Despite not believing in God, I’m a bit superstitious when I’m travelling. Hey, don’t judge. Getting from point A to point B and then doing it again for weeks or even months at a time in unfamiliar settings sometimes feels like a small miracle, so if packing the same way or buying the same notebook every trip makes me feel better, so be it.

All mildly superstitious travellers pay attention to signs. And they know that when things start to go wrong, things go very wrong until the next day, the next step, or the next city.

On Monday night, my mum and I were ready to say goodbye to the Morro de São Paulo and take the 11:30 boat back to Salvador the next morning. Lovely place, the Morro. I just missed yogurt, fresh veggies, Ubers that are not wheelbarrows, and elevators. We were ready to go back to civilisation.

I woke up after a very short night. As usual, I glanced at my phone. Huh. “Student absence received. Reason: appointment.”

Mark hasn’t figured out how to skip school yet—and honestly, he probably wouldn’t anyway because that’s where his friends are (listening in class, on the other hand, is negotiable). Feng hadn’t reported anything unusual the night before—everyone was healthy, nothing special.

Weird.

But I didn’t have time to text either of them because we had to head to the pier and catch the boat. I had texted the Airbnb host the night before, and she was supposed to come by at 10:15 to pick up the keys.

“Let’s be ready a few minutes early,” I had warned my mum. “Brazilians always show up early, from Uber drivers to Airbnb hosts.”

Except in Morro de São Paulo, apparently.

10:15.
10:20.
10:25.

I texted her. “We have to go!”

“Oh, I’ll leave home now.”

And she sent a video of herself walking.

Yeah, we had to go. I left the door ajar—nobody locks anything around here anyway.

We started down the steep, uneven steps. I had my backpack, my daypack, and I grabbed my mum’s suitcase. All in, about 40 kg.

Fuck me.

I mean, not now, Feng, I’m busy going down this thing.

Then we took Rua da Prainha—more ups and downs. I grabbed my mum’s suitcase again.

Really, it’s a ten-minute walk, but with luggage, it makes all the difference.

We waited a bit at the main square, then went down the steep street to the pier, joining about 125 passengers.

I’m not guessing—that’s the boat’s capacity.

Everything was a bit messy and confusing—no instructions, no real lineup, tons of people with tons of luggage, and everyone already in a bad mood from waiting under the sun.

I discovered we had to pay an exit tax of 4.20.

Then I showed my tickets, and we got brown wristbands.

And we waited. Then waited some more.

“Gente!”

When Brazilians start a sentence with “gente,” it’s rarely a good sign.

“The boat’s engine doesn’t work. For safety reasons, we’re going to take the semi-terrestre route.”

“Fuck.”

“What’s going on?”

“Wait, mum, I’m listening.”

“So, boat to Valencia, then bus, then boat, then ferry.”

Fuck, and fuck.

“We should get to Salvador around 4 p.m.”

I translated for my mum. The crowd started sighing and complaining at different speeds—Brazilians first, who heard the message in their mother tongue; then Argentinians, who kind of got the gist of it; and finally foreign travellers, still trying to piece together what was going on.

There are two ways to reach Morro de São Paulo, on Tinharé Island. The first is the twice-daily direct Salvador–Morro de São Paulo catamaran, a 2.5-hour trip on open water. The second, more convoluted route takes you on the ferry from Salvador to Itaparica Island, then a bus across the bridge to the mainland, all the way to the town of Valencia, before a small boat crosses you over to Morro de São Paulo.

It’s a perfectly fine—if lengthy—alternative, except when it’s a last-minute change and 125 passengers somehow have to get to Salvador.

Let’s do the math. The small boat to Valencia can take about 16 passengers, so 125 divided by 16… maybe less because of luggage… and then I doubted even Brazilians could pack 125 passengers into a bus to Itaparica.

We started to wait for the small boats. Surely someone was going to… summon a bunch of them, somehow?

An hour later, people started clapping—the catamaran was fixed.

“I guess we’ll take the catamaran, then,” I shrugged.

It was a mad rush to the boat, and we lost the race. I wanted the two seats on the side to stack the suitcase and backpack with us, but we got two seats in the middle row and had to leave the luggage in the big pile at the front of the boat.

But hey, there was a boat.

Except by then it was afternoon, and storm clouds were gathering on the horizon.

The boat left.

The engine already sounded tired.

I smelled gasoline and immediately wondered how much it cost to fill up—sorry, I’d been reading the news while we were waiting.

And then I wondered if it had actually been fixed.

I didn’t have to wonder for long. It quickly became obvious this was going to be a rough ride. We were heading straight into the current, waves slamming into both sides, the boat lurching every couple of seconds.

My mum frowned.

“It’s going to be rocky for about ten minutes, time to leave the bay!” I shouted over the engine noise. “This is normal!”

Of course it wasn’t. I just didn’t want her to freak out. This lie was right up there with “it’s not going to hurt” at every flu shot when Mark was younger—or “the park is going to close” when he didn’t want to leave the playground.

I closed my eyes.

It didn’t take long to hear the distinctive sound of someone retching and minutes later, most passengers started to puke.

Biotur, the catamaran company, is very organized and fully prepared for this—plastic bags are tied to each seat.

I’ll spare you the details, because 2.5 hours on rough seas with everyone puking is a long time. Still, I’m proud to say that neither my mum nor I got sick. We just sat there, eyes closed, sucking on minty throat lozenges from my bag.

Sorry, no pictures of the ride. If you’ve got a puke fetish, the Internet has you covered already (I think?).

“How was your trip?” Feng asked when he called later that night.

“Well… remember Honduras? Oh, wait—why wasn’t Mark at school today?”

“Well… my car kind of broke down.”

“Shit!”

“Yeah, the battery died. I couldn’t start it this morning and it was too late for Mark to walk to school.”

He had a hell of a day—jump-starting the car, taking it to the mechanics, taking the bus back home, and all that.

And I told him about our boat trip from hell, just like in Honduras years ago.

We both agreed to call it a day.

It’s okay. We still have a few days left in Salvador, and I’m planning to make the most of them—and hopefully no more signs to read into.