Despite the seasickness, these islands are worth the trip
My travels have taken me to all 50 of our United States. Nothing against Cincinnati or Wichita, but I’m especially drawn to the corners, the edges, the places where the road runs out.
I’ve admired the sunset in Key West, the sunrise at the Outer Banks, crossed the border from Quebec into rural Maine, observed whales in Puget Sound, Washington.
On a long-ago Sun Bowl trip, I strolled across the bridge from El Paso to Juarez, Mexico. One Fourth of July by the locks in Sault Ste. Marie, Michigan, I watched fireworks launched across the river in Canada.
All of the above were a piece of cake compared to this latest edge of America.
On a recent morning, a bus picked up my group at our hotel in Ventura, California, for the drive to the harbor. Charlie, the eldest in our elderly gaggle of veteran travelers, was passing out Dramamine. Not a good sign.
Our destination was Santa Cruz Island in Channel Islands National Park. But there were 19 miles of Pacific Ocean to navigate. Pacific in a dictionary means “peaceful in character or intent.” There was nothing peaceful about the ocean this morning.
As we chugged out of the harbor, the crew announced that there was “no shame” in getting seasick and offering your breakfast to the fish – just don’t do it inside the cabin.
I had no history of seasickness, but was thankful for Charlie’s Dramamine. Soon we were bucking the waves. Within 20 minutes, Patty from Fresno, looking ashen, had staggered to the rail just outside my window.
Minutes later, there was a commotion up front in the cabin. An unfortunate 30ish fellow had, in spectacular fashion, offered his breakfast to the floor, seats, windows and the clothing and shoes of several fellow passengers. He, too, posted up on the rail outside my window, looking thoroughly horrified and miserable.
Up and down we bounced, up and down. The coastline vanished in the mist behind us. Wasn’t this the premise for “Gilligan’s Island,” I thought?
By the time our 90-minute voyage reached Santa Cruz, at least a half-dozen others had succumbed. A crew member on cleanup duty told me that on the previous day’s trip about half of a group of 80 schoolkids heaved.
I concentrated on the horizon and nibbled the crackers and ginger offered as antidotes. My breakfast never reappeared.
Kathleen from Kansas gave in literally as we eased to the dock. I told her she drove the ball all the way down the field. “And then fumbled at the 1,’’ she replied, finishing my thought.
The Channel Islands, for thousands of years home to indigenous people and more recently cattle and sheep ranches, are uninhabited these days. A hike to a bluff offered gorgeous vistas. We lunched on sandwiches brought from the mainland.
During our four-hour stay, the voyage home loomed. I overheard several conversations wondering how to summon a helicopter.
To our universal relief, the ride home was quicker and gentler. The wind and current were at our backs.
Later, as I enjoyed an IPA at MadeWest Brewing on the city pier, I tried to put the day into context. Sure, we could have found a hike with a nice view on the hills above Ventura and skipped the traumatic voyage.
Still, I was glad to have endured the crossing. It was worth it to experience a unique place. The Channel Islands are truly a wild and unspoiled edge of America.
Getting there can be a little wild, too.
Mike Strange is a former writer for the News Sentinel. He currently writes a weekly sports column for Shopper News.
This article originally appeared on Knoxville News Sentinel: Channel Islands a wild and unspoiled edge of America.
