The waves crashed again and again against the side of the ship, sending up a warm salty spray that soaked us to the bone as we struggled to hold on . . .
Wait, it wasn’t exactly like that.
We were sitting in the front row in a small conference room where folding metal chairs had been arranged theater style for this event, a reading on cell biology by a prominent physician whose name shall remain anonymous. Because of the size of the room, the lectern was just a foot away from us, close enough to make us look up at the doctor, who we soon learned had an abundant crop of nasal hair and a very pronounced lisp.
Or should I say mist-pronounced?
From his opening words, the spray came forth and settled over us, my vision slowly but surely fading as my glasses took on the mist in all its dewy goodness. My first thought, of course, was to get up and move to another seat, but the conference room was packed. And then I thought I’d just leave, but that would have been discourteous to say the least.
Frustrated, I looked from side to side to see how other people were reacting. And to my surprise, they weren’t reacting at all. It seems the mist was settling on me and me alone. Everyone else was held rapt by the doctor’s words.
And so I just sat there, occasionally wiping off my glasses, pretending I was on a ship in a storm.