We were still at Green Turtle Cay in the Bahamas, where my Mom had just been attacked by no-see-ums.
Let me just say… the bugs chose violence.
We left off with Mom being personally victimized by approximately seventeen thousand no-see-ums. I counted. Roughly.
The next morning was… not great.
Dad shuffled us Sheps off the boat at sunrise. No ceremony. No discussion. Just “Out. Now.” Apparently Mom’s legs were covered in swollen bumps the size of my Chuck-It ball. There were too many to count. Even for a shepherd with advanced math skills.
She was grumpy.
Not “no coffee” grumpy.
Not even “engine won’t start” grumpy.
She was “I have a fever and if one more tiny flying demon lands on me I will lose my mind” grumpy.
She looked pale and queasy — like when Sister loses her lunch underway. Very dramatic.
Still, Mom slowly walked us down the road by the marina. She’s tough like that.
Sister chased me. I played along like she could actually catch me. I am a generous brother.
She is the best sister. I love her deeply. But she is not fast. She is fun. But not fast.
In the distance we saw Dad power-walking toward the little store like a man on a mission. A few minutes later he reappeared holding coffee mugs like trophies
and proudly announced, “I bombed the boat.”
I was concerned.
Bombed sounds extreme.
Then he clarified it was to kill the bugs. Acceptable.
We had to stay away for a longgggg time. I don’t know exactly what happened inside the boat, but I got the impression it involved sprays, strategic planning, and possibly dramatic music. My people are careful about chemicals because of my shakeys. They worry about mixing epilepsy and bug spray.
I appreciate that. Even if I pretend not to.
From that day forward, the mosquito screens went up on every hatch. That’s sailor talk for windows. Those tiny monsters were not getting another bite of Mom.
She had so many bites they made her sick. Fever. Swelling. An attitude I would not wish upon a cat.
Luckily, I am a sturdy shepherd.
The next morning was better. Much better.
Dad said we were going to try something new.
Now, Mom claims I “don’t like new things.”
This is false information.
I do not like new things… until I have tried them several times and decided they are acceptable.
After Dad and I finished our morning boat chores, we walked over to a place with tiny cars. Dad said they were called golf carts.
They looked suspicious.
He handed papers to a lady. Then he told me to get in.
I said, absolutely not. This looks unsafe and possibly ridiculous.
He climbed in anyway. And then he started to drive away.
So… I made a decision.
I hopped in.
At first, I sat on the floor of the passenger side. Low profile. Tactical position. Assessing risk.
But after a few minutes?
Oh.
Ohhhhh.
It was like sticking your head out the car window… without actually having to stick your head out the window.
The breeze.
The smells.
The glory.
I jumped up onto the seat next to Dad. People smiled and waved as we cruised past. I realized something important.
I am very cool.
Of course I am cool. I am First Mate Karl.
Dad asked if I wanted to go for a ride.
Obviously yes.
We drove past another beach. He would not let me off because people were swimming.
Rude.
We headed back to check on Mom and Sister. That’s when we learned we were out of calamine lotion.
And Sister had apparently sampled too much salt water during yesterday’s swim… because she had what Mom called “angry poops.”
Mom was still feverish. Sister was dramatic. The boat smelled faintly medicinal.
Dad looked around and declared, “Sunset golf cart cruise. That’s the cure.”
And honestly?
He might be right.
The sky turned sherbet colors as we rolled along the water. Mom finally looked a little more like herself. Sister stopped making emergency bathroom plans. The breeze cooled everything down.
The bugs had tried to ruin us.
The boat got bombed.
There were fevers.
There were angry poops.
And yet… here we were.
Still sailing.
Still together.
Still curious.
That’s boat life. One day you’re under attack by invisible flying vampires. The next day you’re cruising into a sunset like you own the island.
As we pulled back toward the dock, Dad said, “Tomorrow we’re heading into town.”
Town.
Now that got my attention.
New smells.
New streets.
New people to admire me.
Tomorrow, First Mate Karl explores New Plymouth.
And if today was any indication… it’s going to be a very big day.