“It’ll Be Fun!” she says

“You know what we need to do?” she says. “Let’s take Deb to the coast for oysters. It’ll be fun!” she says. We’ll take the scenic back road; the drive is beautiful,” she says.

I love the coast and I love oysters so I agree it’s a grand idea. However, I have a brain lapse and forget about the scenic road part. I’ve been on that road. I know better. Especially when I sit in the back seat. That’s where it always starts. After having their New York and Georgia accents swirl around me for an hour while Marguerite takes the turns like she’s competing for an inside lane at Sears Point, I ask, “Can you pull over for a minute?” I totter out to suck in some oxygen, loosen my clothes, and try not to throw up. I so hate throwing up by the side of the road. Less than 30 yards away are a couple of dozen neatly stacked boxes of beehives. I whisper, “Your Queen is here and she’s dying. Please stay where you are and don’t sting me.” Having an allergic reaction to a bee sting on top of my stomach deciding which end is up is more than I can ponder.

If you’ve never been carsick, you won’t understand. It’s a cross between staggering off a Tilt-A-Whirl while heaving overboard on the high seas and having a serious case of food poisoning. And once you’re out of the car, it doesn’t go away. Trust me, it hangs on like the plague.

I trade places with Deb and fold myself into the front passenger seat. We pass Nick’s Cove and make it to Tony’s place. Wobbling down the wood porch to the screened door, I get a whiff of oysters on the barbie and nearly pass out.

Tony’s, Tomales Bay

“I, umm, think we should sit outside,” I say. I grope my way into a scenic blue Adirondack and they share a table in front of me next to the bay. The weather is beautiful, a seal plays in the water, and kayakers row by.

Deb and Marguerite

I think it’s a good day to die. Marguerite brings me a ginger and soda and a packet of oyster crackers. It helps, until the waitress walks by with a plate of food. I tell my friends to go ahead and order while I find the restroom. If you should need it, the code is 1234. I feel somewhat better after I toss my breakfast egg tart with alfalfa sprouts, though it’s like throwing up hay. With my head hanging over the john, it crosses my mind that cows do this on purpose. Daily. No wonder they lie down after they eat.

what they ate

what I ate

After lunch, we return to Sonoma taking D Street, a less “scenic” route, through Petaluma. Marguerite, bless her, lets me drive her car.

“I’m sorry you got sick,” she says. “Next time we’ll take the easier road,” she says. “It’ll be fun,” she says. Again.

And Deb’s thinking, “Yeah right, east coast oysters are better anyway,” and I’m thinking, “Forget it, there isn’t going to be a next time; just bring me back a seashell instead.”

© 2016. Catherine Sevenau.
All rights reserved.