Disembodied brain story night, Cozumel
Step 1: One step off the boat, and into a new country. Key West doesn't count, it's unofficial that I spent 5 hours of drunken snorkeling aboard the USS Fury, a Catamaran out of yon Rurupenteh. No, this is the real thing, kids! Good thing I came prepared, good thing I came alone, with nobody who knows me, and not a single soul on the ship whom I've even spoken to, save the sheepish "Ya! I'll have another slushy drink!"[looks down]. It's a good thing, because the moment I step off the boat, on my descent down the catwalk, yeah the catwalk, my only photo ID gets caught up in a swift and powerful breeze, and wanders off on the wind, into the ocean. The deep, deep (it's shallow, we're in port), Ocean. Sure, I looked, I was tempted to jump down there, and retrieve it, almost certainly meeting my end crushed between the ship and the dock. But no, no I just watched as it floated away, as if to say "I'll be back, someday... jerk". Jerk. Well, I guess I can deal with that, then. I mean, I have some papers, or something, with me. I think. Anyway, there's 12 hours to kill, and I've paid through the nose of proverb for shore excursions, so I'm going to take them, ID or not. First sight, pretty fish! I snap a picture, and try to look like "one of the boat people". I don't know who I'm trying to convince, it's just us boat people here. Oh, and that guy with a machine gun. Um, that guy has a machine. Gun. That's the kind of gun that kills you faster. He, doesn't seem to be checking IDs, though. Phew, I'm alive for a few more hours. What is it like in a Spanish prison? (yes, I'm in Spain now) I try hard to remember tragic stories about Americans who've gone to Mexico, only to be snatched up by the policimoes, los el diablos or some such, and put in jail forever. I try, but I can only fabricate stories. I fabricate stories about telling this story to people, about how I was put in a Spanish Prison, because I was wandering around Mehico, driving a dune buggy, with no ID. I fabricate stories about how mum had to beg and plead and pay off soldiers to get me out. Well, so far, it's all for naught, because I'm the only one listening, and nobody with a machine gun has arrested me.
Step 2: We all take shuttles to a cafe on the beach. From here, we're to learn the sacred art of Scuba Diving. A suspiciously fit and tan man explains to us the ins and out of our underwasser vessels that we'll be wearing. I can feel the adrenaline growing, coursing through my veinselites. This is the experience I've been looking for, this is what I traveled across the states, and spent 5 torturous days in Miami for. It was all a distant memory, as I listened with a tinkerer's mind to the explanation of the breathing devices, and tips and tricks as to how to avoid pressure buildup. I'd like to pretend he said "the bends" at some point. Or "avoid the bends". Yes, that's the one. We make our way out to the beach, and suit up. I'm feeling good, I'm looking good. (at the time, I thought I looked horrible, such is the curse, eh?) We walk out into the sea, the gorgeous light pearl blue billion mile deep sea. I'm concentrating on the technical aspect of it, how to position myself as to not topple with all the extra weight, how to quickly find my breather if Cthulhu takes it from me... how to check my air gauge every 11.5 seconds, just to make sure it all didn't leak out while I was looking at that fish. We submerge, and without warning, I'm transported to The Discovery Channel. I've seen things like this, and it almost makes it less potent, it almost makes it like a movie... until it hits that, these colors really do exist, those shapes aren't made up, and fish like that aren't a cruel fascinating hoax for viewers like us. No, it's all real, it's all real life, and it lives here, in Cozumel. Fucking, beautiful, is all I have to say. That, and "avoid the bends".
Step 3: Now, it's back home. I've got a junior merit badge in not being killed by Cthulhu, and it's time for the next leg of our journey. The next leg, is a Cross Country Dune Buggy Extravaganza! I'd, better let you drive, as, I have no drivers license, or ID of any sort. Ah but they all insist, eh? I guess I'm the buggy drivin' looking kind of guy. Sure, I can see that, ruggedly handsome chiseled face, bad soaking tourist shorts, a goatee that only a, well, nobody could love. Sure, I'll drive, we'll see who laughs last, when I'm rotting in jail. So we're off, and it's a mad dash to keep up with the buggyload of Hungarians who have no idea how to drive a manual transmission vehicle. I'm a bit put off by the harsh and violent shifting, the leg warpingly stiff clutch, the overall caveman vehicle feel of it all. Still, I'm glad I'm driving, and I'm having a lot of fun. We all pull up to a "bar", have a few drinks, and go snorkeling. There's a shark, there's some pretty coral, but overall, snorkeling can bite me. Seriously folks, if I wanted suck down salt water, I'd... um, do so. Somewhere else. I want to be scuba diving again, but thems the breaks, kid. Psh, near paradise, for the birds. Anyway, we finish that exercise in drunk drowning, and get back in our dune buggies. Wait, did I say we stopped at a bar? Why, are we driving to another part of the island now? Fair enough, I'm going to prison in style. Here, at our final destination, we have a traditional (re cheapo) Mehican feast. I pretend it tastes much better than Mexican food back home. Oh god yes. God, I need more. And, a soda, too. This rocky beach is wonderful. Truly. The water is cold, and crystal clear, and we can sit on our straw mats, or we can jump bravely into the crashing waves. I almost tried to sit on the mat for a few minutes, but it wasn't happening, the sea was calling me. So, for an hour or so, I played in the waves, and on the rocks, and it was what it was, a wonderful place to be. In stark contrast, the "bathroom" provided, was a very, very, unsafe, not ok place to be. Luckily I was only in there for a sec. Trust me, you don't want to know any more. Anyway, people were playing volleyball. I... um, I actually played volleyball. I must have been enjoying myself, or I wouldn't have done so. Still, I can't recall a time or a place, where volleyball ever sounded like a good idea. When in Mexico... We all stagger back to our buggies, except the Hungarians, who broke their buggy. Driving back through the city is another sight to behold. It's run down, all sorts of disrepair, and the children run out of the houses to clap and wave and yell as the procession of technicolor dune buggies drive by. My leg is very, very nearly giving out now, from a day of working that infernal clutch, and I just don't know how much longer I can hold out. It's sundown, and we return to the dock. I lived, I wasn't arrested, and I had a hell of a time. There's still enough left, too, to have some dinner, you know, in a real Mexican restaurant.
As it turns out, that man with the machine gun wasn't interested in shooting me, which is good. I walked right by him on the way back to the ship, through the mile long gift shop, and back to my closet sized cabin to take it all in.