The Curse of Cinque Terre

Finally, I got myself situated. Just as I noticed that my prediction was correct—six inches of my legs and feet were hanging off my raft—Emily yelled to warn me that the jellyfish were back. I held my legs up and began paddling like crazy to make it back to shore. Emily managed to get out, and from her standing position on the pier she had a prime vantage point of the school of jellyfish that were at this point surrounding my raft. “Paddle, Rebecca, paddle! Hurry! You can do it! Come on!”

The stress in her voice was freaking me out. I envisioned me back in Vernazza that night, nursing my hundreds of jellyfish stings and allowing random Italian men to urinate on me to relieve the sting. Frankly, that wasn’t the type of Italian man interaction I’d been hoping for on this trip. I paddled faster.

I reached the rocks and tried to stand. Again, the waves kept knocking me down, only this time my body was scraping against the sharp rocks. I could feel the sting of saltwater on fresh cuts all over my feet, back and legs. After I finally made my made my way out of the water, I tried to wipe off the blood that was now oozing down my legs and feet. Emily, who had wisely stopped laughing when she saw that I was actually bleeding and in pain, suggested we just relax for a while, get some sun and read our books. This seemed like a great idea.

I turned on my stomach and kicked my bloody legs in the air to get them closer to the sun and hopefully, dry some of the blood and salt water. After a few minutes, I felt what I thought was a trickle of water running down my right leg. I attempted to stop it with my left foot and—

“Ouucccchhh! Holy shit, WHAT THE HELL IS THAT? Fuuuuckk!”

Turns out, it wasn’t a trickle of water after all. It was a huge wasp. And it stung me smack dab on the open, freshly bloody flesh of my left foot. Without a word, Emily began packing up our things, getting us ready for the approximately three-mile limp back to Vernazza.