Wherever you go…. there you are.
This platitude made a lot of sense while traveling.
Bonaire was wonderful. I mean, wonderful in a way that was somewhere completely else, where, beneficent heavens be praised, hardly a thought of work went through my tired little mind. Where flamingos and donkey roamed free on land, salt made snowy mounds just yards from the surf, and spiky succulents’ predominance on land belied the lush world just past the glimmering surface of the sea, I explored and rejoiced and moved in wonderment for a too-short week.
Spotted Eagle Ray, Hidden Beach, Bonaire (Photo copyright 2007, Roy Moore)But I could not escape the fact that I brought myself along. What do I mean by that? Well, the same neuroses that plague me and have made me damn near apoplectic in the Current Job were right along waiting to come out in the water. I had to be a grand and glorious diver… I had to… see the good stuff. I had to… have fun? Relax? Get my money’s worth? For about three days I was pursuing my vacation. And making myself a bit of a wreck.
Don’t get me wrong. There are much worse things to be doing when trying to suss out what a vacation might be than diving three to four times a day in a coral playground.
And about that playground. Well, the only diving experience I’d had until 2 weeks ago tomorrow was Lake Travis, Austin Texas. While a lovely cool place to be in the Texas heat, there isn’t a lot to see besides algae, catfish, carp, drum, murky rocks, and the occasional sunken boat or bathtub. Occasionally you can see your dive buddy, but it’s not a good idea to count on that too much. While the lake is fine for a local trip, and I learned how to dive there well enough, I was in no way prepared for the effect my first Caribbean dive would have on my extremely sleep-deprived psyche. But first, let me explain how we got that tired.
We had been traveling since about 4:45 p.m. Friday, when K drove Roy and me to the Austin airport. Our 7:15 flight got to Houston at 8:30, after which we waited for the nonstop to Bonaire, which left at 11:50. We touched down in Bonaire, as scheduled, at 5:15 in the morning, Saturday. I tried sleeping on the flight, and I did get some shut-eye. But I’m not sure whether sleeping was better than just trying to read would have been.
Airplane seats are bearable while sitting, awake and rested, for about 3 hours. New York to San Francisco, fine. I can do that. Anything over that, and my back starts to get cranky, not to mention my legs and hip joints. I think perhaps I’m getting old. Anyhow, when one sleeps in one of those airplane seats, one’s spine goes right out of alignment. You think a crick in your neck from the nice bed in your own bedroom is bad? Try the Continental Airlines Iron Maiden Seats. Unmedicated, you might sleep 15-30 minutes without waking up from some form or another of discomfort. For 5 hours, it was not exactly restful. But we landed! In Bonaire!
This was my first time, ever, in the tropics. My first time on an island that was not Angel Island or Manhattan. My first actual non work, non-family vacation not associated with some form of mental anguish (we’re not counting the job) in more than five years. And it was my first opportunity to use my passport since I was nine years old. I was, understandably, beside myself. We exited the plane down the stairs, across the tarmac and through customs, hoping we’d meet our luggage before we left the airport. we had a—luxurious—amount of time to ponder the surroundings before we would have our joyous bag reunion.
Bonaire’s Flamingo Airport is, well, pink. And the luggage claim area (one carousel) is open to the sky, the elements—and the mosquitoes. Watching the sun appear, I remembered the warnings about hungry bugs waiting for the weekly deliveries of fresh American meat. In the roseate glow of Bonaire’s airport in/ex-terior, as the sun rose on a typical, 90-degree morning, I had my first taste of island cuisine. Or, rather, I was my first island cuisineurs’ taste. After our first experience of island time, when we got our baggage about an hour after getting into the country, I had amassed several impressive welcome welts on my shoulders and ankles. The bug spray, with lovely Deet flavor, was the first item retrieved from the finally-appearing bags.
A mere hour after getting the bags, we left the airport on the school bus that took us to Buddy Dive resort, just north of Kralendijk, the main town on the island. On the trip, for which Roy and I were (appropriately, both dressed in our skull-covered finest) in the back seat, we were treated to a barely audible resort primer from the purple-shirted Buddy Dive guide at the front.
Thirty minutes after pulling up to the resort, we were told our room might be ready in an hour, so we should head to the Lion’s Head and have breakfast. I was so tired by that point that it hurt to try to think of an excuse not to go. So, Roy and I left the silly, stinking drunk fellow traveler, the one who must have been pickled from the time he got on the plane in Houston, who grabbed Heinekens the moment he got off the plane and who was still drinking when we got to the resort. And we negotiated our way to the restaurant.
