Catch Me if You Can I'm not Leo DiCaprio, but I'm still going to travel the world.

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.