Flatulence at sea
The sea was acting badly last night with swells of twenty feet and more. The wind slapped the ship from the side and sent wild lashings of rain and spray crashing against our balcony door. I am by and large a deep sleeper, but when you slide out of bed, well, that is a hint that all is not well.
I awoke with a snort, aware that strangeness was afoot in our totally dark 176 sq. ft. cabin, which is about the size of the large popcorn bag at your local Bijou. I heard shuffling.
“Was I snoring?” I asked Sis, vaguely apologetic if I was keeping her awake, as well as vaguely concerned that the shuffling was, in point of fact, Sis.
“No,” she answered. “But the room is making rude noises so I’m moving the table.”
OK, I was still half asleep. Maybe I had misheard. “Huh?” I said, requesting clarification.
Almost simultaneously, I heard the sound of air being expelled through a narrow aperture from a smaller space to a larger space. Only a balloon or a Guatemalan flute or a fart is capable of this drawn out whistling sound. The kind of fart that one is trying and failing to release quietly, behind one’s back as it were.
“THAT WASN’T ME,” Sis pronounced in all caps to the pitch black. And I am absolutely sure that it wasn’t. She is the type who would hold it in forever vs create a public mockery.
The funny thing is that she never assumed it was me, either. She hadn’t awakened me to shout, “For Christ sake, that’s the last fruit buffet for you.” Instead she said, “I think it’s the wind against the door. I was trying to push the table against it to stop it from shaking.”
To punctuate, the room let loose with a much juicier blast, resonant and full, with the lingering echo of an M-16 set to fire in multiple bursts.
I began to giggle. Sis joined in.
“It must be the old man of the sea,” said Sis.
“Thar she blows!” said I.
“Psssfffftttssss” said the room.
It was three in the morning, in the dark, each of us in a bed as wide as a pummel horse. We laughed until we cried while the wind forced through the door seal puffed and squealed and rat-a-tat-tatted.
God how I love to cruise.
