Day 1

The Voyager sails from Poole to St Marlo. We take our seats at the stern and watch the horizon undulate, watch the railings collide with the band of sea meeting sky. The engine’s hum passes through my body, my spine flexes, and my hips rock side to side in my parlor chair as land departs us.  

The boat bounced and passengers flock to the walkway decks. They cross their arms and sway on limbs as hair gets whipped by the breeze. Camera phones come out, parents place small children on shoulders and England’s rocky cliffs are left behind. Through the salty air, a seagull drifts on an updraft and skilfully glides nearby, beady eyes surveying us. Yet, as the boat picks up speed and waves hammer the hull, he returns to roost. I focus on the rippling path of white wake behind, its long curling tail showing a route back home. 

Day one. We have wind and waves today, and paper sick bags tucked into the sides of our chairs. With acid reflux convulsion in my belly, it helps to stare out at the land leaving us. Then the data roaming message pops up, “You have lost data connectivity because you left your home network”. Best find a focus point, take a long breath in, hold and release, relax, and try to let all those muscles unwind.

This run-up has been stressful and disruptive, the result, our health has suffered. Three months ago my haemoglobin A1C level (average blood sugar level) came back in an impressive pre-diabetic range. But it’s not so great now. As I sit and type this entry, a smudge of blood still obscures the vision in my right eye. My capillary tear has changed from a thick black lightning bolt to a cloudy smudge in my central field of vision, to as it is now, a few scattered floaters. For those unfamiliar with these capillary tears, I refer to diabetic retinopathy. A problem that occurs for diabetics that for one reason or another have had too many fluctuating blood sugars. 

The Voyager will do a stop-off at St Helier before reaching its final destination. I feel the weight of my body sinking into its parlor chair, a lethargic pressure in my skull, a dulling of my senses. Then the slowing of my heart rate, breath, my body telling me, you must sleep now. 

A doorless opening with long white corridors and high walls. Kiln-fired porcelain and liquid glass tiles cover every surface and there’s the competing smell of floral hand soap and sluice-waste attached to old drains. I stand in front of a waist-to-ceiling mirror, which runs the length of the room. No one is here, there is silence, and the lights are off. And then, tap-tap, tap-tap, tap… the noise is invasive and indecent as it fills this shell of silence and echos loudly. 

But, what’s this, it comes from me. I find my feet moving, and then my arms and legs are transporting me across the washroom floor. I stretch my limbs and twist, arch my back and abs to create a rapid dance pattern. I feel exhilaration, I feel joy, I feel so carefree.

My dance comes to a crescendo, my arms do a euphoric ascension toward the high ceiling, but then from behind me, I hear a low gurgling. I stop. The gurgle changes to a soft mumble, and then from the end cubicle, a figure emerges. The old woman is speaking but her words are incoherent. She gestures to a bucket that she carries. Across the tiles, she beckons me, yet her words are so distorted I cannot understand what she wants. Air is pushed from her lungs and passes too quickly through her mouth, tongue, and lips, so that a soft hiss of air is shared instead of speech.

“Can I help you?” I ask.

“Ssssss-”, she says and gestures me towards the bucket again. She is very small, a foot shorter than me and her body is so very slight, almost adolescent in its petiteness. I cannot see her face clearly as she wears a head scarf and in its shade, neither can I distinguish her eyes. I edge closer and in the bucket, there is emptiness.

I wake and beyond the jumble of tent debris, I find myself half-covered by our camping quilt. There is rain pelleting the tent like fingers beating a drum skin. Then flashes of lightning that illuminate through my eyelids and thunder that penetrates through my earplugs. It’s a magnificent and terrible thunderstorm.

Yet, the lighting is unusual and I feel odd. The flashes of light I see behind my eyes seem disconnected from the storm outside. My stomach aches and there’s a pressure in my abdomen. Where are the toilets, and where are my shoes? 

Out onto the wet grass, I pull on some trousers, randomly attach my sandals and forward I stumble. But, this is not right, I cannot see. There are post marker lights in the campsite, there’s the city of St Marlo radiating its form with luminescent streetlights, and there’s the glimmer of stars and light pollution. But I cannot see any of it. I only see faint smudges of light like chalk wiped off a board. My limbs do not respond, I feel I could collapse back into sleep and lie indeterminately to rest. My bike cover is drenched but I lean on it for a few moments waiting for my strength and vision to return.

Eventually, I turn onto the road that I remember leading to the toilets. Blurry shapes, the outline of tents, cars, and campers begin to form. The path is invisible to me, but the vague outline of the white toilet block is there, so after doubling back a few times, I eventually a-line for it through a camp pitch and some bushes. However, what I can clearly see now is a vivid white ring obscuring my vision. This is a retina invasion and is a warning that I have a very low blood sugar. Imagine staring at a bright lightbulb or at the midday sun, then imagine what happens to your vision when you step into a pitch-black room. That’s it. 

I clutch my stomach and make my way up the steps. When you enter the toilets of our campsite, the lights switch on with horrid florescent luminosity. Yet, all I can see is a dull hazy ghost realm. I find the end lavatory and sit directly on the seatless rim. I sit for a very long time. My bowls are emptied, my stomach ache and acid reflux retreat, and after more time, slowly my vision returns.

I’m soaked in sweat and trembling. With dawn successfully repeating on my retinas again, I climb into our tent and check my FreeStyle Libre patch. Throughout the night I’d had a low blood sugar for several hours. For a non-diabetic, their liver can produce glucose and correct a low blood sugar in minutes, but for a type-1 diabetic, their liver is rather slow and it may be hours before it starts correcting a low blood sugar. Under our sleeping quilt, I find Wiggy, he feels incredibly and consistently hot. I wrap around the flank of his back and feel safe again.