September 06, 2007
Dean and Felix who?
At first, I was a little freaked out about taking so much time off for our honeymoon. Leaving responsibilities behind for two weeks straight is something we haven't done since the Big Trip commenced.
One day after our wedding -- after many airport farewells and heavy work forming bountiful gifts into neat stacks -- I realized that we definitely had some down time coming our way.
We'd planned the honeymoon long before putting down a deposit on the wedding hall. One week in Caye Caulker, Belize, followed by a week on Big Corn Island, Nicaragua. As we sprawled across the bed and scoped out destinations on side-by-side laptops, I popped a window to look up historical weather reports.
"Looks good," I remember saying. "For the most part, we're outside the hurricane belt -- maybe a big storm every 20 years or so." A few clickety-clacks later, we were booked.
(full map of Nicaragua)
As Liz reported, wedding guests called her to let us know about Hurricane Dean. Luckily for us, there's a TACA Airlines office within walking distance of our house, so we toddled over to fix our tickets.
Plan B: skip Belize and head straight for Big Corn Island, where we'd booked ourselves at Casa Canada, a newish resort on the south end with pool, A/C and easy beach access. I checked hurricane tracking Web sites nearly every hour until we drove to SFO on August 21 to make sure all was well.
By the time we were at the airport, there was an evacuation order out for Caye Caulker. For those of you keeping score, Dean was the first Category 5 to make landfall in the Atlantic basin since 1992. Here's an inconvenient truth: I have no business playing meteorologist.
A red-eye from SFO to San Salvador, then a brief layover before a 40-minute jet hop to Managua. Our puddle jumper didn't make it to Corn Island after we arrived, so we flew out the next day. I'm glad we hit the gym so hard before the wedding; before I got my ticket, the clerk asked my weight. After boarding, the pilot scooched me up a row or two so I'd be even with the engines. I eyed the beefy fellow sitting across the aisle and guestimated how much the cinco cervezas he swilled at the gate added to his mass.
I really and truly relaxed after we landed on Corn Island. After 24 hours, I'd tried two different kinds of lobster from the hotel restaurant. After 48 hours, we'd lost all track of time. I didn't even know which day of the week it was most of the time we were there, which was fine by me.
While I soaked up UV radiation at poolside, my cell phone twitched and jerked in a desk drawer; a handheld Portrait of Dorian Gray. I was surprised to see it still held a charge when we got home.
Home. Honestly, I could have forgotten who I was on Corn Island, if not for CNN, which for some reason, was all atwitter with news of Hurricane Felix, the second Cat 5 hurricane to make reach land in the Atlantic basin since 1992. I drank some Flor de Caņa to suppress the part of my brain that thinks it can predict the weather and suggested to Liz that we step up our departure by 24 hours.
In Managua, a huge flat-screen TV in the departure lounge blared news of the latest tormento that was cutting a swath of chaos and destruction. The national police were on alert; the president had emergency food supplies and shelter on standby. A gentlemanly waiter brought us drinks at regular intervals.
Later, as we taxied to the gate at SFO, I leaned into the beautful woman sitting in 2A and kissed her boldly. "The honeymoon's not over," I said. She smiled back.