The downside: we had to pass through San Pedro Sula again to get to Roatan.
The upside: we made it to Roatan.
We had just two-and-a-half days on the island before returning to Tegucigalpa to fly back to the US for the Fabulous Wedding CruiseTM. We touched down on Roatan in the early afternoon, energy sapped after waking early and enduring the usual traveler's ennui.
Liz did virtually all of our Honduras planning, so I took responsibility of finding a hotel. The hunt paid off, as I used the time to give myself the lay of the land. On the whole, I'd done well with lodging picks, but I was a tad worried about losing my touch after being so out of it earlier in Honduras.
Worried for no good reason, it seemed. La Pura Vida Resort was clean, comfortable, and not too dear. The only sour note was the construction noise emanating from the end of of the stairs. Given our proximity to the water, it was almost a fair exchange. "The Good Life," indeed.
After we checked in, Liz rested her eyes briefly. I settled in beside her after making assurances that I'd wake her up in puh-lenty of time to squeeze in some snorkeling that afternoon.
The cackle of roosting birds roused me at dusk, and I cursed myself thoroughly. Liz kept a civil tongue, but I knew she was disappointed in her SO/alarm clock.
The next day, we split up to explore the water. She wanted to stick close to the hotel, so I ceded her Half Moon Bay, the nearest cove. La Pura Vida has a fully stocked dive shop, so I rented a snorkel mask and size 12 flippers before asking for directions.
"Where to?" asked the guy. He was in his thirties, and his accent indicated he was raised speaking the Queen's English.
"I dunno. A good spot. Someplace not too crowded."
He gave me a lopsided grin. "You're out of season, son -- no place is too crowded!" Liverpool, as it turned out.
I had the option of taking a water taxi to West Bay or hoofing it, he indicated. I decided to take some exercise. The directions weren't terribly complex -- "keep walking 'til you run out of beach."
Once my mask and flippers were stowed in a mesh bag, I slung it over a shoulder, applied sunscreen, and set out for West Bay, allegedly 20 minutes away. The road along the beach vanished, leaving me to walk along a narrow band of white sand. Not to be outdone, the beach did a disappearing act of its own. I praised my Keen sandals to the heavens while straggling through rocky shallows and dense mangrove outcroppings.
I'd perspired away most of the water I'd sucked down before leaving the hotel, so I probably wasn't at the top of my game when I stopped to ask directions of a tall, dark stranger on dry land.
"Pardon," I started, wiping sweat out of my eyes. "Donde esta, umm --"
"S' OK mon, English. English is fine." He stopped loading a pickup bed with beach detritus.
"Oh. Well, thanks. Do you know how much farther to West Bay?"
"Not far, mon." He turned into the sun and extended his arm. "About fifteen minute, you get dere."
It felt more like thirty, but it was hot and I was tired. The beach faded in and out several times more. I passed new homes under construction and decrepit shacks that looked a week away from self-implosion. Every other property bore a "FOR SALE" sign. Several parcels had been cleared for future development, cement and rebar stacked in neat piles.
The road was a distant memory, but the beach returned to stay. I climbed up to a boardwalk and passed two open resorts, nearly walking smack into a sign for Foster's West Bay Resort before I was properly oriented. Adults in Speedos and thongs laid out on towels and chairs, but few seemed interested in submerging themselves. Based on the conversations I scanned, most of the bronzed, oily congregation was Italian, with a few Spanish speakers thrown in.
I strode past the sun worshippers to a dock at the end of the beach, donned my snorkeling gear and waded into the water. I was chest-deep when I realized that I'd never snorkeled solo before. The Buddy System is a protocol for which I have the greatest respect, but I was filled with anticipation.
Accepting that facial hair prevents a tight mask seal, I ducked my head under water. The coral reef that formed shifting shapes beneath the waves was brought into sharp relief. Instinctively, I stretched out to float for fear of trampling the spiny animals. This coral doesn't seem to be brimming with vitality, I thought -- just before glimpsing some dead specimens laying stiff like bones in the sand,
The fish were ubiquitous, beautiful, and occasionally, comic. One small beige vertebrate swam in a fixed spot -- two inches away from the bridge of my nose -- for several minutes.
At first, I flattered myself, thinking that he'd mistaken me for a sleek predator of the sea, perhaps zee elusive Bearded Shark. I'd track left or right, and the fish would turn on a dime to maintain a course relative to mine. I was one cheery song away from being the star of my own Disney feature. After a while, the shtick got old and I gently swatted at the stowaway. He chose to ignore me.
Eventually, I was left alone, but only after I'd given myself a foot cramp trying to outrun the little bugger. Perhaps he had an interview for a pilot fish gig elsewhere. I turned the tables and stalked a bulky, speckled creature shaped like a steam iron that swam with surprising grace and speed. We played hide-and-seek, whipping around jagged corners and gaps in the reef until I followed its flashing tail around a boulder.
In an instant, the water went from turquoise to navy, and the sea floor fell away into darkness. I'd swum off a cliff, and was hanging in space like some aquatic Wile E. Coyote. A stream of fearful thoughts briefly crossed my mind before I remembered that I'm a buoyant mammal. The worst that could happen is that I'd fall... up.
I was in the water for at least two-and-a-half hours, finally coming in when I noticed two fishermen cleaning their day's catch on the dock where I'd left my gear. Dodging the entrails they were flinging into the water, I glided over for a time check.
"Quarter to three, mon," said one angler, blood dribbling down his forearm as he checked his Seiko.
Thanking him, I rushed out of the water. I'd promised Liz that I'd meet her at 3:30, and wasn't sure how long it would take to get back.
I backtracked to one of the West Bay resorts I'd passed and bought two bottles of water before finding the sloop for a water taxi. Twenty minutes later, I was the lone passenger in a whaleboat heading east at about 8 knots. The pilot charged me $2 US for the ride and dropped me off down the street from our hotel.
A Bay Islander nearing middle age was behind the counter in the dive shop. I pictured the Liverpool guy out SCUBA diving and catching a lobster with his bare hands. "Toss 'em in dere," he said, gesturing at a gurgling tank that held seawater and dive equipment. The sign-in sheet indicated that Liz had come and gone a few minutes before me.
I found her at the end of the hotel pier with her feet up, peeling the label from a bottle of Salva Vida. She seemed relaxed, and I must have given off a similar vibe -- it was the first time I remember either of us smiling that day.
Posted by Walter at November 10, 2005 08:02 AM