I'm of two minds when the boat, replete with divers, comes chugging into our little slice of blue-green silence--half peevish for the interruption, half eager to return to land. I'm going mad with stimuli, six whole days with nary a moment to myself and then this day of highs (real dolphins, flopping sea lions, wobbling puffer fish) and lows (imaginary sharks, a stretch of backbreaking, arm-wrenching ocean).
And I's hongry.
Lunch is served shortly after we re-board. Tuna (pepper, carrot, corn) salad sandwiches on Mexico's version of Wonder bread--Bimbo bread, ya heaaard?!
I'm befuddled when the divers (who were, as expected, grudgingly envious of Eric's encounter with the whale shark) begin strapping back in.
A third dive? Fuckin' a. We're in open ocean now, and they're going down to a wreck. I've already psyched myself out (with help from Eric) about snorkeling and there is no way I am getting back in the kayak, so while Eric pulls off, I lay out at the prow with a bottle of un-American coke and cookies.
One of the divers has hung back. Since she and her husband are the originators of scuba diving (the way she tells it), she's over wreck-diving, and because she's also a nature photography nut, she has her massive camera out. She's wielding it like Dirk Diggler in the jaws of his meth addiction. I think she's irritated that I've seen a sea turtle but've failed to mention it quickly enough, and she grudgingly tells me the glassy circle the vanished turtle makes is called a "footprint."
She's freaking me out, so I climb down to the water-level platform at the stern and dip my legs into the placid water, snapping photos of Eric, the horizon, my contented, nay, smug and complacent countenance, granules of salt speckling my face where the seawater's dried.
I am perfectly and radiantly happy.
With folks back on board, I notice some popping in the distance, about 75 yards away. "What's that?" I ask, pointing.
It's a school of rays jumping out of the water to flop onto their backs. There's no explanation for it, the dive master tells us. It's speculated that they do it to rid themselves of parasites, but somehow it looks too playful, too exuberant for something as mundane as hygiene.
And on our return trip, flying fish glimpsed out the corner of my eye, another spin with dolphins.
That evening, we head back to Rancho Viejo for more sweet ambrosia in the form of skirt steak tacos and papas rellenos. This time, we only order two tacos each and split the papas. I've agreed to this decision, but deep down, I want that third taco on my plate, even if I know all it'll cause me is grief.
Because I'm a greedy fuck.
Eric has plans to go diving tomorrow, and I'm secretly glad to have a day to myself, already envisioning the location of my beach chair and feeling the condensation on a bottle of Pacifico in my hand.
I've fallen in (friend-)love with Eric, but this only child needs her some spiz-ace. Fer-rills.
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