The tanned and bearded middle aged man, his nose red and bulbous and his paunch hugged by a T-shirt emblazoned with a map of Maine, looked more like a fishmonger than captain of a ferry.

“Good morning ladies and gentlemen, I’m Jacob Snow, your captain. Come aboard, find a seat and we’ll be on our way. Cruise time to Monhegan Island is just short of two hours; seas are fairly calm, with 3-4-foot swells.”

My “big-city” friend, Meredith (Mer) and I climbed aboard loaded with gear for the three-day watercolor workshop.

“Do you think we really needed to bring everything on the list?” I grumbled to Mer. As Mer and I struggled to make our way to empty seats, we banged against already seated passengers with our easels, chairs, umbrellas, backpacks full of paint supplies and our rolling suitcases. Captain Snow pressed his back up against the cabin as we passed, and he smiled, no, he smirked, as we struggled. He tipped his cap and said, “Welcome aboard, ladies.”

“He was definitely laughing at us,” Mer sniffed. “Can you blame him,” I choked. “We look ridiculous with all this gear — Monhegan is for minimalists for crying out loud.”

We fell onto an empty bench seat just as the horn sounded our departure. Our gear was strewn about us and we fought unsuccessfully to make order of it. We laughed wildly at the absurdity of the first leg of our painting adventure. We were still laughing and wiping away tears as we left the calm waters of the harbor and into open sea.

I looked over at Mer. Her head was tilted back to catch the sun and she was humming to whatever song was playing on her iPod. She looked, well, city slick, clad in linen capris, white shirt belted at the waist, and numerous strands of silver adorning her neck and nestled in her cleavage. The gems on her fingers gleamed in the sun. She looked totally chic, like she was lounging on a cruise ship to the Caribbean rather than on a small, diesel-spouting ferry to Monhegan Island.

After an hour of roiling seas, diesel exhaust, and the rumbling vibration of the engine violating my body, my mouth felt thick with saliva and my stomach was out of sync with the ferry’s up and down rocking. I was unaware that I was bent over, clutching my stomach until I saw giant Army green rubber boots toe-to-toe with my sandaled feet. A face appeared, even with mine, the captain. His hands on his knees, he murmured, “Whoa, missy, unusual shade of green you’ve got going there.” I looked up into his face.

“Oh yeah,” he said. “Keep your eyes on the horizon — it won’t be too long now.”

Mer tipped up her sunglasses to look at me. “You’re not seasick?” I whined. “Nope, I took Dramamine,” she bragged.

“Eyes on the horizon, eyes on the horizon,” I chanted to myself.

Finally, the ferry’s horn tooted our arrival.

“Have a good day, ladies and gentleman. I hope you enjoyed the ride.” Captain Snow had the audacity to grin at me — and wink!

“Excuse me, let me off, now, please.” I crashed through the passengers, not caring who I smacked with my easel. I felt like kissing the wooden dock. Mer caught up with me. “Feel any better yet?” I glanced at her with what-do-you-think scorn. We climbed the hill and followed the winding dirt road to the Trailing Yew.

“Oh my gawd, what is that smell?” I wailed. “I am definitely going to be sick.” A way-too-cheerful man, with a paint brush in hand, approached and introduced himself as Stan, our instructor. “Go check in and find your room, and we’ll meet in the dining room for dinner at 6 p.m. Mmm-mmm can you smell the salt pork frying and the fish simmering — fish chowda for suppa!”

I threw up ... all over Mer’s shoes. She looked down at her shoes, then up at me, then at her shoes. “These are $400 shoes!” she shouted at me.

Still reeling from the nausea, all I could say was: “You wore $400 shoes to an island?”