SharkBoy and I left the ship at every port. For all but two of the ports we did ship sanctioned excursions where we were assured that we’d have our asses back on deckchairs, drinks in hand before the ship left the dock. One woman experienced the horror of not getting back to the ship in time and experienced having the entire 12th deck chant her name as she ran down the pier (the PA system had been calling for her for 15 minutes). From that day, SharkBoy said he would never be “The Susan”.
The excursions were fun and well worth the extra couple bucks for “The Susan” insurance. We visited Water Island where the hotel in the book Don’t Stop the Carnival was based and where I was attacked by a hibiscus eating iguana. We did ATV carts along a St Maartin highway which just sealed my desire to purchase a Vespa in the future. We did a waterfall tour in Dominica, which I’ve mentioned that the road led straight up into mountains with a dizzying drive.
One unsupervised trip we did in Barbados where we were met by my Mom, who is wintering in an ocean front villa. She picked us up at the port with her two neighbours and were toured all over the island. We then went back to her villa and were fed like good Italian sons should be when they visit mama. We also met more of the villa-gers, one of which SharkBoy and I instantly liked due to her Guyanese accent (British and East Indian coming from an East Asian woman, tanned like all get out) and her no nonsense attitude and warmth. Loved. Her.
However, the best excursion, for me, was the trip to Prickly Pear Island off the coast of Antigua. Here’s a map:
View Prickly Pear Island in a larger map
As you can see, it’s small and remote. But according to Wikipedia the island held 12 islanders, 6 of which contracted an annoying case of thyroid cancer after WWII, due to the spent fuel rods stored in bunkers in the middle of the island.
We were told this by our dinner mate who we tagged along with to the island. Just as we set foot on the pristine coral white sands. Thanks.
I think we’ll be ok. How bad can 4 hours of radiation exposure be?
We were given free drinks, a BBQ lunch and snorkeling equipment to look around the reef/coral that surrounded the island. I took to the water like a fish with my underwater digital camera in hand. Pics here.
I went out snorkeling a few times, more than SharkBoy (he got a cut on his knee and was too worried about bleeding into the ocean – Sharks, you know) and for my efforts, we discovered that the 60spf sunblock worked well. There’s a white border all around my back tattoo which is suitable for framing. The rest of my back is flaking more than a dried tuna sandwiches your drunk mom would send you to school with.
The last time I came back I think SharkBoy was suitably drunk. I sat and settled into my lounger, we shared a quiet pause and he spoke up:
“I watched you out there in the ocean. I know you’re having a great time because you keep popping up and going under again. I can tell you’re happy.”
And I looked at him sideways and thought “Where the fuck is this coming from?”
And then I thought “Holy shit. I AM happy!”
When I was 10-12 yrs old I use to go out into the lake where our cottage was and stay out there for hours. I would wear rubber boots because I didn’t want to get leeches on my feet. I would go through swim suits like they were underwear. My parents were utterly cool with me being out in the lake and would leave me unsupervised to play with my plastic boats and floaty devices. SharkBoy’s comment sent me right back to those days where I would turn brown in the sun within seconds and take to the summer lake like it was my fish oxygen.
After he tells me this and I have a moment where I relive this memory, I’m overwhelmed with emotion. I pause and compose myself.
“You’re gay,” I say, keeping a brave face.
