The open sea is a shimmer of silver under a blaze of blue sky. Our eyes are trained on the boundless horizon: watching, waiting. Was that the crest of a wave, or the back of a whale? A glimmer of sun on surf, or a ripple from the flick of a tail?
We've had a couple of encounters so far, but keep scanning the surface in hopes of further sightings. And all the while the sun beats down, and the boat pitches and rolls on the ocean swells, drenching us in a white salt spray.
'Careful you don't fall in,' says a man to his wife, 'you look like a giant krill.'
In our red life jackets, we all do.
It doesn't occur to me to feel seasick until somebody else is, retching miserably over the side onto the lower deck. It's always the one you least expect – in this case, a tall, solid chap built like a wrestler. A young couple rush to his side, proffering pills. 'Seasickness tablets – we took some before coming on board,' they say brightly; but it is too late, and they are waved aside. We fall silent on the journey back to the harbour.
'I think everyone was feeling a bit squeamish,' said the American lady, meaning queasy, back on shore, but thankfully the evening shadows hide how green we all are around the gills.
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