In Transit

I climbed out of the water and into the bangka, dripping salt water on the wooden floorboards as I deposited my snorkeling gear into a blue plastic basket. A boatman sat off the port quarter, flipping a big, fat fish on a small grill balanced on one of the outrigger booms.

The smoke wafted across the clear turquoise waters, over the heads of four pale-skinned swimmers who either sat on or hung unto the bamboo outrigger while gulping down beer from amber-tinted bottles.

I shivered as a light breeze gently rocked the bangka and hurriedly wrapped myself in a white towel. An Irish couple, Gus and Edel, were sharing a cigarette on the prow, basking in the warmth of the sun with beer bottles in hand. “This is the life, eh?” a jolly-faced Gus called out.

I grinned and nodded in agreement, taking in the healthy green hues of the seven islands that surrounded us, and the waves that lapped playfully against the boat. The small, protected sanctuary called Siete Pecados was a sight to behold. More so underneath, where bright corals spread out on the seabed and multi-colored fish swam in abundance within inches of my outstretched hand.

Gus lifted the lid of a large blue cooler, revealing a stash of San Miguel beer bottles. He popped one open and handed it to me with a cajoling smile. It was in the middle of the day, hardly noon – not the most usual time to drink alcoholic beverages. Nevertheless, the swig of cold beer down my thirsty throat was refreshing.

The rest of our companions had retired from the waters and sat on the benches that lined both sides of the bangka. They were an interesting bunch: Dan was from England, Jaime and Lucky were from New Zealand and Carly was from Wales. On the way to the sanctuary, blonde and blue-eyed Carly had told me that most of them quit their jobs so they could travel. I told them I had done the same.

Edel, who had a small cut on her right forearm from a sharp coral, lifted her beer bottle with a bright smile and proposed a toast.

“Sláinte!”

The boatman started up the engine. He had switched the fish for a chop of marinated pork and the smell of grilled meat filled the air. We raised and clinked our San Miguel bottles, uttering the Irish word for “Cheers!” as the boat sped over the sparkling waters towards our next destination.

This is the life.