Cruise Story Silver Winner: On Public Urination in Mixed Company
by Kaitlyn Gentile
The boat had no bathroom, and that was worrisome. “Anything you have to do, you do in the water,” said Charlie. Charlie was our captain, a skinny islander with a Caribbean accent. Jake, his dreadlocked first mate, nodded along. “Anything.” On such an unflinchingly sunny morning after such an intense amount of alcohol, this was unsettling. I’d drunk enough rum punch the previous night to perform a karaoke duet with my friend Danny at a beachside bar. We were vacationing in Belize and our rendition of Aladdin and Princess Jasmine’s A Whole New World had quickly made us a hit among the locals. Our performance was complete with dramatic arm gestures, affected eyelash batting, and no small quantity of spilled rum punch.
This morning Danny and I winced at the sparkling waves as we guzzled bottled water. We had paid Charlie to take us snorkeling with ten other tourists but we would have preferred to dry out on the beach for a while, to stay on solid ground with functioning plumbing until the worst of the hangover had passed. Instead we were going to have to hold it for at least an hour while we sailed to the reef.
The boat was a thirty-foot schooner with a simple hull and a slippery deck. The first thing I did, once we set sail, was fall over. Two of my shipmates extended a hand to help me up, and after I’d found my sea legs we made our introductions. One was a gregarious American named Chris, the other an Australian named Andrew. They recognized me from my performance the night before and congratulated me on a bang-on Princess Jasmine impression. “You’ll have to come out with us tonight,” said Chris. “It’s Andrew’s birthday!” I tried to engage Andrew in a chat about Australia, but he answered most of my questions with grunts. Yawning, I excused myself to find my sunscreen.
A full day at sea would entail at least fifteen sunscreen applications. Back on the island my fair skin made me something of an anomaly compared to the other tanned, bikinied tourists. I wore a one-piece bathing suit, a polka-dotted Marilyn Monroe getup that fit me like a sausage casing. It covered everything from my hips to my armpits, and each remaining inch of skin was shellacked with sunscreen. The locals shook their heads at the ethereal moon-dweller who’d landed on their island, whose skin glowed under UVA rays and stayed the same color after four days on the beach. My secret was a floppy hat, plenty of shade, and a steady diet of SPF 75.
I smeared on more sunscreen as we sailed, chatting with the other snorkelers and giggling at every slosh of salt water that splashed the bouncing boat. We hit each wave with a slap that soaked us all as we slid between port and starboard. When we’d ventured out far enough, Jake cut the engine and Charlie prompted us to dive in.
Our tour turned out to be worth the hangover. We swam around giant coral formations and choked on salt water. We splashed with nurse sharks and gaped at massive schools of still, silver fish. We reached out tentative hands to stroke a stingray. And we peed in the water, as instructed.
Having peed in the water roughly as many times as I had reapplied my sunscreen, I figured I was ready for the ride back to the island. Charlie and Jake broke out a cooler of rum punch, and despite my pounding headache and the hour Danny had spent vomiting over the side of the boat, we joined in the toast. The rum punch swam straight into my bladder, where it joined forces with the three quarts of fresh and five gallons of salt water I had swallowed that day. The beverages organized a protest and began to riot, demanding to be let out.
There was nowhere to go. The boat was cruising along with no shoreline in sight, and when I asked how long it would take to get back, I was told an hour and a half. My eyes rolled into the back of my head. Jealously I watched the boys take turns peeing into the wind, while Jake manned the sails and angled himself away from the spray. My own options for relief seemed limited to crossing my legs and searching for distractions around the boat. I was busying myself in this manner when I saw, on the hull, a grotty length of rope tied to a little hook. In a moment of brilliance it occurred to me that I could hold the rope to ride along behind the boat and pee in the water, just like Charlie wanted. Abandoning Danny and the others to their cocktail hour, I stumbled to the bow to ask Jake if I could jump in.
Jake was dubious. “Okay,” he said. “But hold on to the rope really tight. And be careful of your bathing suit.”
“It’s a one-piece,” I scoffed. “Where is it going to go ”
Where indeed. With desperation as my guide, I gripped the slimy rope and hopped off. Before I had even made a splash, my legs flew out behind me and my face hit the waves. The current was too strong for me to kick. I could do nothing but be dragged like dead wood through the surf. There was a short plank jutting out from the hull, and I reached for this and wrapped my arms around it. I could still barely hang on, and my pee was far less relaxing than I’d hoped, as it interfered with my concentration on survival. With my elbows locked and my biceps flexed, I tried to pull my legs toward the boat to reposition myself, but I could not fight the current.
After five minutes of this little drama, it occurred to me to check the status of my suit. A quick once-over confirmed that the straps knotted at my neck had indeed loosened, and the girls were entirely out and about, white as twin sand dollars, scandalizing the local fish. With one hand I abandoned my tenuous grip on the board and pulled the straps behind my head.
The problem now was that I had run out of hands. Even had the current not been flattening me against the waves, I did not have the strength to pull myself back into the boat one-handed or the dexterity to retie my straps with only five fingers. I was going to have to choose between staying here in the water forever or else reboarding entirely topless. I opted for the former. Above me on the hull Jake loomed with Andrew beside him, their eyes on the horizon, while I casually skidded along on my belly. Oh, isn’t this magical, isn’t this an adventure, just me and the ocean, desperately clinging to life with my tits out. I love snorkeling! For ten more minutes I hung like that, feigning indifference, frantically calculating how I was ever going to get up.
Finally Jake took notice of my plight. “Do you need help ” he asked. Wordlessly I nodded and Andrew seized the opportunity for heroism. He leaned over the boat and grabbed me by the arms.
And there we stayed. He couldn’t pull me back up as dead weight, and I didn’t have the strength to climb with one arm. The gracelessness of my position was only exacerbated by the addition of a strange man’s fingers in my armpits. Quietly we hung like that for a moment, each considering how quickly we’d signed on for more than we’d bargained for. At last he said, “You’re going to have to use both hands.”
I sighed and released my bathing suit. My breasts jumped out and danced a jig of freedom, joining my legs in bouncing atop the waves. I wrapped my arms around the board again and tried to hide behind it while Andrew politely averted his eyes. Or maybe he didn’t, who could tell, he was wearing sunglasses. “Okay,” he said, “now pull as hard as you can.” We strained against the board, and with a heave Andrew yanked me up about six inches. My waist hit the edge of the hull and I bent double, sending my face flying into his crotch.
And there it stayed. Somehow the combination of muscle strain, water current, and the abject awkwardness of the situation left us frozen in place, laughing uncomfortably, stuck there with my face in his lap and my bosoms heaving against the boat. My feet dangled in the water, slapping over the waves in the still-strong current. Andrew pulled again at my armpits while I attempted to cover myself, neither of us meeting much success. For a moment I considered simply letting myself fall back into the ocean and be drowned.
Finally we managed a scramble that pulled me entirely into the boat, but it pitched and landed me flat on top of him, straddling his body with my face pressed to his. With sore, shaking arms, I tried to get up, only to be knocked down again by another jolt. Then Jake abruptly cut the motor and the craft slowed to an easy glide across the water. I rolled off of Andrew and stood up to readjust my breasts. I could not quite make eye contact.
“Well!” I said brightly. “Happy birthday.”
Andrew mumbled a red-faced response and turned away as I double-knotted my bathing suit straps. With bruised knees and an empty bladder, I hopped back across the boat to pour myself another cup of rum punch.
