The Boat

So we make our way down the coast and finally pull up to the boat. Only we weren’t allowed to get out until the Customs Agent said it was OK. This is where I should have realized that Mexico doesn’t care who enters the country, but they really care who leaves. Anyway, since we were on the bus for an hour or so looking at our boat, I’ll describe it. Boats are described in a way that makes them sound big until you see them. A 110’ boat sounds like a battleship, but when you see it, you think, “Ummmmmm, that boats going to rock a lot.” The MV Islander is a fairly Spartan looking boat. No sleek lines, no cool tinted windows and no helipad. It’s a work vessel, and it’s our home for the next five days. The shark cages, there are two of them, are in the back of the boat, with the galley (or vomit reload center) on the main deck, and living quarters below, with the crews cabin and Bridge on the third level.

Once we get the OK, we depart the bus, embark the MV Islander and begin our inspection. We start with the living quarters. There’s AC, but it’s plugged into the only plug, so in order to use anything else, you have to unplug it first. But there are four bunks, and the emergency exit is in our room. I like being right next to the emergency exit, it’s like a teddy bear for adults. The view you ask? None. No windows not even a porthole. What was Luke alluding to when he said it was where he’d want to be? I just assumed it was because it had the coolest view. Guess not. It’s right below the galley, which makes it noisy. But we settle in, which means unzip our duffle and lay on the beds. Only Sander is so excited that he wants to take a tour of the boat.

So we head up the stairs and walk around the boat. Where we find our next security blanket. The inflatable lifeboats “they inflate the second they hit the water,” says Luke (which makes me wonder what happens when it rains) are Elliot brand boats (spelled wrong, but I figure it gives us “dibs” if there’s a need to fill them with people. You know if something happens in Great White Shark infested waters…). This is where I figure the family lineage splits between the One T and Two T Elliott’s. Apparently that extra T was lost as sea by the seafaring Elliot’s. Because the when it comes to the ocean, the Two T Elliott’s wouldn’t focus so much on the life raft, as inventing a better sea-sick bag.

As we round the stern, we come across the cages. I give them a hefty look over with my discerning eye, rattle the cage a little and feel exactly like I feel when I’m at a car lot and the salesman says, “So, want to look under the hood?” “Sure,” I say, and then proceed to stare at the engine, thinking, “Yup, that’s an engine all right,” but mostly do my best impression of an impressed nod while looking for something obvious to comment on. Like if it says, “Cast Aluminum block” I’ll say, “Wow, a cast aluminum block, sweet” and then try to get away from the engine as fast as I can. Same with the cages. The only way I’d be able to comment on the structural integrity of the cage is if it had bubblegum holding the bars to the frame, and even then, I’d probably say something dumb like, “Hey, is that Hubba Bubba bubblegum holding the bars to the frame? Well, that’s a pretty strong gum, sweet.” But I do notice that on top of the frame there’s a big yellow sign that says, “Swimming with sharks is not advised. Remain in your cage at all times.” Then it hits me, why are all warning signs so polite? I mean, my mother raised me and I’ve made it to the ripe old age of 38 and she was never, ever that polite when it came to my safety. If she wrote the sign for the cage it would say something like, “If I catch you swimming outside this cage, I will beat you into chum for the next divers. You may as well live out there with the sharks because I WILL make you cry in front of all the other divers. Do you hear me?” And, lo, I would not swim outside the cage. But “Swimming with sharks is not ‘advised.’” “Advised?” Who listens to advice? You can “advise” me not to stay out late on Sunday night because I have to go to work the next day, but if I do, no ones going to eat me. You can “advise” my buddy Erik not to bet against me in anything, but when he does, I don’t go into a feeding frenzy and devour him (just his money). I just think all these warning signs sound like the mom with the spoiled child at the supermarket. “Johnny, Mommy would like it if you didn’t throw grapes at the other shoppers.” Maybe Johnny needs my Mom to say, “JOHN! If you don’t put that GRAPE down this second you WILL regret it. Do you UNDERSTAND me?” and then grab his arm so hard it makes his eyes water. Just notice this next time you read any kind of warning label, they don’t really sound like warnings.

Finally, we’ve done the tour (there’s only so much you can tour on a fishing boat) and we’re looking around the dock area and I notice the Ensenada port sign. For whatever reason, Ensenada is the land where whales swim under mushroom clouds. I can’t read Spanish, so I’m assuming the sign says, “In the event of global thermal nuclear war, please find a friendly whale who will take you to safety beneath the ocean’s surface.”

Anyway, the boat is declared ship-shape and its time to depart. We settle into the galley for our briefing and again my ears perk up on the talk of the sea voyage. Luke says there’s a storm coming, but that it shouldn’t hit until we’re there, and in any case, the trip over shouldn’t be “that bad.” Now, anytime anyone, ever, says something won’t be “that bad” its going to be bad. For example, if your doctor says, “X thing I’m doing to you won’t hurt ‘that bad,’” brace yourself. It’s the ramification of over accustomization. The more you do something, or see it done, the easier you think it is. A world-class gymnast says, “Just do a double reverse pike with a Sukahara twist,” I hear, “Don’t try this, you’re going to break your neck.” When an experienced seaman says a trip “may be a little bumpy, but it won’t be that bad.” The room envisions a glass like surface with a couple of little bumps (wheeeeee!), when in reality it’s going to be like the final voyage of the Andrea Gail. It’s just the way things are, especially when you’re traveling and talking to locals. So I start planning our night, make sure our magic ear stickies are stuck, and try to feed Sander as soon as possible before the rockin’ starts knockin’.

So we eat dinner and retire to our cave. Then we break free from the bay and the waves start coming in, well, waves. And this tiny ship was tossed. And we are getting tossed in the bow, and cookies are on the verge of getting tossed. Sander is the color of pea soup, which isn’t helping my personal situation any one bit. It’s time for drastic action. I track down Luke and ask if there’s another bunk at the back. He says there should be, he’ll check. So in the meantime, I take Sander above deck to the mommy arms section. We’re sitting there and the boy’s really starting to feel it. I mean, he’s REALLY feeling it. See, the magic stickies work, but in a weird way. I’m not sure what’s really going on, but I’ll tell you how it seems. My guess is that for some reason the “throw-up, NOW” pathway from stomach to brain runs behind both ears. Because with the stickies you feel the ocean move, you feel like you should be sick, like you could nauseous but your not. It’s like your stomach is franticly sending out, “Throw up NOW! NOW YOU FOOL!” but the stickie is blocking the message like a school traffic officer. So you’re stomach feels sick but your brain doesn’t. It’s a strange feeling, but thankfully, not as strange as throwing up for five straight days. So we’re sitting at the stern, and Sander says, “Dad, I really want to go to our room.” So I find Luke again, and he’s found us a room. It’s the one the researcher is using, and he’s a very nice man who agrees to move. So we stagger over to our new quarters and find a bunk with three beds (I take the top one, Sander the middle) and a sink. It looks like the prison cell from Shawshank Redemption. Now, I’m by no means a giant of a man but my toes can touch the ceiling and our duffel takes up all the room on the floor. Oh, and once again, no windows. They must think because we’re small we’re gnomes or something. Exactly two cabins on the whole boat lack windows, and we (and I suppose the researcher) have now bunked in both of them. Oh well.

So we settle into bed, thankful for the stickies, eat some peanut M&M’s and go to sleep tired, sick and genuinely excited about the next morning.

Next up…Sharks! Duh.

Shark Dive Day Dos

Day Two starts promptly at 4.30 A.M. HOORAY!!! Here’s how my morning went down.

Sander didn’t go to sleep until 11.30 P.M. because he was all hopped up on Shark Dive anticipation (if I ever create an energy drink to compete with Red Bull, or Quintouple Espresso coffee, I’m going to call it “Sander Shark Dive Anticipation” because nothing’s as amped up as an eight-year old like thinking about going shark diving), but oddly at 4.30 in the morning, all that anticipation was smothered in “Daddy, I just want to sleeeeeeeeeep” anti-anticipation. So my morning was comprised of stumbling around trying to pack up all our stuff, worried that the breakfast place was closed so Sander wouldn’t have anything to eat before our three hour bus ride to Ensenada, Mexico (did I forget to mention that our journey to the high seas begins with a three hour bus ride, maybe I forgot to mention it when I forgot to mention that the seats on said bus reclined a luxurious 0˚, good times), deciding to skip the shower (that’s why I always bring my trusty hat), and putting on our magic ear tabs. A quick note about the magic ear tabs (the seasick prevention stickies you put behind your ear), one of the cool side effects is blurry vision. The neat thing here is that I don’t see so good sans magic ear patches, and even the slightest notion that something may affect my vision is more than enough to get a negative placebo affect going. So I put on my patch and spent the next seven hours thinking, “Is my vision blurry because I can’t see well anyway, or is the magic ear patch giving me the business?” So I know that you at home are thinking, “If you can’t tell either way why does it matter?”Well, if I can’t see because of the magic ear patches then I can blame them. If I can’t see because I can’t see, I have no remedy. The good news is that at some point I’ll forget about the whole thing and revert back to my daily, “Hey, everything’s blurry routine.” It’s one of the perc’s of not being overly bright. Anyway, we’re packed and tabbed up, and stumble out to the bus.

As we near the bus, Sander’s want of sleep is crushed under the power of what’s going on. Sander Shark Dive Anticipation won the battle for Sander’s energy and never looks back. I meant he’s running now and talking 100 miles a minute, and I’m loving it. There’s nothing on this earth like the excitement of a child, especially when its your child, and especially especially when its something your doing together. As we head for the bus, he’s saying things like, “sowhere’sthebusdoyouthinkitsherewhatifitsnothowfartotheboatwillweseelotsofsharksilikesharksisthatthebusthebusisthatit.” So we head for the pick-up spot and there’s exactly one very large bus out front. One. But apparently Smart Brain was still fast asleep, and Dumb Brain in a moment of triumph said, “Ho, ho, now while that infernal Smart Brain is resting in his smug slumber, I will strike!” So I walk up the bus and say to the first man I see, “Shark dive?” And the nice man (who later turns out to be the chef) says, “Yes.” So I’m getting ready to load the bags below the bus, when, mid swing, the driver comes out and says, “Enistasa?” Now Dumb Brain goes into battle mode, and “Whoa,” thinks I, that doesn’t sound like “Shark dive.” So I say, “Shark dive?” “Enistasa?” “No, Shark Dive.” “Enistasa.” Now, we’re doing our best Abbott and Costello routine and I’m just looking at him and he’s looking at me. I know he’s not saying “Shark Dive” or “yes,” and I’m thinking, “No way am I getting on this bus, unless I’m sure its for the shark dive,” but really, what else can this bus be here for? The guy is clearly Mexican and has a thick Mexican accent, but that’s not dawning on me while dumb brain has the helm. Now, the chef and some other folks are staring at me smiling, and I’m thinking, “Why are these guys staring at me?” and I start thinking, “Maybe they didn’t understand me.” Or, “What if they don’t know what’s going on?” And, “Why are they staring at me, and what in the world is this guy saying to me? What does ‘Enistasa’ even mean?” And for some reason, I start to get testy. “Is this the SHARK DIVE?” “Enistasa.” “Look, I’m not getting on the bus unless this is the shark dive.” You have to understand the stupidity of this conversation, It’s 5.00 A.M, I was told to meet a bus out front of this specific hotel, there’s exactly one vehicle in eyesight, and it’s a very large bus. It’s not like I walked out of Waldorff Astoria and was told to get a very specific yellow cab at 5.00 P.M. This IS the bus. About now, Smart Brain wakes up, rubs his eyes, figures out what’s going on and sighs, “Its OK boys, I’ll figure it out.” “Excuse me,” says my voice to a newly arrived nice man “Is this bus part of the Shark Diver shark dive?” “Yup.” And just then the driver, makes another move for my bag and says “Enistasa?” “THERE!” yells Dumb Brain, “What do you make of THAT smarty pants brain?” Smart brain sighs again, “Enistasa, friend, is Ensenada.” “Oooooooh,” says dumb brain, “I think I’ll have a muffin.”

The newly arrived nice man is our guide, an Australian named Luke (Mexico, an Australian, and Great White Sharks. All we need now is to be chased by an inept sheriff for a crime we didn’t commit and we’d have the next summer blockbuster), and settle into our bus seats for the long ride to Ensenada. Sander dives into his nutritious breakfast of chocolate milk and I start wondering how great an idea it is to leave the USA for a Shark Dive in Mexican waters. But these guys are pro’s, I tell myself, this is what they do. Then Luke sidles up and says, “I think we may have a problem.” And discloses that Sander, while a strapping young man, is not anything close to the 5’3” that he’s listed on their chart, and thus they don’t have the right sized wetsuit. I look at the chart and it says, “Sander Elliott, Age 8, Height 5’3” weight, 50lbs.” And here I get worried. Forget that the same chart list’s me as “5’7”,” meaning that they think I only have 4” on my eight-year old, but how many 5’3” eight-year olds are there that you haven’t seen doing guest spots on David Letterman? More importantly, how many 5’3” people weigh only 50 pounds? You’ve definitely seen that kid on Letterman right? I mean, who looked over the sheet? And please, please tell me it’s not the same person in charge of safety checks. Anyway, we settle on the idea that whoever took down the information wrote down what I said in inches, 53, as 5’3”. Great. We’ve just discovered that the horses are out of the barn because someone left the door open. Then Luke says, “Do you think he could fit into that wetsuit?” Looooooong pause here. Is my professional guide really asking if my 4’4” 50 pound child can fit into a wetsuit made for someone 5’3”? As I’m sitting there staring at the man, we have some kind of psychic moment and he says, “Probably not.” Another looooooong pause. I’m thinking that there are dive shops in Mexico that have an appropriately sized wetsuit. “I’ll get another wetsuit from a local dive shop brought to the boat.” “Good idea,” says I. It was like I used the Jedi Mind Trick on him. It felt awesome! I wanted to grab a lightsaber and take on Vader or something. Sander, by the way, has picked up on the whole conversation and is internally freaking out that his trip may not happen, but hiding it extremely well. “What’s he talking about,” he says in his best steady voice. “They don’t have a wetsuit for you,” says Jedi Dad. “But we gave him my measurements.” “Yup.” “What happened, can I still go without one?” “No buddy, its way to cold, but they’re going to get one that fits you, don’t worry.” Here, I’m doing that “hope/lying” dance that every parent knows. In my mind, there’s no way he’s going without a wetsuit, but I also know that we’re not going down without a fight. About 10 minutes later, our guide comes up and says he’s got it all worked out. My Jedi Powers are growing strong.

Now we hit the border. It takes exactly 16 seconds to enter Mexico. No one checks our bags, looks at our passports or asks us any questions. A uniformed guy sitting on a chair looks at the bus. I guess he’s comfortable that it is, indeed, a bus, and he waves us through.

Next it’s time for cabin assignments. Luke recommends the forward bunks for Sander and I. Say’s its where he’d like to be if he were eight, and it’s the biggest room. For you non-boater types, the front, or “bow” or “vomit maker” is the bumpiest part of the boat, and the back of the boat, or “stern” or “mommy arms” is the most stable part. So, being that in some long ago era I must have broken the heart of some impressionable sea nymph who now wreaks her vengeance on my stomach every time I dare set sail on the ocean I’m faced with a conundrum. I want to rest in the mommy arms section of the boat, but the front is larger, and has a better view (allegedly). Furthermore, our guide is looking at me like not only would I be the world’s largest sissy if I didn’t take the front, I’d also be a terrible daddy for denying Sander this wonderful opportunity. So I, being both a father and a guy, nod “Yes” in such a way that any other answer would obviously be patently ridiculous. Hooray for boats!

As we go through Tijuana, I’m struck by how poor it is. I don’t really know what I was expecting as I’ve never been to Mexico, but this town is poor. Admittedly my entire body of knowledge regarding Tijuana comes from an 80’s movie called “Losin’ it” starring Tom Cruise, Cougar from “Top Gun” and the little angry guy form “Breaking Away” (yes, yes, how can any movie starring Tom Cruise refer to any other character as “the little guy?”). See, back when cable had the rights to, like, six movies, they ran them in constant rotation as I laid on the couch and watched them until they burned themselves into my brain. The upshot is that 20 years later, I’m able to draw on them to guide me in my real life. But even I assumed that Tijuana changed since Tom and the gang showed up in 1983, but it hadn’t. I know this sounds ignorant, but I always assumed that Mexico was poor, but just by being a neighbor of the US; it had to be OK, especially at the border. Nope. We drove through parts of town that were barely better than the poorer parts of Belize, except there was infrastructure, lawyer billboards, and electricity. But there were many houses without windows, stuff piled up everywhere, and a general state of disrepair. Also, it’s striking and obvious, but it’s especially odd to see the border fence from the Mexico side. Its kind of interesting to look at, its essentially a series of long concrete poles driven into the ground, with enough space to see through, in fact its almost invisible when your driving, but to small to fit through. I got confused and turned around, so it took me a while to figure out what I was looking at, but when I did, it just hit me in some odd way. This line is all that separates the impoverished citizens of Tijuana from the US. I know the lines not arbitrary as people fought and died for every inch of our border, but if that line were 10 miles to the south, Tijuana would be an entirely different place. I mean, entirely. It must be hard to be on the Mexico side and look through those gaps. Or maybe not, what do I know?

The rest of the drive to Ensenada was quiet and odd. It’s a coastal drive with lots of abandoned looking high-rises promising vacation resort experiences that I couldn’t imagine ever happening. There were not gradients. No easing into poverty or luxury. Here there were huge, expensive high-rises right next to dilapidated restaurants with no windows and grocery stores with no AC. Also, there was a FOX lot where Pirates of the Caribbean and other movies where filmed. I spent the rest of the time wondering where Johnny Depp stayed when he was in town. Driving said Fox lot, in the Middle of Nowhere, Mexico, you could see the Black Pearl and an F-16. Only in Americ-ummm, Mexico, I guess.

Next, the boat…

Sharks! Day Uno.

So the big day arrives for my and Sander’s biggest adventure yet. We’re going to go cage diving with Great White Sharks (or the latin, Sharkus Gigantus). Not only does this involve the afore mentioned Great White Sharks, but Mexico. And nothing says safety like “Mexico.”

And that’s the thing about this particular trip. Safety. I’ve reviewed and researched, and this seems safe. But that doesn’t really matter, as this trip absolutely fails the “Oprah Test.” Meaning, no matter what I do or say or research, if anything goes wrong there’s no way to get my side of the story across on Oprah without getting soundly booed by all the Opraettes in the audience. An eight year old boy, Great White Sharks, and Mexico. No way. I’d be swarmed and killed like, well, like Great Whites on a feeding frenzy. So I’m actually nervous. I try to live my life by the Oprah Test rule, and I’m definitely in violation here.

But first a little history. We were watching TV during Shark Week on the Discovery Channel (here’s where the Oprah crowd starts fidgeting – how many great ideas start with two guys watching Shark Week?), and they kept showing people in cages looking at the sharks. Well before the smart part of my brain knew what happened (it was distracted learning about how sharks don’t get cancer) the 18 year-old part of my brain announced, “Hey Sander, we should do that!” Since he’s only eight, his little brain had no chance and said, “YES!” Well, just then the smart part of my brain spit out its popcorn and punched the 18 year-old part of my brain in the nose and took over. “Hmmmm,” says smart-brain, there’s no way you can do this without a SCUBA license, let’s just look it up and tell Sander that, “It sure would be fun, but no SCUBA license, no shark dive.” That should buy a few years. And the first few internet searches come up with just that fact. So I say, “Hey buddy, looks like a no go…” I write “…” because for some reason, out of nowhere I say, “But lets see if they have a way of diving with a SNUBA Hose (this is like the old school method of just pumping air from the surface through a hose).” Why, why did I say this? I was in the clear. I blame smart-brain. Stupid smart-brain, always showing off. And lo and behold, there is just such a guide service available. As it comes up I realize that I have only one hope, that, at eight, he’s too young. I mean, if you were a guide operator you’d be crazy to let an eight year old on a five-day shark diving trip right? And lo and behold (lo and behold, another lo and behold reference) you have to be 12 to even look at sharks from the deck. Hah, eat that smart-brain! “Sorry buddy, you’re four years to young to even be on the boat, and you have to be 16 to dive. We tried, and we got real close. How about some ice-cream?” Then he looks at me and says, “You could call and ask right? You always say, ‘It never hurts to ask’ right?”

Well, unless it involves 14’ Great White Sharks thinks I. But he’s got me. I have to ask, but there’s no way they’ll say yes. I mean, if you were a dive operator, you’d be crazy to let an eight year old on a five-day shark diving trip, right? So I call and purposefully make the classic negotiating mistake of leaving the actual message of what I want. This almost guarantees failure. It gives whoever you’re talking to time to craft all kinds of counter arguments without the benefit of your input. It’s negotiating suicide. So the next day Sander and I are at the movies when the Charter Owner calls. Says that he’s been thinking about it, Sander sounds like a really unique little boy, and that at his age his parents were taking him on all kinds of adventures and that this could be a life changing moment for the boy, so sure, he can come, but he needs to talk to me first. I’m so stunned here, that before smart-brain can ruin things, I blurt out, “Sander, we can GO!”

And with that, everything’s in motion for us to head to San Diego to go shark diving. We arrived in San Diego and set off for our Hotel Holiday Inn Bayside. This is important. Sander and I get into a minor debate about whether we should take a cab (his vote) or the free shuttle (my vote). After waiting for a while at the bus stop, and starting to lose the debate, I decide to call the hotel and make sure the shuttle is coming. “Yes,” says the nice lady on the phone, a shuttle should be there in 15 minutes. Then, two minutes later, a Holiday Inn on the Bay shuttle shows up. “Hmm,” I think, “that was fast,” and we hop on and head to the hotel. And it was awesome, right on the main marina area, across the street the USS Midway Aircraft Carrier, there’s a mini-golf course on site, and we talk about hurrying up and checking in and hitting it. At check-in the niceish lady behind the desk says that she doesn’t have my reservation. Well, I’m ready for that, and pull out my confirmation number. She carefully looks it over, sighs, and says, “Oh, I see, your reservation is for ‘Holiday in Bayside,’” here, I start looking around, her ID tag says “Holiday Inn,” there’s lots of green around, I’ve got to be in a Holiday Inn. She continues, “This is ‘Holiday in By the Bay.” Loooooong pause, as I try to figure out what she just said. I think I even said, “Huh?” (I’m not always the most eloquent). “We get this a lot,” she continues, “Get what a lot,” I think. “You want to go to the Holiday Inn Bayside,” this is Holiday Inn By the Bay.” “What? That doesn’t make any sense,” I think, “Why would you have two hotels within a few miles of each other, one called ‘Holiday Inn By the Bay,’ and the other called ‘Holiday Inn Bayside?’” And if you “get this all the time” why not do something to make it clearer. I’m thinking maybe an announcement when you get on the bus, a sign somewhere, or at least a way of getting between the two. Instead, I get, “you’ll have to take a cab to Holiday Inn Bayside. Next.” So a $20 cab ride later, I’m at my destination. And by “cab ride” I mean a 15 minute ride that consisted of my cabbie telling me repeatedly that this “happens all the time.” Now you would think that after the first time he mentioned this that the issue would be resolved. Nope. I won’t bore you with the banality of the longest 15 minutes of my life, but it was basically this.

Cabbie: Oh, you wanted to go to the Holiday Inn Bayside? Yeah, that happens all the time (told you). See, all the hotels want some part of the bay in their name.
Me: Yeah, that makes sense, thanks.

Rinse, lather, repeat.

Seriously, I lived, and relived this conversation for a solid 15 minutes. How many different ways can I act interested in various iterations of “Lots of people get confused because of all the ‘Bay’ names in San Diego”? The first time I felt vindicated, the 8th time, I felt like I wanted to jump out of the moving cab. It was like a scene from Faust. “Ohhhh, you like chocolate-chip cookies do you?” says Satan, “Then HERE, spend eternity eating your way out of a giant vat of chocolate-chip cookie dough! Bwah-ha-ha!” I wanted to not feel like an idiot, but by the end of the ride I felt like I was being force-fed vindication through a straw and it was coming out my nose.

Eventually, we arrived at our hotel the Holiday Inn BAYside. Checked in, and then bee-lined it to the drug store to get our handy-dandy ear patches. I’ve never used these before, but since I get seasick in a mud-puddle and was facing five days on a boat, I felt it made just enough sense to experiment with them. But to be on the safe side, I also bought every gimmicky seasick item I could buy; wristbands, powders, lotions, whatever. If there was a gypsy camped outside offering to rub “magic sea dust” in my hair, I would have happily paid her. Honestly, I was more afraid of spending three days hunched over the side of the boat donating my insides to the local fish population, than I was of donating my whole body to the local Great White Shark population.

So we returned to the hotel magic ear stickies in hand and stopped by the gift shop where I bought every kind of portable junk food I could find. Here’s the tally, two pounds of peanut M&M’s, 4 King Sized Snickers bars, 4 of those little bags of Doritos, two bottles of chocolate milk and a large bag of peanuts (the latter two destined to for tomorrow’s breakfast). They say an army travels on its stomach, well, a nervous daddy terrified of being seasick for five straight days travels on junk food.

And with that, it was bed time.

Day 6. Going home.

So our little adventure comes to an end. So we pack up, say goodbye to our little resort and head to the cab. In true Belizian fashion, we have to wait so the cabbie can troll the streets and pick up a few more passengers. Eventually, we all load up into the van and head towards town. All-in-all the resort was good to us. The people were nice, the food was great, we met some nice tourists, and swam in the pool everyday. But mostly I remember lying in bed at night and laughing. It’s a great time when a little boy becomes genuinely funny on his own. Some of the things he said had me laughing so hard my stomach hurt. We also started doing yoga at night (“relaxing yoga”) and yoga in the morning (“wake-up yoga”). He made up wake-up yoga and it works (OK, truth be told, I was making up relaxing yoga too. But it seemed to work. Maybe we’ll hit the late-night infomercial circuit.). Anyway, for all that we saw and did in Placencia, I think what I’ll remember most is talking. Talking on the way into town, talking in our beds at night, talking over breakfast, just conversing. He’s just so enjoyable to talk with. It’s not one-way either, with me dispensing fatherly advice (mostly stuff I pulled off of fortune cookies. Looking back, “You will meet a tall stranger” was a perplexing answer to “Daddy, why do countries go to war?”), but back and forth conversations, with serious moments, clever moments, creative moments, and funny moments. It makes me smile.

Anyway, we check-in for our flight, that’s Sander holding the boarding ticket (yup), board and head for Belize City. Again, I love Third-World Travel. No boarding passes, no identification checks, no security. You show up, pay your money, say “hi” to the lady at the desk and get on the plane for the flight to Belize City. Man was that was a hot flight. I guess the plane is designed to pull air in from the outside, but it doesn’t really fly high enough to get to the cool air. So you wind up sitting in a big cigar tube packed with passengers and cooking in hot, humid, choppy air. Finally, we make it to the big airport…and wait…and wait. I guess there were storms in Chicago or something so our flight was delayed six short hours. It was a real Third World Airport experience too. Hot, muggy, and hot and muggy. I kept waiting for a heavy set guy in a sweat stained white suit and hat to come in asking if we’ve seen Indiana Jones. Eventually, after we talked about everything we could think of, played “eye spy,” and walked around and looked all through both shops, I punted and gave Sander his iPod Touch so he could watch air combat shows.




At long last we board our plane, and settle into our chairs for the long flight to Dallas (that’s Sander, full of vim and vigor-one of many, “Seriously, now you’re taking a picture?” moments on the trip), when the pilot comes on and says, “Due to the fuel shortage Belize is experiencing, we only have enough fuel to get to Cozumel, Mexico. We’ll get more fuel there, and head to Dallas.”

And with that, we left Belize.

Day 5. Guiding Light?

Now we arrive at Day Five (actually took me a few minutes to work out the rhyme, I hope you appreciate it). Day Five is the perfect example of how “disaster” and “fun” are in the eye of the beholder. Sander loved Day Five (except for the fishing-stay tuned), I spent all of Day Five thinking either, “I got soooooo taken,” or “Am I going to have to kill this guy to make sure we get back alive?” By the end, I realized that “this guy” or “James” was just trying to make an extra buck, was really trying to show us a good time and was never a threat. But yes, there was a time when I was definitely looking at my exit scenarios. Unfortunately, exit scenarios are limited on a tiny island where the boat is on the other side of a mangrove swamp. Quick side note, James recommended bagging the “Monkey River” trip. It was hot and the bugs were supposed to be a nightmare, plus he said the monkeys have retreated deeper into the jungle to escape the afore mentioned heat and bugs. “Hot, buggy and no monkeys,” didn’t have to tell us twice. Plus, we like to think that we’re at least as smart as the monkeys.

So the plan is for James to take us Fishing and Snorkeling. With the snorkeling focused on the inshore reefs near his resort. Now, whenever someone with no shoes begins telling me they have an island resort, well I hate be by cynical, but I am skeptical. We arrive at the dock and get into his boat, boat about as long as my forearm, and a boat with no cover. When I asked him about the lack of cover for an all day excursion on the open water in tropical sun, he says, “Um, oh, I just took it off this morning. It’s hard to fish with the shade up because it gets in the way.” Sure, OK, he’s the guide. Except that I notice that most of the other fishing boats manage to both fish and provide shade for the customer. But, being the optimist that I am, I figure I can use my charred flesh for fish bait. So I lather Sander up, put on his hat and sun-glasses and hope for the best (Editors note. Sander returned from the fishing trip sans sunburn. There was much rejoicing in the land.). So we’re off to snorkel the inner reef, have lunch on his resort island, do some more snorkeling and then catch the late afternoon tide for fishing.

So we cross the channel on the tiny ship, and the tiny ship was tossed. I have to give Sander credit here, he never complained and he never asked how much longer, he just rode it out. After about 20 minutes we arrived at the island and the reef. James says the inner reef is “so much better than the outer reef. Its more colorful and there are more fish. But no one comes to the inner reef, so this is a real treat.” Great! So we get into the water and start looking around. Now I don’t want to get into a “he said/he said” but as I looked around I saw fewer fish and blander colors. Oh, and everything seemed to be covered in some kind of silt. I kept thinking, “Buddy, I’ve already been to the outer reef, maybe you should try the ‘the inner reef is better’ line on someone who hasn’t been to the outer reef.” (Editor’s note. I also thought, “I’ve been to the outer reef, I’ve swam the outer reef, and this sir, is not outer reef.”) But Sander was really digging it, so I keep it to myself. I have to say, James did his level best to be an A+ guide. Showing us stuff, giving us local names for sea-life, “donkey dung sea-cucumber” being our favorite, and letting us hold coral and things like the donkey dung sea cucumber. We also saw some lobster and a couple of nurse-sharks that were lying?…laying?…resting under some boulder coral. So looking back and distilling it down the highlights, its sounds like a fun morning. But for some reason, I remember spending a lot of time thinking, “you gotta be kidding me with this trip.”

Now it’s lunchtime. When we originally signed up for the “James Adventure Trip” he said that we would, “Do some snorkeling and then BBQ on the island. Then lay under some trees and rest.” I forgot this was Belize, so what he meant was, “We should buy some lunch in town, hope it doesn’t get soggy and gross sitting in the heat for a few hours and eat fast on a bug infested island.” It’s one of those local things like in England where “I’ll knock you up” doesn’t mean what you think it means. Anyway, we head for the “resort.” At last, we’ll see the “resort” he’s been talking up since we met that morning (Oh, he also said that he owned the guide service that we used to look for whale sharks, but that he gave it to his ex-girlfriend. I’m assuming this was after he “started the whole whale shark game.” See he was “the first guy to swim with a whale shark, and then I had the idea to start the whole game, you know.” Seems like he should be able to afford a pair of shoes. Oh, we also had this conversation. James, “How much was your iPhone?” Me, “Don’t know, it was a gift.” Him, “Any idea, like a couple hundred dollars?” Me, “Well, I didn’t want to be rude and check the price, you know, it was a gift.” Him, “Could you send me one because it would sure help out my business, and I could wire you the money or something? Me, “Yeah, yeah, let’s talk later.” Me, thinking to myself, “Maybe if you didn’t ‘give away’ the biggest business in this whole town, you could buy one. After you buy a pair of shoes. And a bike or something, so I wouldn’t have to drive you around town in my golf-cart.” Anyway, James is clearly a player, and we arrive at his Players Club. That’s the picture of his resort. Yes THAT’S the resort. There’s also a picture of Sander next to, what I assume, is the clubhouse. Look, I’m not trying to dog the guy, but he just kept referring to it as his “resort” he’s building, and how yachts can dock near it. Not his home, not his second home, not even a project. I wouldn’t say a word about any of those, but “resort?” Come on. So if you’re booking a stay on an island resort, and the guy’s name is James, be warned.

So we lunch at the resort. The picnic table we’re sitting at breaks when I sit on it, so I have sander sit on a log. The food is soggy and nasty, and Sander tries, but there’s just no way. So he eats a small bag of Doritos (the official meal of the Fodder and Son team). After getting swarmed by bugs, and struggling to find shade, we call it. James says he’s going to go back and get the boat (it was anchored on the opposite side of the island) and starts to wade out into the water. But the mystery guy who’s building the resort (yes, one guy, that’s his laundry you see in the pic.), call’s to him and they conference. James then tells us that there’s a back trail to the boat through the mangroves. This strikes me as odd, because James has said no less that 537 times that he owns the island, he knows it like no other, how he plotted the land and picked the perfect spot to build his resort. How does he not know about the short-cut? So when James and random guy huddle up away from me and Sander, start talking in low tones in another language and send furtive glances our way, I get a bit, well, I look for something big to wield. All of this is tempered by the fact that I’ve pegged James as a talker. It’s much more likely that this isn’t his island, that’s not his resort, and that he’s just making up play as he goes along. But still, I’m not loving it. So I spend 20 minutes going back and forth between, “I think I can take these two guys” and “Chill.” Then James brings the boat around, all’s well, and I feel like an idiot. Sander, by the way, loves the idea of living on a tiny island off the coast of Belize. He was all into it. Except for the bugs. He could do without the bugs.

So round two of the snorkeling begins and we head to another island reef. We arrived at what I christened “Cartoon Island.” It was a tiny little island, all white sandy coral; it was just missing was the lone palm tree. The reef around it was beautiful. We had a really nice time on the Cartoon Island reef. James said it used to be huge, with a beautiful house on it, but a hurricane blew it all away. OK, maybe.

So now it was time to fish. James started talking, and I started doubting. Whenever someone starts talking and saying things like, “Yes sir. We’re going to catch some fish today. Good day for fishing. Catching the tide juuuuuust right. Got my lucky lures, this one never fails, etc,” well, unless its your Grandfather, someone’s trying to talk themselves into something. So we start trolling, and trolling, and trolling. For hours we were trolling. I caught seaweed. By the end, James was saying things like, “Well, the morning tide is really the better tide.” And I’m thinking, “Dude, I was here when you said this was the best time. It’s not like I just got on this boat.” So fishing was a bust. We never really had a nibble. But we did see a barracuda jump, that was cool. Sander was really bummed; it was the first time we struck out, ever, on a fishing expedition. But I explained that that’s part of it (I didn’t explain that bringing home bubkus isn’t really what’s supposed to happen when you hire a guide. But I guess, technically, we didn’t really hire a guide, so it didn’t happen today either). So we docked, gave James a ride to where we returned our cart, and said goodbye.

And that was the last we ever saw of James.

And no, I didn’t send him an iPhone.

Day 4. Catch-up Day.

Day four was a rest day. We were supposed to head to the Monkey River (which took our mind) but it was absolutely pouring that morning and the trip was cancelled. Not much happened that day; we played Mexican Train with the neighbors (Sander came in second, I came in last), hung out, recovered, talked, swam a bit, and after lunch played Miniature Golf.

That’s right folks, in a town with no discernable infrastructure, roads, or airport security (more on that below), I found Putt-Putt golf. Having heard rumors of it on a tourist sheet of paper (yes “sheet of paper,” it’s a smalllll town) I HAD to track it down. Ahab had Moby, Sander had the whale shark, and not I had Putt-Putt Golf. The good news is that apparently I have two things going for me. One, I guess having grown up in Florida, I have some sort of migratory sense of direction for finding Putt-Putt courses, and two, I guess having grown up in Florida, I’m the only one who likes the game. We found it quick, and we found it barren. It was located on the grounds of another “resort” and when I asked if we could play, the guy actually laughed in, what I’m assuming was, startled amazement. He actually did the chest pat thing looking for something to give us, wound up setting us up with two clubs and two balls, and then sat on the porch of his little shop with a buddy and watched us play. And play we did. It was bug infested, but we had OFF, and it was rained out in sections (loser had to get the balls out of the yuck), and it was basic (Astroturf, some wood blocks for obstacles, and maybe some hills-mother nature provided the water obstacles) but it was putt-putt dang-it! And much fun was had by all.

Since that was basically it for day four, I’m going to take this time to describe the area. First, the airport. Well, “airport” is a stretch. It was a small building with shed attached. There was one strip, and it jutted out with the “highway,” looping around it like a little runway peninsula surrounded by a public road. Oh, and did I mention that it didn’t have a fence? None. Zero. Not, it had a fence but it was torn down in parts. Not, it had a fence along the sides. Not, it had a quaint picket fence. There was NO fence. Once, after a plane landed, a guy rode his bicycle from the road, across the runway, and back on to the road to town. The airport was his short cut! People actually think, “Hmmmm, I don’t feel like taking the long way around, I’ll just cut through the airport.” The best part? The people that work at the airport waived to the guy. Everyone smiled, must be cousins. So I know what you’re thinking. Maybe no one has fences in Placencia? Nope. Directly across the street is a lot, with nothing of any discernable value, that has a big fence all around it. Protecting nothing is more important than protecting the airport. Just cracked me up.

Want to know what else cracked me up? The sign near the end of the runway on the road that read, “STOP! All vehicles must give way to aircraft landing and taking off. Belize Airport Authority.” So the same “authority” that lacks the pull to score a fence would at least demanding that you to yield to their oncoming airplanes. It would have been much funnier if I didn’t keep noticing cars blowing through the signs. Assuming they at least looked kept me from having a full on panic attack for the return flight home.

So lets talk about the “highway.” It was dirt. Not dusty, not rugged, not cobblestone, dirt. Actually, let me go back to dusty. It was insanely dusty, because with a dirt road there’s pretty much an endless supply of dust. We were just covered in the stuff. When a car passed it was like a smoke screen. Dust in our eyes, dust in our hair, dust in our teeth. Dust, dust, dust. While we were there, I guess they were doing repairs because we kept seeing dump trucks driving around and huge mounds of dirt everywhere. Then the dirt went away, and the road (path?) was smooth. It looked like the dump trucks dumped their dirt, some people smoothed it out, and at the end of each day the same five guys in a pick-up drive along the recently redirted dirt road and loaded the larger leftover stones into the back of a pick-up truck. One road into Placencia, and it was dirt and apparently managed by hand. But friendly hands. As we drove to and from town each day, we encountered lots of waves. Probably because we were the only tourists that far making us the “daring” tourists. It also made us the “darling” tourists, because as we drove through the little village next to our resort each day we became the defacto public transportation system. Each morning we loaded people up onto our little golf-cart and took them into town. Everyone was nice and talkative, and by the end, we couldn’t walk through town without running into someone we gave a ride to. Honestly, it made the town seem that much more quaint. It’s always nice to see a smiling face waving at you in a foreign country.

And the little village next to our hotel was little…and poor. Very, very poor. Much poorer than the locals section of San Jose Island. I’ve never seen poverty like this. We found out that homes were built on stilts not because of flooding, but because the biting bugs stay close to the ground. Homes were made of whatever was handy, no windows, no screens and I didn’t even see power lines to many of them. Locals walked nonchalantly barefoot down roads that I would have traversed like they were made of hot coals. It was stark, and honestly, scary. You don’t realize how much you and your eight-year-old boy stand out driving a golf cart through a town that looks like you could buy it for a big screen TV and a subscription to People Magazine. But we never had a problem, not once, not even a little.

The other thing I remember about Placencia is the heat. It was H-O-T hot. And humid. If you got away from what little breeze there was, you just baked. And without said breeze, the bugs were prolific, horrific, and definitely not terrific. Hot, humid and buggy, Placencia would be nothing without the whale sharks. But oddly, our expert James said that Placencia was the fastest growing area in all Belize. I really wanted to see what that chart looked like. Because if ten people move into a town of ten, that’s 100% growth, but its still a Podunk town. And what does that mean for the rest of Belzie? Now watch, I’ll go back to Plancencia in 10 years and it will be a thriving metropolis. Maybe. But now, it’s a tiny little village where “Air Conditioned” is a huge and rare draw for restaurants and “resorts.” But in all fairness we were waaaaaay far out of town and didn’t really explore or bond with it. I might have had a better feel for the real town if we stayed in it. Which is what I recommend doing.

Speaking of hot. I also tried the local hot sauce. I like hot sauce, makes me feel manly. So as we’re eating pizza one day (When traveling, I think its important to eat like a local), and I put a dollop of the local hot sauce on my bite as I’m casually talking to Sander. Then my mouth goes nuts. I can’t describe the heat. I’m down with Tabasco and wassabi, but this stuff was unreal. I probably moved Al Gore’s chart up a notch with the heat coming out of my mouth. His next slide show will have a picture of burning oil fields, smoggy cities and me and a bottle of Belizaian hot sauce. To the younger generation, “I’m sorry.” You couldn’t sell this stuff in America; there would be too many lawsuits. Just writing about it now is making my mouth water. Sander, of course, thought it was hilarious that I kept reaching for my diet coke and choking. It probably was; I was like a desert wanderer at an oasis with that diet coke. And in true eight-year old fashion, he kept asking me about. “Was it hot daddy?” “Like how hot?” “How come they have it here if it’s so hot?” “Do you think the people that live here use it?” “It was probably real hot, right?” “Can you IMAGINE what it would be like to drink a whole bottle?” and so forth for the rest of the trip. OK, so maybe I overreacted a bit, but it was hot.
Placencia did have gelato store though. That was a big thing for us to do after each of our adventures.

I guess in summary, putt-putt and gelato, how bad could be?

Day 3 (part two)

Everyone was still abuzz when we pulled into the reef for lunch. Fun thing about this lunch trip is that the Park Ranger’s boat isn’t working. So our guides jump on and fix his engine. Then we lash our boats together, along with another boat, and share food and drinks. It was like a tailgate party in the middle of the Caribbean. Our guide refers to everyone as a “cousin” and I think he means in literally. During lunch, some fishermen show up and our Captain asks if we’re all done eating, and gives the guy, his cousins, what’s left over. Here’s where I begin to somewhat understand the dynamics of this ocean. The fishermen keep an eye out for whale sharks; tell their cousins (the Captains of the tourist boats) where they are, and the Captains take the swimmers over to see them. Beyond the obvious economic boost, the tourist boats also provide a nice lunch to the fishermen and a break from the monotony of hand fishing all day. So the fishermen are motivated to help the Captains and the Captains are happy to share what the tourists paid for with the fishermen.

Back to lunch, the way of the boat is that you toss all your food overboard for the fish (one of the benefits of eating regular food). The fish dig this. And so do we, its fun to watch them swim up and swarm the food. After eating, Sander asks if he can go swimming around the reef? Sure says I. Then we notice a small barracuda swimming around. I tell Sander to hold some chicken in his hand and see if he can feed it so I can get a picture. He looks at me with huge eyes and shakes his head vigorously “no.” I love it when he totally misses a joke, but at least he’s no fool. He also asks that no one throw any food into the water now. We all agree. Anyway, I jump in and we swim around the aquarium reef for a while, with the barracuda finding a friend and the two of them just swimming around with us. We joke around that maybe they’re a father and son barracuda on vacation excitedly talking about swimming with two humans. Again, Belize amazes us. Alone, this would have been an amazing experience that we talked about forever, but after a whale shark, and before what happened next (patience), it was just another cool thing we did.

So after lunch, we saddle up and head back out to look for whale sharks. This time, the captain basically threw the divers in the water and kept us snorkelers in the boat saying that we should be ready in case a fisherman sees a whale shark. I guess he finally decided to do away with any pretext of the magic bubbles. My final, cynical thoughts on the magic bubble dinner bell? I figure the guide services can charge more scuba than snorkeling, so they provide this service, but it’s all basically luck. The reason they don’t really use the fish finder is that the whale shark swims to fast to locate, get the scuba divers in the water and off to where they need to be in time. The scuba crowd is just too slow. My bet is that if we did see a whale shark on the surface during one of our “lookie” sessions, the captain would have just put the scuba divers in the water as snorkelers. Also, I’m totally convinced that this whole thing is fisherman based. That, or he just didn’t feel like putting us in the water, who knows?

However, our own little fish asked if he could swim around while we were waiting. For some reason, this just blew everyone away. So Sander jumps in and swims around. When the captain had to move the boat, Sander held onto the ladder and the captain slowly drove to the new local, with Sander giving updates on the scuba diver’s location and state of the current. I went in with him and I have to say, it was beautiful. Without straining my eyes and looking down for whale sharks, I was able to appreciate this ocean for the first time. It’s an amazing color blue, and deep. But clear and you can see so you don’t feel claustrophobic or scared like you can in the Gulf of Mexico (Not that I’m ever scared, I far to manly for fear). It almost like looking into the sky. It just seemed to go on forever, with only various colors of blue to tell distance or get a marker. Speaking of sky, the two blended together in the distance, adding to the feeling of being in space. It’s very difficult to describe the feeling of infinity, but that’s how it seemed. I felt like an astronaut. Then, within this feeling of infinity, all of the sudden life appeared. It was almost jarring at first, but two dolphins swam up and began investigating the boat, and Sander. And these were huge dolphins; I’m guessing 7’ each. They swam towards us, getting closer than I’ve ever been to dolphins in the wild. At one point they were almost close enough to touch. I started wondering if they were going to stop, and had visions of holding on and swimming with them. But like my dreams of playing in the NBA, they soon vanished into the blue. I would have missed this experience, like the other people on the boat did, if I hadn’t been swimming with Sander. I have to admit, I was whomped, and full, and wanted to stay in the boat and chill. But when your eight year old boy calls out, “Come on Daddy, lets swim!” and your belly’s full, and your tired, and you don’t really want to, you start to hear, “The CATS in the cradle with the SILver spoon, little boy blue and the MAAAAN in the moon…” and you get into the water. I’m so glad I did. It is such an amazing experience, swimming with dolphins 30+ miles into the Caribbean ocean with your son. And since we were the only ones in the water, it felt like the experience was all ours. Beautiful.

Soon the divers come to the surface, spotting nothing. Again. OK, I hate to keep reflecting, but reflecting does it to you. If it weren’t for Sander not being able to scuba, I definitely would have been a scuba diver. Cool gear, you get to go deeper, and you put out magic bubbles, its more expensive, so surely it must be better, right? But since we weren’t able to scuba, we became snorkelers. Mask, snorkel, fins that’s it. But we were fast and natural, and we saw a huge turtle, a whale shark, two barracudas and swam with two gigantic dolphins. No one else could say that. No one. And with our lack of gear, I felt more a part of the ocean. No wetsuit separating us from the water, no regulator noise and no distracting bubbles to scare the fish and block our vision. Just us, and what we saw and felt. I have to admit; I thought we had the short end of the stick on these trips and was trying to make the best of it when we set out each day. But it turns out we had the best of it. We gad a great time and saw the most sea-life. We were just father and son, with simple equipment and Sander’s relentless joy in and for the water. Turns out that’s all you need.

Well, that and a chocolate smoothie.

Day 2. Here sharky sharky…

Today is the “Swim With Whale Sharks” portion of our well-planned trip. We get all geared up, head to the boat and experience the Tropical Way of doing things. And the Island Way is a juggernaut. You can’t beat it, so it’s best to just let any idea of “schedule” go. So here’s how getting ready to go look for whale sharks works. Belize has figured out that whale sharks are a boon the local economy and have wisely protected the sharks, devising an actual plan to regulate how many boats can work the reef at one time. The method of determining those slots is a sophisticated method called “First Come, First Serve.” Now, normally this would be a disaster. Boats queuing up early, people jockeying for position, possible bad words and feuds, cutters and cheaters, and general chaos (think New York Subway at rush-hour). Belize? Nope. In Belize, you apparently vie for one of the coveted slots by arriving “around 8.30 am” hang around the dive shop for a bit, chat, laugh, slowly get into the boat to ride over to where, for no discernible reason, you get your fins. Hang out on the dock, get back into the boat, ride back to the dive shop, park, get off, go into the shop and get your mask and snorkel, go to the bathroom, get some drinks, laugh, get into the boat, and then head to the anchor point, arrive at the anchor point at about 10.30, meet the Park Ranger, laugh, give him some food, and then begin looking for whale sharks. If you were a Swiss Train Conductor I think your head would explode.

But that’s just the beginning. Now I get that looking for whale sharks is what these folks do for a living, and clearly they know more than me about the process, but I have comments. After leaving the Park Ranger, you ride around and look for fins. OK, it’s a third world country, its not the most sophisticated method, but I get this part, it makes sense. So we’re driving around looking for fins (that’s Sander doing his part), and we’re all looking real, real hard, when the Captain says, “OK, no luck looking. I’m going to turn on the fish finder and look for schools of fish that might be snapper.” Wait, we have a fish finder? The plan is that since the snapper spawn brings the whale sharks to the area (they like the eggs, I guess for whale sharks eating 9,000,000 eggs doesn’t affect their cholesterol) we’ll use the divers to swim just above the snapper and have them bunch up and blow bubbles to mimic an egg spawn, which, according to the Captain, is a “dinner bell” for whale sharks. And I’m largely cool with it, I mean, a regular shark can smell blood from a mile away, so maybe whale sharks can see snapper eggs from a mile away? Right? But here’s the thing I could never get past. If we have a fish finder, and if a whale shark is as big as a school bus (they are) why not just drive around until something as big as a school bus lights up the fish finder and then jump in the water? I mean, are these Stealth Whale Sharks? I managed to go with the flow for everything else in Belize, but I…couldn’t…get…past…that. I just stared at the fish finder and wondered. And no, I didn’t ask the question. Whatever part of my brain shut down the “If you bring Sander’s sun shirt, make sure you bring your own,” moved on to “If you have a question about the fish finder, you could probably get an answer by asking” part of my noggin. Yes folks, my brain is strange and mysterious thing.

So we all get in the water and follow the scuba divers around for a while. And here’s where I noticed the strange part of intently searching for something. I was looking for a creature as large as a submarine in water as clear as air. There was no vegetation or obstacles to block my view or hide said submarine sized creature. However, I was looooooooking and straining my eyes like I was searching for Waldo. Like this leviathan was lurking right behind me, and when I turned it turned, or it was hiding behind a smelt or something. If this thing swam up it would be impossible to miss. But I still kept straining. Anyway this thought kept me busy for the entire time (I also chase laser dots). So, the divers dive, and the snorkelers (that’s me and Sander) snorkel. We see a lamprey that followed the divers like a curious dog the whole time. Hey, did I mention that from way above lampreys look and move like sharks? This particular shark/lamprey was following the scuba divers looking like he was after a meal. I thought for sure that I was going to have a truly unique story to tell everyone. But not this time. So anyway, we’ve now been at sea for 4 hours and we’ve seen a lamprey. Neat sure, but not why we came to Belize. Eventually the divers need to come up, which takes forever, and we’re just swimming around the endless ocean waiting for them, and my back is cooking. Soon we’ll add Colorado Lobster to the list of sea creatures seen that day.

Lunch is actually nice. We drive to the reef and pull inside so the water is like glass. Love that. The guides bring out a meal of chicken and rice, and my young boy, a picky eater among picky eaters, just dives in. He’s really embracing the idea of eating what’s available! This, to me, is almost bigger than seeing a whale shark (and just as rare). I was too stunned to take a picture. After the meal Sander fishes like a local, meaning he throws a line in the water, sans pole, and catches a fish. This, by the way, is how the “commercial” fishermen do it too. They drive way out in these little boats and sit and put line over the edge and catch fish all day. They put what looks like sections of hose on their fingers so the line doesn’t cut them up, and tie t-shirts around their heads like Bedouin tribesmen. No canopy, no radio, just one or two guys sitting in a tiny boat with shirts tied around their heads and garden hose hands holding a fishing line over the edge catching fish. You know it’s a poor place when fishing poles are considered “luxury items.” After fishing, we jump in the water and explore the reef. It was a really swell little reef, and my charring back seemed to attract loads of fish. Belize is just amazing. While looking for whale sharks, we eat lunch, and as a “may as well do something” event we swim at a reef that’s like swimming in an aquarium full of beautiful fish and colorful coral.

After lunch we drive and scan for a bit, no luck. So its back in the water to swim and look for sharks because this is apparently more efficient than driving and looking for them. Again, not to beat this to death, but I feel like a powerboat can cover more ground than a bunch of tourists with fins. But that’s just me. So we’re looking and looking, and see…a turtle. Granted this was a humongous sea turtle. In fact, this was the largest turtle I’ve ever seen (and I’ve probably seen at least six in my life-that’s more than one hand you know). But that’s it. Nothing else. Well except for millions of little red things in the water that the guide tells us are “jelly fish larvae” (you can see them in some of the water pics). For good measure, he stresses that if they get into your clothes and hatch they sting, but that these will “probably” die first because they shouldn’t be hatching for a while. This is a great thing to think about as you swim around and feel the water on your nether regions. Oh, and did I mention that Sander had a cast? I tried not to think about 10,000 little jellyfish hatching in his cast, ticked off and hungry. To quell this thought, I promised myself to wash the cast like Lady Macbeth washed her hands.

Anyway, the divers run out of air again and still no whale shark. Sander is hugely disappointed, and when I make the requisite, “Well, we did see a ‘WHALE TURTLE,’” joke he’s less than amused (honestly, thinking back on it, he was right. It was a pretty lame joke). That’s Sander on the boat, not giving up, not for a second, on seeing a Whale Shark fin. Gotta love the fight.

So we go home, and on the long drive back he notices that his bottom tooth is loose, and not just loose, but really loose. This provides conversation and distraction for the whole ride home (by the by, we broke international law again and Sander drove-shhhhhhh). So we’re back at our “resort” eating dinner, kind of bummed about not seeing the whale shark on “Whale Shark” day, but getting cool with it because looking for a whale shark in the open ocean is not like looking for one in an aquarium, and that this is what adventuring is all about, the chase. Then something truly amazing happens. His tooth falls out. It’s like life handed me the perfect distraction! So we spend the night wondering about the tooth fairy. Is it one tooth fairy, or is there one for each country? If there are multiple, do they talk? If it’s one tooth fairy, does she give out local or American currency? Lots to discuss.

The next morning he had $10 Belize under his pillow. You can draw your own conclusions.

Day 1. Back…to Belize

So here’s the background. When Sander and I were in Florida enjoying the last bit of decent weather the sunshine state offers before the roads melt, we were offered a chance to go to Iceland with my friend Bobby (now that he’s a big time professional, he goes by “Robert,” or if pressed, “Rob.” But since I’ve known him for over 20 years, I get to call him “Bobby.” Which really isn’t bad by kid nicknames, it’s not like “Booger” or “Stinky” or “Pee Wee.” (True story and unimportant side note. We had a friend in High School who had the unfortunate genes to look like Pee Wee Herman. So, naturally, we all called him Pee Wee. And, naturally, we all still do. Nothing quite like childhood friends.)) Anyway, Bobby said he was going to Iceland, and Sander and I thought that’s a cool (boooooo) trip. But he had to back out, and at first we thought we’d go ahead and go anyway. Then I researched it (shocker) and saw that, besides swimming in the Hot Springs, there’s not really much for an eight year old with a broken arm (did I mention he had a broken arm?) to do there, and since we have Hot Springs in beautiful Glenwood Springs, we decided that maybe we should go somewhere else. So where to go, where to go?

Well, Sander and I were talking and we remembered that the last time we were in Belize, we saw an article about swimming with whale sharks. We thought we should look into when they’re around and maybe head that away. For those of you wondering how I get through life, this turns out to be a prime example. The question, “Hey, I wonder if now, the exact same week we have a break in our schedule to go to Iceland, only now it looks like that trip will bust, is also, randomly, a good time to swim with whale sharks in Belize?” The answer, “Holy smokes! That very week is the last time of the year when whale shark viewing is good in Belize.” Apparently, Whale Sharks migrate off the Belzian reef near Placencia over a period of only three months during the summer, and within those months, only during the three days before and after the full moon. Guess when the full moon…fulls in June? If you said “Right in the middle of the week you have allotted for vacation,” you are correct. Pretty cool right? So we loaded up our truck and moved to Belizery.

A quick note about loading up our truck. Apparently I lack whatever evolutionary trait that signals your brain that when doing something for someone, you should maybe do the same for yourself. You will notice from the pictures herewith enclosed in this paper that Sander has his famous blue “Snorkel Bob” shirt (which, by the way, draws the same “Are you Snorkel Bob?” and “Hey look, its Snorkel Bob!” comments in Placencia that it did in San Pedro Island. It’s like all the people who come to Belize read the same “Witty Comments for Tourists” book). So I packed the proper sun protection for Sander, but when packing for myself at no time did I think, “Hey, Sander has an spf shirt to protect him from the blazing Belizian sun, maybe I should grab mine.” Not once, not ever. In fact, so extreme was my blockage on this particular issue that when we were getting ready for our first day on the water, I put Sander’s shirt on, said, “OK, now you’re ready to go” and even then it didn’t dawn on me to grab mine. It was only over breakfast that, staring at Sander in his bright blue long sleeve shirt, did I slowly stop chewing and begin to ponder what was wrong. “Something’s wrong” thinks my brain, “But what.” “OK, don’t panic. Lets run the checklist. Sunblock? Check. Bug Spray? Check. Sander’s sun hat? Check. Snacks? Check. Oh wait, mask and snorkel? Nope, put those in the bag. What…is…wrong…here? Boy that is oooooooone blue shirt he’s wearing. Blue like the ocean, can’t miss that. Oh well, at least it protects him from the blistering equatorial sun. I mean this sun will cook a steak. Man, I bet there are going to be some beet red tourists. Suckers. Bet they’ll wish they had me as a daddy. Boy these are good eggs. Nope, something still doesn’t feel right. I wonder if Sander will be able to put sunblock on my back. Hmmmm, wait, I don’t need it, I have my sun shirt. Sunshirt…sunshirt…sunshirt. (Here, I’m looking back and forth from my fork (don’t know why) to Sander, to my fork, to Sander, to my daybag, to Sander) Aaaaaah wait, no I don’t! I didn’t bring my sunshirt! Wait; do I even own a sun shirt? Let’s see, in all those pictures from the last trip I was wearing one…I think. But if I own one, why aren’t I wearing it right now? What kind of an idiot comes to Belize without a sun shirt? Why didn’t I pack it? Oh man, I hope Sander can put sunblock on my back. I’m gonna fry. I guess this shirt is black, but even a black shirt is only like sunblock 8. I’m an idiot! Maybe I can buy one (Editors note: You can’t. Nowhere in Placencia do they sell sun shirts-thus proving I’m the only idiot to come to Belize without one. If there were other idiots like me, there’d be a market for them right? Thank you.).” So this is why I wore my black cotton Team Tralex shirt the whoooooole trip. Awesome.

So, we head to Pancencia (which I remember because it sounds like Plancenta-a gross, but effective pneumonic). The first shot is of us in the Customs area. I’ve decided that my goal is to keep taking pictures in Customs areas around the world and make them into a Coffee Table Book. Please start pooling together bail money for my trip to Turkey. The next two shots are of our “airline” and “airplane.” This time we flew “Mayan Air” and about 30 minutes into our flight I understood the origin of the name. Apparently the modern intonation of the Mayan culture is to try force your heart out through your mouth by lurching the plane up and down as much as possible. But don’t worry we were safe. The nice airport man outside the plane asked that I please be sure that the door is latched properly from the inside. There’s said latch in the next picture. I took that shot in case the plane went down. With my picture in hand, authorities could rule out “Idiot tourist sitting next to door didn’t properly latch it shut.” By the way, as a general rule, I don’t think its wise to trust “airplane door latching” to random tourists, and I tried not to dwell on all the times I’ve walked in on someone in the bathroom because they didn’t properly latch the door. Nope, not a good thing to think about while flying on a Third World Airline. But we make it and land at the “Airport.” There will be a whole “Placencia Airport” section later, stay tuned.

After we land, we get into our cab and head to the resort. As the driver is taking us there, she mentions that town is about three miles behind us, and that we have about five miles to go to our hotel. At which point I think, “Hmmmm, I wonder why we’re staying eight miles out-side of town? I mean, how big can town be? Why are we driving through all this nothingness? Maybe this place is some fantastic resort? (Nope, it was distinctly OK, and I mean that by local standards. There was nothing about this place, that I could tell, that other places in town didn’t offer.) Maybe this place has the easiest access to the Whale Shark dive boats? (Nope, you have to go all the way back into town to get the boats.) Maybe this place is where all the divers stay? (Nope, every diver/snorkeler we met besides two, stayed in town.) Turns out the main benefit to us staying there was to the local economy. The food was 3x more expensive at the resort, and since it was a 40-minute drive from town (yup, that’s how long it takes to go eight miles by golf cart on a dirt, rutted out Belizian “highway”) you eat there for breakfast and dinner, and you have to rent the afore mentioned cart. I call it a “Dumb Tourist Tax.” But here’s the thing, I tried a distinctly new travel method this time. I called my travel agent, who called a local travel agent, to set up the trip. Rather than do my usual, “We’ll just show up and see what we see” method, I actually tried to do the right thing and plan ahead. Well at least now I’ve learned the valuable lesson that planning is for suckers. Glad that’s settled.

However, the hotel did have one main plus. It had an actual waterbed. Now I know what happened to all those waterbeds from the 70’s, they migrated to Belize. That’s Sander showing the joy of the waterbed (waterbed, neon green travel neck pillow and a big smile-we Elliott’s roll hard). He informed me that he loves it, and he wants one. I told him he could put it right under his disco ball and next to his lava lamp. He didn’t get it, but I laughed and laughed. Anyway, I let him sleep there until our roof leaked and we had to switch rooms. And seriously, it was like I cancelled Christmas. It nearly ruined the trip having to let go of that waterbed; it also removed the one perk to the resort. But we recovered, and there was much mirth and merriment ahead for all.

So that was our first day. Next…whale sharks! Or not

Homeward Bound

So its Sunday morning, and the last morning of our little adventure. I'm sound asleep (quick aside, our routine in Belize was that Sander would wake up, wander into my room and we'd lie there and talk about the day before and what we wanted to do that day-just a great beginning to each day. I mean, things would have to epically bad to ruin that start) when I hear him stirring around excitedly. Holy smokes, I totally forgot it was Easter Sunday!

Well, apparently the Easter Bunny didn't because he came. The Easter Bunny's a he right? That's the way I remember it, but it sure seems like the Easter Bunny should be a girl. What with the eggs and all the pastel colors. But only a guy would give out candy to start the day. Tough one. I need a ruling on this. Anyway, the Easter Bunny showed up with candy and toys, plus the Easter Bunny hid plastic eggs around the hotel room for Sander to find (until I get a ruling, I'm forced to write "Easter Bunny" instead of he or she, please hurry). So Sander went a huntin' plastic eggs. That's Sander with his loot in the first picture. I know he's my boy, but you cannot possibly tell me that's not the cutest picture you've ever seen, totally blows away the "Hang in there" kitten. So we eat our breakfast (and, OK, for breakfast we had Reeses Peanut Butter Easter Eggs and leftover milk. But we figured it was a special occasion.), and ride the massive sugar buzz all the way to the airport.

We arrive at the airport, no security check point, no one weighs our bags (didn't love that actually) and get our boarding passes. What does a boarding pass look like in Belize you ask? Why naturally they're laminated green cards that say, appropriately, "Boarding Pass." In case you think I'm making this up, there's Sander holding our boarding passes (his idea for the shot by the way). Green for Belize International Airport, Red for some other airport. I'm also including another picture we took for no other reason than I thought it was hilarious. And one last shot of our "air port." That's Master Cat Burglar Sander thwarting their iron clad security and breaking our final international law.

And here's where I have to launch my one complaint for the trip. We have an 11.30 flight, and the hotel tells us we need to leave the hotel by 7.30 to make the 8.00 flight to the mainland. OK, cool. But it only takes 15 minutes to fly from our Island to the Belize International Airport. So we show up at 8.15, head to the counter to only find no one there. However, we do find a sign that says that the counter will open at 9.30. Sander, the world traveler that he is, quickly picks up on the fact that this is a first for us. I thought airports were like casinos, they're always open, and there's always some nice lady working behind the check-in counter. Not so, I guess. But my question is this? Why were we there over an hour before the counter even opens? Surely our hotel knows this, right? Plus, everything else in Belize was sooooo laid back. Our guides kept saying things like, "oh the trip out to 'X' takes a Belezian hour." Which I immediately loved. See, back where I'm from we have a concept called "Greek Time" which we invoke anytime we're late for anything, "oh, hey, we're running Greek Time" and all's forgiven. Heck, if people know you, they may invoke it for you, "Where's Jason, he's late? Oh, he's probably running Greek Time." In retrospect, maybe its not so surprising that Greece is no longer the most importantly nation in the world. I'm telling you, Belizian boat people are my peeps, we understand each other. But back to the point, why are we there THREE hours before our flight? Heck, DFW only asks for two, and they have things like crowds, lines, cars, security, 17,000 destinations, and planes. By way of example, our security screening at the airport was us walking through a metal detector that may, or may not, be a prop. Followed by the security guy asking if there was a laptop in my backpack that just went through the X-Ray machine, leading to this exchange. Nice security man, "Was there a laptop in your bag?" Me, "Oh, jeeze. Yes. Sorry. Do you need to rerun it through the machine?" Split second pause, and a slight headshake, "Na." And he hands it to me. And here's where I give my own catch and release, "you just want me to let it go?" look, and amble off.

But since getting there early is really just not that a big deal, Sander and I hang out in the airport eating a second breakfast of Doritos and Snickers (they really satisfy). And unless you speculate that I'm completely worthless as a father, I made him drink orange juice instead of Sprite. I know, I'm a total tyrant, but I do believe in rules. What?

Speaking of the Good Dad/Bad Dad debate that's been raging since we started this little journey, I humbly ask that you review the pics from the final few days. Go ahead, I'll wait. Doo, de doo. Ok, what do you notice? Yes, he's very cute, but besides that? OK, yes, I'm and awesome photographer. Besides that? That's right folks, no sunburn! HA! Eat that Mr. Jason's clueless. Final check mark goes into the "Good Dad" column. I win! Victory! USA! USA! We spent an entire week in the Yucatan and not so much as a deep tan for the boy. Yes he wore the same shirt all day everyday for a week, and no I never washed it. And yes we ate terribly, but his skin looks so nice and unred. Sure we took some risks in other ways, but the sun was defeated! And while we broke international laws like Bruce Lee breaks boards, we honored the law of "slather your child in sunscreen." It was a tough battle, the sun tried valiantly to get us, and took many others (oh man were there some reddies in Belize), but we made it! I'd like to humbly acknowledge my opponent the sun, he put up a great fight, but this was just my day. I know he wants a rematch, but we'll see, I have to talk to our agent (read, Kelly).

So we finally board our plane for home. I settle into my chair, reflect on the trip, and ponder the differences between life in Belize and life in America. Then the Captain pipes in and tells us that due to a fuel shortage in Belize that will "probably only last a few more days," we only have enough gas to get to Cozumel, Mexico. So we'll fly there, refuel, and then head to Miami.

I could not have come up with a more classic ending.

So that was our little trip to Belize. A foundation memory trip if there ever was one. Perhaps somewhat bitter sweet, but only in the most distant sense. I know that at some point he won't amble into my room to talk to start our day. I also know, that while he loves it now, at some point he's going to outgrow tickling. And being goofy with Dad will be uncool. But these thoughts feel like playing outside on a beautiful day and worrying about the weather in six months. Right now the sun is bright, there's a nice breeze, and THIS day is begging us to come out and play. So that's what we're going to do.