The rocking. The slow and steady whumph-whumph-whumph motion across the placid waves. Yet the gentility of the water and smoothness of the boat ride did not matter; it still upset Daxter’s stomach. He hoped being transformed into a furry rodent might have helped in that regard – that there was light in the darkness somewhere – but no such luck.
Sat at the aft of the boat, the blonde did not suffer from it one bit, infuriating the ottsel to the point of reassessing their friendship. In the desperate clutch for a distraction from the horrible sensation, the latter played with the idea that his friend had some sort of weakness – if not seasickness, then something – but nothing came to mind.
And, at that very moment, Daxter wished Jak had been the one turned into an animal.