SENSACIONES
18th September 2008, 19:44
ABACO CAY, Bahamas (11 Sep 2008) — Take a kindly older gentleman who has never snorkeled, throw him off a boat in the middle of the Atlantic, and what happens?
He ends up gargling sea water.
On a recent vacation with my wife and another couple, we spent a week on Abaco Cay (pronounced "key"), in the Bahamas, a group of 700 islands north of Cuba. Abaco is wooded, largely undeveloped and so flat that at times our rented car was the highest point for miles around.
There is little to do on Abaco besides eating, drinking and snorkeling. So a-snorkeling we did go on a chartered boat with a bronzed, buff and bearded seadog named Captain Mark at the helm. We dropped anchor next to a coral reef that was about 10 or 15 feet below the surface; it's hard to gauge depth in water that is crystal clear. Everybody but the Captain was wearing a life vest.
I fitted my slightly ill-fitting mask over my eyes and nose, chomped down on the breathing tube's mouthpiece, slipped flippers onto my feet, and lowered myself into the 80-degree water. Floating face down and paddling across the reef, I was treated to an incredible display of hundreds, even thousands, of colorful tropical fish that didn't mind the intrusion at all. It was like floating around in a well-stocked aquarium and had a dream-like quality.
The sea floor moved under me swiftly, which I attributed to the effect of my flippers and not to the tidal current that was carrying me away like a rubber duck in a river. After five minutes or so, I felt a hand tugging on my ankle; I turned to see my wife shouting that we had drifted too far from the boat, which looked awfully small in the distance. I changed course and headed back, soon getting into a bit of trouble.
Seawater had leaked into my mask and was splashing into my eyes. I resorted to the snorkeler's trick of inhaling through the nose, which sucks the mask more tightly against the face. I should have lifted my head and emptied the mask before doing that because I got a nose full of water, and next thing I knew I had a mouth full of water as well. Floundering a bit, I managed to empty and refix my mask and breathing tube.
Face down again, I swam toward the boat, but no matter how hard I tried I made little headway; the tide was moving almost as fast as I could swim. After a few minutes of flailing my arms and kicking my legs I began to tire. That's when my hero, Captain Mark, dove off the boat, swam to my side like Michael Phelps, and hooked a finger under my vest. He hauled me like a piece of flotsam toward a life preserver he had thrown from the boat, and once I had hooked an arm through it I was safe; my wife, more physically fit, had reached it first without assistance. Utterly exhausted, I was hauled to the boat by a rope tied to the preserver and poured onto the deck like a dead squid.
"Thanks," I said to my savior after I had caught my breath, "I could have drowned out there."
"Not likely wearing a life jacket. But if you had drifted much farther away I would have had to haul anchor and go after you in the boat."
Somebody said that it takes 10 years to get used to how old you are. In my case, it's more like 20. I was always a pretty good swimmer and was sure I could stay afloat for days and swim for miles if the need arose. I hate to admit it, but now I know I'm no longer that person.
Something else I learned is that before trying something unfamiliar in public, you should try it at home first. Before leaving for a vacation on a tropical island, I should have practiced wearing a snorkel mask and breathing through a tube. I should have filled the kitchen sink, lowered my face into the water, and examined the contents of the garbage disposal.
I took some other risks in the Bahamas that could have been fatal. I ate turtle steak and conch chowder. They were good and didn't taste like chicken.
Floundering and gargling in a beautiful sea that was by turns azure, teal, blue and green was not my first near-death experience. Ten years ago, a surgical operation left me with a semicolon. Someone asked if I was given the removed tubing to display in a jar like an appendix. No. The hospital sold it to a restaurant in Hong Kong.
He ends up gargling sea water.
On a recent vacation with my wife and another couple, we spent a week on Abaco Cay (pronounced "key"), in the Bahamas, a group of 700 islands north of Cuba. Abaco is wooded, largely undeveloped and so flat that at times our rented car was the highest point for miles around.
There is little to do on Abaco besides eating, drinking and snorkeling. So a-snorkeling we did go on a chartered boat with a bronzed, buff and bearded seadog named Captain Mark at the helm. We dropped anchor next to a coral reef that was about 10 or 15 feet below the surface; it's hard to gauge depth in water that is crystal clear. Everybody but the Captain was wearing a life vest.
I fitted my slightly ill-fitting mask over my eyes and nose, chomped down on the breathing tube's mouthpiece, slipped flippers onto my feet, and lowered myself into the 80-degree water. Floating face down and paddling across the reef, I was treated to an incredible display of hundreds, even thousands, of colorful tropical fish that didn't mind the intrusion at all. It was like floating around in a well-stocked aquarium and had a dream-like quality.
The sea floor moved under me swiftly, which I attributed to the effect of my flippers and not to the tidal current that was carrying me away like a rubber duck in a river. After five minutes or so, I felt a hand tugging on my ankle; I turned to see my wife shouting that we had drifted too far from the boat, which looked awfully small in the distance. I changed course and headed back, soon getting into a bit of trouble.
Seawater had leaked into my mask and was splashing into my eyes. I resorted to the snorkeler's trick of inhaling through the nose, which sucks the mask more tightly against the face. I should have lifted my head and emptied the mask before doing that because I got a nose full of water, and next thing I knew I had a mouth full of water as well. Floundering a bit, I managed to empty and refix my mask and breathing tube.
Face down again, I swam toward the boat, but no matter how hard I tried I made little headway; the tide was moving almost as fast as I could swim. After a few minutes of flailing my arms and kicking my legs I began to tire. That's when my hero, Captain Mark, dove off the boat, swam to my side like Michael Phelps, and hooked a finger under my vest. He hauled me like a piece of flotsam toward a life preserver he had thrown from the boat, and once I had hooked an arm through it I was safe; my wife, more physically fit, had reached it first without assistance. Utterly exhausted, I was hauled to the boat by a rope tied to the preserver and poured onto the deck like a dead squid.
"Thanks," I said to my savior after I had caught my breath, "I could have drowned out there."
"Not likely wearing a life jacket. But if you had drifted much farther away I would have had to haul anchor and go after you in the boat."
Somebody said that it takes 10 years to get used to how old you are. In my case, it's more like 20. I was always a pretty good swimmer and was sure I could stay afloat for days and swim for miles if the need arose. I hate to admit it, but now I know I'm no longer that person.
Something else I learned is that before trying something unfamiliar in public, you should try it at home first. Before leaving for a vacation on a tropical island, I should have practiced wearing a snorkel mask and breathing through a tube. I should have filled the kitchen sink, lowered my face into the water, and examined the contents of the garbage disposal.
I took some other risks in the Bahamas that could have been fatal. I ate turtle steak and conch chowder. They were good and didn't taste like chicken.
Floundering and gargling in a beautiful sea that was by turns azure, teal, blue and green was not my first near-death experience. Ten years ago, a surgical operation left me with a semicolon. Someone asked if I was given the removed tubing to display in a jar like an appendix. No. The hospital sold it to a restaurant in Hong Kong.