The road of a travel blogger is treacherous and full of perils. There are so many obstacles in my path—some financial, some physical—that I often wonder if I’ll make it out alive… or at least with my dignity intact. You see, I’m not your average travel blogger.

Have you ever heard of a travel blogger who gets seasick? Of course not! Most of them aren’t worried about high waves or sea monsters—they’re worried about angles for their perfect Instagram shot. Me? I’m terrified of losing my breakfast or fainting in the middle of the ocean.

Let me take you back to that unforgettable day in Sorrento. Picture me on a mini-yacht, bobbing serenely on the blue sea, until my stupid empty stomach decided to stage a mutiny. Nearly fainted. On a yacht. How chic.

But let me tell you, stuffing yourself with a mountain of maritozzi before a boat ride isn’t a solution either. Trust me, the “after effects” are not something you want to read about, and they’re certainly not something I want to relive.

So, lesson learned: by the time I found myself in Croatia, gearing up for a speedboat trip to the Blue Lagoon, I was determined to play it smart. A light breakfast? Check. A steely resolve? Double check. I wasn’t just doing well—I was crushing it.

I did hesitate a bit before stepping aboard. On one hand, I’d paid good money for this day trip to Trogir and the Blue Lagoon. On the other hand, I didn’t want to ruin the vacation of the wonderfully multicultural group gathering around me. Back and forth I went, until—bam! Decision made.

Why? Because the captain—a tall, dark, blue-eyed Croatian heartthrob—offered me his hand to help me aboard. A smile that could melt glaciers. Confidence that screamed “Trust me, I’ve got this.” Was I about to let nausea ruin this moment? No way.

Seasickness? Gone. Smile? Glued to my face.

When your skipper looks like a Croatian James Bond, the last thing on your mind is throwing up breakfast. My focus had officially shifted.

But here’s where my little romantic comedy took a turn. Did the dreamy captain notice me? Oh, he would have. I’m sure of it. If not for her.

Enter: The American Diva. Blonde, busty, and guzzling shots of who-knows-what at every stop. She had a laugh straight out of a rom-com, and she planted herself at the bow of the boat, her ample assets perfectly positioned for the captain’s viewing pleasure.

Now, there were other people on the boat, sure. But in my head, it was just the four of us: me, him, her, and her “supporting cast.”

As we cruised along the glittering Adriatic, I tried to keep my cool. The American Diva, however, was on a roll. And then, the grand finale. Somewhere between a poetic sunset and our return to shore, she started to feel queasy (wonder why—couldn’t have been the rum and pear shots, right?).

For a brief, shining moment, I thought, This is my chance. But alas, this was her moment to shine in a role that was usually mine: the damsel in distress.

We finally docked, and I was all set to leave with my pride intact, if not my dreams of a romantic Adriatic adventure. But no—life had one final twist in store.

I watched in silent agony as Mr. Croatian Perfection turned to her—not me—and asked for her number.

My reaction? Let’s just say it’s better left censored.