CONTENT WARNING: This story contains content of a medical nature. It is not intended as medical advice.

My boyfriend and I offer sailing holidays. People book a berth in a cabin and live and sail with us for one week. This, of course, means that we actually live with our customers and spend A LOT of time with them in very limited space.

I used to work as a nurse until March 2017. During training, we theoretically learned first aid in a “wild” setting, but that’s very different from emergencies in hospitals where you have a big crew and the right equipment. Still, you know the basics, and you learn how to calmly analyse the situation before making decisions. One of the guests in this story was (is, probably) a gynecologist working in a delivery room, so the situation was pretty much the same for her.

This happened during the summer of 2017, in a marina in Italy.

We arrived at the marina at noon because of an incoming gale. The crew was a bit grumpy over the short day out, but safety first. Next to us was another boat that had stayed in all day, opting for drinking and enjoying the sun in the cockpit instead. They were already pretty drunk.

Our crew got out some bottles of wine and started drinking, too. They were all adults, so there was nothing wrong with that. (Our guests aren’t allowed to drink before or during sailing. Afterward, it’s up to them.) There was a decently-sized motor yacht on the other side. The owner was lonely and invited all of us over. Our crew (minus my boyfriend and I) and some of the neighbours went.

A few hours later, all but two of our guests came back, claiming it was just too much for them. Everyone was drinking very heavily. Those who stayed were the gynecologist and her friend.

In the evening, [Friend] came back; he needed to use the loo. He was angry because the yacht owner would only let him use the one on board if he took his shoes off. (Never, ever enter someone’s boat with shoes on; that’s a huge faux pas. The yacht owner was not asking for something unreasonable with his request.) [Friend] stomped back to our boat, but instead of using the toilet, he just peed on our gangway and started an argument. It was annoying and embarrassing.

We went to bed around midnight. [Gynecologist] and [Friend] were still partying. At four in the morning, [Friend] rushed into our cabin.

Friend: *Yelling* “Someone fell in the water! We need help!”

We rushed over, just in time to see people managing to drag one of the girls from the neighbouring boat back up onto the dock. [Gynecologist] acted correctly and put her in a recovery position, and the woman started to vomit water. The others told us that the girl was leaving the yacht and fell off the gangway, went under the dock, and resurfaced on the other side. Bad, bad, bad. Port and marina waters are notoriously dirty and nothing you want to swim in, even less inhale.

We ran over and my brain was in nurse mode, analysing and planning what to do. My boyfriend and I told the yacht owner to call for an ambulance. This is where [Gynecologist] started to forget her training. She was absolutely wasted and in no condition to be practicing medicine. 

Gynecologist: *Slurring loudly* “An ambulance isn’t necessary! She just needs to sleep it off!”

The woman was in and out of consciousness. My brain was remembering something from training about secondary drowning; she definitely needed an ambulance. As the yacht owner called for one, I rushed back on board my boat to get blankets and then went to guide the ambulance to the right place. After a few minutes, I could hear yelling from the dock and went back.

When I brought the blankets, it kick-started the medical training in [Gynecologist].

Gynecologist: *Screaming at my boyfriend* “You need to get infusions! I need to put in an IV line!”

Boyfriend: “What? No.”

Gynecologist: “You’re a murderer!”

Boyfriend: “One, we don’t have that stuff on board, and two, even if we had it, I would not let you near anyone with a needle in the shape that you’re in.”

More screaming followed.

When the EMTs finally arrived, [Gynecologist] refused to move over so that they could reach the woman. She was trying to explain to them in slurred, drunken German what had happened and was hovering over the woman. The Italian EMTs, of course, couldn’t understand a word that she was saying and were trying to get her out of the way.

Boyfriend: “Would you just move over and let the professionals do their job already?!”

During that time, I was knocking on the door of the neighbour’s boat, trying to wake them up. Someone would need to accompany the woman to the hospital and bring her papers. They were really annoyed at me banging at their boat in the middle of the night. When I told them what had happened, one man let out a loooooong, annoyed sigh and called her name. It sounded like it wasn’t the first time something like this had happened.

The next day, [Friend] apologized for his behavior the previous day; he was super embarrassed. [Gynecologist], not so much. She saw my boyfriend and screamed at him again.

Gynecologist: “I AM NEVER TALKING TO YOU AGAIN!”

And she stormed off. She kept her word until two days later. Then, she got wasted again and started crying. She felt so belittled because he had called the EMTs “professionals,” and she felt that he didn’t take her seriously as a doctor. She refused to accept that she had been drunk.

The woman who fell off the boat was admitted to the hospital. She was in the ICU for two weeks. She had severe pneumonia from aspirating the dirty marina water, and according to our neighbours, she was close to dying from secondary drowning.

I know that a lot of people associate boating with drinking, but it can turn dangerous so, so fast. The woman was lucky to survive.

This was relayed to me by a friend of mine working as a waiter. He works at a restaurant in Rome, Italy, where they cook only Roman cuisine, including the most obscure dishes, like skate (a fish) and broccoli soup or pajata pasta. “Only” is the operative word here: the restaurant doesn’t have a pizza oven and doesn’t serve quite a few other “General Italian Cuisine” staples.

One day, way before the Global Nastiness, a party of four tourists arrives and asks to be seated in accented Italian. After a bit, my friend comes back to them to give the menus, but after a quick scan, one of them closes the menu.

Tourist #1: *In Italian* “Do you have another menu?”

Friend: “Pardon me? What other menu?”

Tourist #1: “A menu with other options, like pizza.”

Friend: “We don’t make pizza here.”

Tourist #1: “What?”

Friend: “We’re a Roman cuisine-only restaurant; we don’t make pizza, which is Neapolitan.”

Tourist #2: *In English* “What kind of f***ed-up restaurant in Italy doesn’t have pizza?! It’s, like, the only thing you eat. That can’t be real. You gotta be saving it up for the locals.”

Tourist #1: “You sure?” *Switching to English* “Do you speak English?”

Friend: “Yes, I do.”

Tourist #1: “Good. So, you’re telling me that you don’t serve pizza in here, only pasta?”

Friend: “Not quite. We do serve something we call ‘pizza’, but it’s more like flatbread. I don’t think—”

Tourist #2: “See? You have that! Gimme some of that pizza! I want it with pepperoni!”

Tourist #1: “Well, if it’s called ‘pizza’, it can’t be all that different from whatever you think it is. Bring us some.”

Tourist #3: “Yeah, why are you being so difficult?”

Friend: “Our pizza has no toppings whatsoever; that is clearly not what you want.”

Tourist #1: “Well, I still want to try, even if it has no toppings.”

Tourist #2: “I’m not eating any of this stuff you have here, that’s for sure! Accommodate me, or I’m not eating!”

My friend, sighing, takes all their orders. Figuring that not putting anything down for [Tourist #2] would end badly, he puts down an order of focaccia and spicy salami to get around his requests.

The order is taken by the kitchen, cooked, and then finally brought to the table. The moment my friend is done placing down the dishes, [Tourist #2] gets red in the face.

Tourist #2: “What is this s***? I didn’t order flatbread and salami. I wanted my pizza, d*** it! I want your manager, now.”

The manager is begrudgingly summoned.

Manager: “Is there a problem?”

Tourist #2: “Yeah, your server refuses to serve us pizza. How can you let somebody who doesn’t bother to know the menu work for you?”

Manager: “Because we don’t have pizza. We are a Roman cooking restaurant; yes carbonara, no pizza or ravioli.”

Tourist #2: “Impossible! If you really don’t want to serve pizza to tourists, then f****** advertise it, d***ebag!” *Gets up* “I’m leaving, mates. I’m going someplace that doesn’t scam tourists like this!”

[Tourist #1] facepalmed as [Tourist #2] picked up his coat and slammed the door shut, causing two nearby wine bottles to fall and shatter. The other three refused to pay for the broken bottles or [Tourist #2]’s tab; they argued about it for half an hour. The whole thing exhausted my friend and the manager so much that they decided to close somewhat early that day, on top of instituting a policy of always telling tourists up front that they didn’t serve any other pizza than Roman “pizza”/focaccia.

I used to work in a “nikkei restaurant” — a Peruvian-Japanese fusion place — many moons ago. I was a server and life was good, except for one guy that the kitchen brigade and I had nicknamed “The Scourge”. He looked unassuming at worst, just a young man that dressed sharply and regularly visited.

The problem with him, and the nickname’s provenance, was that he abused the All You Can Eat system. The owner advertised that lunches were All You Can Eat buffets at 10€ per head, with the idea that each client would take either one or two bowls of pokè or two sets of fancy sushi, both highly expensive, to eat and otherwise fill themselves up with much cheaper things like chili beans and salads.

The Scourge, however, either because he wasn’t taught politeness or just didn’t care, usually actually ate several bowls at a time, and with him around (which for a time was practically every other day) sushi rolls often finished as soon as they were brought to the table. He took tiny portions of the cheaper foods, and nothing could be recovered from drinks because he only drank water at 1€ a bottle, but since he always ate everything down to the last bite, I wasn’t allowed to kick him out.

When he started to visit, the weekly expense ledger soon started to look bad, and after some time, the owner started accusing me and the other server of stealing from the cash register. Nothing could convince him to try to either raise the AYCE formula’s price or explicitly say that each client was allowed to take a specific amount of bowls and pieces of sushi.

Soon, The Scourge’s presence had started to clearly drive other lunch clients away, as they barely ever found the best bits, and our regular menu was too expensive for people who just wanted a quick bite. At one point, for three days in a row, we only had him as the sole client all day.

On the fourth day of utter client drought, I was at my breaking point. I didn’t care for the consequences; I just wanted to tell The Scourge how things were. When I saw him sit down and then pick up two bowls, I stopped him in his tracks and explicitly told him that his behavior was putting the whole restaurant at risk of bankruptcy. Looking suitably contrite, he put one bowl back and ate much less.

However, once he left, he never returned, and basically, any sort of lunch income stopped. The owner fired me, telling me he had no place for thieves in his establishment.

The joke’s on him: he closed two months later as the scars of The Scourge lingered on and basically annihilated any and all sort of activity in the place.

I work at a physiotherapy clinic staffed by doctors of some prestige. We usually get athletes from various sports, though we occasionally get “normal people” in need of a physical tune-up, too.

One day, we receive both a young man recovering from a water deposit in his ankle after a sprain and a female volleyball player with shoulder pains. Both are scheduled with the same doctor.

The two stay in the waiting room for a little while, and then the player gets up.

Volleyball Player: “I’ve been waiting too long. Can you page Dr. [Orthopedist] for me?”

Me: “Can I have your name, please?”

Volleyball Player: “That would be [Surname].”

I glance at the appointments on my screen.

Me: “I’m sorry, but even if I did page him, there’s going to be Mr. [Young Man] first.”

Volleyball Player: “Screw that guy. He doesn’t have a championship to attend.”

Me: “And waiting a few hours will make you miss it, Mrs. [Volleyball Player]? I don’t think so.”

Volleyball Player: “No, it won’t, but why should I wait?”

Me: “Because you scheduled it later than Mr. [Young Man] did?”

Volleyball Player: “Bah. Never mind, then. I bet he’ll make me go first anyway.”

And she goes back to her seat. After a little while, the doctor peers from beyond the door.

Doctor: “Mr. [Young Man], you are next.”

The volleyball player gets up while the young man struggles in an attempt to get a decent, non-painful footing.

Doctor: “No, [Volleyball Player], it’s not your appointment yet. We have been through this several times. If you don’t want to pay for therapy out of pocket, you’d better go sit back down.”

The volleyball player stopped and dawdled for a bit before going back to the seat and letting the man before her go get his appointment as scheduled.

Have you ever heard the saying about getting blood out of a stone? That’s me; I’m the stone. My veins are extremely hard to find under normal circumstances, but they get even worse during pregnancy. 

Late in my last pregnancy, I was scheduled for a series of tests at my hospital, which started early in the morning and included a blood test.

The nurse on duty was a veteran, but it still took her several tries to get the blood sample; she even had to try on both arms! Eventually, she was successful and I waddled down to speak to the doctor on duty with my stack of tests and papers.

The doctor, however, did not like the look of some data in my previous blood tests and wanted it checked again as soon as possible, so back to the lab, I went.

I ended up with the same nurse as before. As soon as I came through the door…

Nurse: “Oh, no! You again?!”