boat. I had to talk myself down to keep from panicking.

Meanwhile John had woken up and understood that for some reason I needed out. He helped me slide the hatch under the solar panel. I got out into the cockpit and took a few deep breaths. For a moment, as I stood there trying to calm down, I felt a surge of panic about being stuck on the boat in that vast expanse of water. For a brief instance I had a strong urge to get completely off the boat. That would have been a problem because there was nowhere to go. But luckily reason prevailed. After a moment or two of standing in the night air breathing slow and deep, I was ok again. 

I don’t know what happened. I guess it was claustrophobia. I don’t know why I woke up with it and why it came on so suddenly. I had fallen asleep in the cabin just fine. It was possible I was nauseous, because small boats rock all night long on the water. Or it’s possible some shift in the noises spooked me. 

In addition to constant rocking, sailboats make constant noises all night long. Wind howls, water slaps the sides, the lines slap the mast, the keel thunks back and forth, pulleys clang into things; all these noises are constantly changing but never stop. So something might have changed to alarm my subconscious.

All I know is it’s never happened before. I also know that I’ve had some new psychological issues ever since the start of chemo – starting a couple of days after the my first (and only) injection of oxaliplatin and dexamethasone; presumably not helped by subsequent rounds of capecitabine. So great, now I’m claustrophobic?

It’s true, the sleeping berths are small and the roof very close to our heads. Here’s where I sleep. Where you see ropes hanging down – that’s a hatch that opens for fresh air. It’s not one you could easily get out of, but it’s big enough to stick your head out. I sleep with my feet in the bow and my head next to the sink (where you see the drinks in their holders).

And here’s where John sleeps – his feet way down in there, his head out on that orange pillow.

After a few minutes of standing outside under the stars, I went back to bed and opened the hatch above my bed. That gave me a lot of air flow, and also allowed me to sit up and put my head out the hatch if I needed to. Eventually I went back to sleep.

The next morning I stuck my head out the hatch to look around. It was beautiful.

But wait…something isn’t right…

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