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If they had asked me to sign on for the rest of my career, I would have said yes. It was a dream job for someone who taught high-school English, spent her summers teaching sailing and felt she needed to prove to the world that she was an independent, adventurous woman.



I was that girl and the job was teaching English and sail training on board a 200-foot tall ship sailing around the globe.

The ship was a floating high school for students in Grades 11 and 12. I was to join the ship in South Africa and the itinerary included stops in 19 countries before docking atw the shores of Nova Scotia.



On dry land in the Montreal-based head office, I would have agreed to just about anything. But as we threw off the docking lines and hoisted the sails off the coast of Durban, South Africa, I was beginning to think I'd made a huge mistake.



Fresh out of teacher's college, I had been teaching for one semester at a secondary school. I was armed with all the textbook tools and tricks of the trade. As students we had pored over abstract case studies, discussing high-yield strategies and techniques to handle disruptive students, unmet deadlines and suspected child abuse. I was a master of lesson planning, knew all the trendy education buzz words and was overflowing with naive idealism.



So, on my first day on the tall ship, when I found myself slung over the windward side vomiting into the wind, I was caught off guard.



The first week was supposed to be about getting our sea legs. We learned the ropes - literally and metaphorically. We learned safety drills, sometimes in the middle of the night. We climbed the rigging to set sails, weaving back and forth 100 feet above the deck. We became acquainted with our shipmates, 50 people we would be isolated with on the other side of the world, living in each others' pockets.



For me, the first week also included lying in the fetal position on my bunk in the dark, vomiting up every meal and shamelessly crying for my mommy. I had sailed for most of my life on small boats, so I wasn't used to the pitching and rolling motion of such a large ship. How on earth was I supposed to pretend to be a teacher? What did I care about punctuation, personification and Polonius? I spent my days puking and my nights trying not to roll out of my bunk.



Apparently, seasickness is supposed to pass within a week. Sadly, my inner ear didn't get that message and I earned myself the nickname Hurlin' Spurlin.' I taught lying down on a desk at the front of the room. In the middle of writing on the board I'd sprint out the door, throw up into the ocean, then return to my thought. (I eventually learned to throw up over the leeward side.) My chalk would often roll away and my lesson plans tended to fly out the window.



Somewhere around Brazil I realized I didn't know as much as I thought I did about teaching. I had no classroom-management strategy for a student shouting, "Dolphins off the starboard bow!" Nor did I know the protocol when students knocked on my door at 11 p.m. asking for last-minute help with thesis statements.



Teacher's college left me ill-prepared to deal with homesickness, seasickness and teenage heartache. I was prepared for traditional excuses about being late for class or homework not being done. I had no comeback for a student saying, "I was in the galley preparing dinner," or "My computer rolled off my desk in yesterday's storm." I was way out of my league.



Each night I found solace in the company of my principal, a young woman who had circumnavigated the globe with this ship before and was a great sounding board, mentor and shoulder when I needed one. Staring out at the horizon, I learned to broaden mine.



Sure I was struggling with seasickness and humbled by the humiliation of being seen in my pyjamas and bathing suit. Sure I was only one day ahead of my students and had to consult Coles Notes from time to time. While others were getting care packages of favourite chocolates and trusted deodorants, I received lesson plans and support materials from teacher friends back home.



I was mugged in Guyana, flashed in Guadeloupe and chased by a strange man down a street in St. Lucia, but it was all part of the experience. It was high time I tossed my expectations overboard and embraced the journey with all of its rolling ups and downs.



I soon realized that while my teacher's college training hadn't prepared me for any of this, my life experience had. I wasn't just a teacher during my six months on that ship; I was a counsellor and friend. I was experiencing the world for the first time, just like the students were, and it was awesome.



I'm happy to have written the nautical chapter in my book, but if asked to sign on for the rest of my career, the answer would be a definite no. I've experienced enough seasickness for one lifetime. They didn't call me Hurlin' Spurlin' for nothing.



Heather Spurling lives in Bracebridge, Ont.



Illustration by Jason Logan for The Globe and Mail.

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