Gravely ill, the Skipper was examined by a doctor while his wife, a woman whose patience was as vast as the ocean itself, stood by. After a thorough examination involving a stethoscope that seemed to listen more to the Skipper’s snoring than his heart, the physician motioned for her to meet him in the hallway.
“Your husband is very sick,” the doctor began, leaning in conspiratorially, “I’ve never seen anything like it. He’s suffering from a rare condition I’ve only read about in obscure medical journals. It’s called… *Advanced Case of Landlubberitis*.”
The Skipper’s wife frowned. “Landlubberitis? Is that… contagious?”
The doctor chuckled, a dry, rustling sound like parchment in a sea breeze. “Not at all, ma’am. It’s a chronic ailment primarily affecting those who spend too much time away from the sea. Symptoms include an inexplicable urge to wear sensible shoes, a fondness for gardening, and an unsettling ability to sleep through a hurricane.”
He paused, tapping a pen against his notepad. “Other symptoms include an aversion to salty air, an inability to tell a port from a starboard, and a disturbing fondness for… quiche.” He shuddered dramatically. “Truly ghastly.”
The Skipper’s wife considered this. She thought back to the Skipper’s recent obsession with birdwatching, his surprisingly green thumb, and the alarming number of perfectly formed quiches he’d been consuming. “Well,” she said slowly, “that certainly explains the inexplicable increase in his knitting hobby.”
The doctor nodded gravely. “A classic symptom, I’m afraid. The knitting… the sensible shoes… it’s all part of the devastating progression of Landlubberitis. In advanced cases, like your husband’s, they even start watching… *golf*.”
He pulled out a small pamphlet. “Here’s some information on the disease and suggested treatments. Primarily, it involves prolonged exposure to the ocean, a strict diet of fish and chips, and a complete ban on anything remotely resembling a floral-print apron.”
The Skipper’s wife took the pamphlet, a flicker of understanding, and perhaps a hint of relief, in her eyes. “So,” she asked, “is there any chance of a full recovery?”
The doctor smiled, a rare, genuine smile. “Oh, absolutely. With the right treatment, he could be back to his old, salty, sea-faring self in no time. Though,” he added with a wink, “I wouldn’t count on him ever giving up those terrible sweaters.”
