Island Time

thelittlehonduranthatcould — Thu, 21 May 2015 04:22:22 GMT

Of the three vehicles currently teetering around Utila, the Lodge owns exactly: one. A beaten mini-van with European origins, the driver grins from the right side—the wrong side. Dad and three younger siblings pile in after the suitcases; I am regaled with the passenger seat. Yay.
Willy supervises the bulk of tourist traffic at the Utila Lodge, a wooden B&B jutting out into the Caribbean blue. He makes small talk as we bump along the one road on the island. Likes loud music. Also tells me to calm down, chill out, be cool. We run on island time here.
Alice greets us in the Lodge’s common space. My father tries to make a joke. There is a large conference table for communal meals, a rack of dusty Baldacci paperbacks, Bicycle playing cards, hammocks dangling from wooden rafters, the familiar smell of wet salt. I spy a lone flipper. As Alice runs through the diving schedule for today, the boat’s captain, Marvin, shuffles in and asks yo Alice are there any pancakes. I begin to collect people; Willy is shorter than Marvin, who has one gold tooth, and Alice is nice. They all speak the creole English of The Bay Islands, tongue heavy and languid, as tends to be the norm for most interaction here.
We four kids, on the other hand, are squirmy. We bicker, often. Empire Strikes Back is way cooler than Return on the Jedi. Night dives are better than day. No, you can’t have the last Toaster Strudel. Dad smacks one brother; we scamper off to our rooms, change into bathing suits, and make our way to the dock.
Martin and Willy sit on the edge of the planks, smoking cheap cigarettes and poking fun. They ask my brother if he has a girlfriend. Later that night, they’ll convince him to take the gifiti challenge at Skid Row. The bar used to be a pizza joint. Now, tourists drink three shots of gifiti and get a free shirt. My brother will get the shirt. He will also get a girl five years his senior.
We load up tanks and weight belts onto the boat, and Marvin blasts familiar reggae. The boat slices through water. An eagle ray smiles from the yawning coral fans. I wave.
The boat’s engine sputters and eventually dies. Marvin laughs. Willy tells us to jump in. Here? Yes, here.
Here, in the middle of the ocean’s gaping maw? Here, where the sandy bottom houses invasive lionfish, unending coils of eel, veritable forests of fire coral—here, where the water crushes down upon fragile body—here, in the deep unknown?
Calm down.
Chill out.
Be cool.
We run on island time here.

Catching a Moment - Just Keep Swimming

thelittlehonduranthatcould — Sat, 13 Apr 2013 08:26:39 GMT

“But I don’t want to,” my friend groans as I shove flippers and a snorkel into her crossed arms. She’s been complaining about this moment for the past week, but I am resolute: we will go diving.
Steph, my best friend, is scared of fish. Moreover, she’s convinced that too much time underwater will have health repercussions. Despite the torrent of information I have unloaded on her about scuba diving and its guaranteed safety, she’s stubborn. I have dragged her to Utila, the lesser-known of the Bay Islands, with promises of paradise and relaxation. Now, standing on the moist planks of the dock at the Utila Dive Lodge, she is hesitant about donning the equipment, but I convince her to strap on the bulky (and not at all flattering) wet-suit and jump in to the adventure. Literally.
The tanks are strapped to our backs, oxygen travelling along the thick tubes and permeating through our regulators. We take a big step and jump into clear water. We swim for about five or six minutes, away from the resort and into deeper ocean. As we sink down to sandy bottom, I can hear Steph’s whimpers. She taps my back and signals that she wants to go back. We’re about to turn around when we first see her.
There she is, in the all-consuming blue, her wings fluttering noiselessly. She has a dotted back and a long, pointed tail. The eagle ray is probably ten feet wide. I look to Steph, worried that she’s freaking out. I've never seen a ray so big.
The ray continues on in her sweet, slow motion. Here, sixty feet under the sea, it’s quiet.
Steph chases after the ray, and we find ourselves directly above one of Utila’s enormous coral heads. Stray rays of light bounce off carmine brain-corals, their colored polyps fluttering in the gentle current. Sea fans the size of modest trees wave at us, as if beckoning into this little paradise. There are violet anemones hidden in the crevices of the reef, little squids poking their heads at us, inquiring as to our presence. I spy a grouper, lurking menacingly in a cave, and my better judgment decides not to point it out to Steph. Entire schools of marine life swirl around us; there’s a group of bar jacks dancing near our masks, French grunts and green parrot fishes waltzing near the sand, a majestic angel fish two-stepping to the rhythm of the waves.
A few hours later we’re sitting on the dock, observing a lone barracuda skirting near the algae.
“So I signed us up for the afternoon dive,” Steph says to me, in the wake of the island heat.

Catch Me if You Can

Island Time

Catching a Moment - Just Keep Swimming