Life of the U-Hauler

    

     Saving money while having an adventure is how I roll, so it seemed like renting a U-Haul was the right thing to do. My mom and I would drive this “U-Haul” on a cross-continental move from Florida to British Columbia. We had grand visions for the trip, seeing America’s great landmarks, visiting old towns, and driving down good old Route 66, common, achievable goals.

     The drive from my house to the I-75 went without incident, but as I began to merge onto the freeway, I realized that the U-Haul was not designed for speed. Not that I thought I would blaze down the highway in U-Haul bliss, I just thought that I might be able to reach 60mph within the first ten to twenty-minutes of freeway driving. Eventually we reached a cruising speed of 65mph by which time the noise in the cab turned into that sort of white noise that makes listening to music difficult and conversations short. Coupled with the lack of speed and the abundant white noise was the continuous blast of heat that shot out by the gas pedal. Within the first thirty miles of the 3500-mile journey, a few too many negatives had reared their ugly heads.     

     My mom and I were comforted by the amount of U-Haulers out on the open road. They obviously thought renting a U-Haul was a good idea, so maybe I needed to get off my high horse and join the ranks of the hardcore U-Hauler. With this in mind I gave a hardy wave to the next U-Haul I saw. My friendly gesture went unnoticed, which was fine as there were plenty of other U-Haulers driving around and I would wave at each and every one of them. After thirty-odd unreturned waves, I deduced that U-Haulers should not be mistaken for Airstreamers, which I assume are nice, friendly travellers, as they tend to travel in convoys. U-Haulers, apparently, are far too highfalutin, to be waving willy-nilly at strangers that happen to be driving the same unmistakable, muraled, cube van. The dream of U-Haul camaraderie was dead before it even came alive.

     By the end of day one, my mom and I easily managed to clock 450 miles. That was good, what was not good was that my right ankle, thanks to the surge of heat, had tripled in size. My ankles are the smallest part of my body and the last thing I needed was a man made right ankle cankle. 

      The start of day two gave my mom and I renewed hope. We had come to terms with the lack of music, the white noise and the influx of the heat to the right ankle. We decided that since we were heading through Louisiana that we might as well nip through New Orleans, you know since we were in the area and all.

     Walking out of the Louisiana State Information Centre my mom and I felt like a couple of chumps.

“You want to try and drive a U-Haul truck into downtown New Orleans? Into the French Quarter no less?” She all but asked if we were on “the drugs”. Whatever kind of drugs those might be.

     Okay so maybe trying to drive through a historic landmark such as The French Quarter or the “Vieux Carre” as my mom liked to say, wasn’t the best idea. Perhaps aiming for slightly larger landmarks like the Grand Canyon would do us well.

     The next two days went by in a slow, painful, blur and we had the great state of Texas looming ahead. Even though I had never been to Texas, I had a sneaking suspicion that the part of Texas that lay alongside Interstate 10 would not be overly interesting. And it wasn’t, but it was hot. Like really hot. So hot in fact that my mom and I thought that the U-Haul’s A/C was on the blink and coincidently enough we had the same thought about every gas station and restaurant we entered. It never occurred to us that something bigger might be going on.

     By the time, we reached Wichita Falls we were hot, exhausted and ready to call it a day. We pulled into the first hotel we could find and I booked us a room. Somehow, in the five minutes that it took me to check in, “Lance” the Econo Lodge Assistant Manager/Front Desk Person, managed to give me the highlights of his life and I have to say at only twenty-five “Lance” has had some life. The highlights include, but are not limited to, being born with a hole in his heart, having an ill working ventricle, working as a deep-sea diver in the Gulf of Mexico for the oilrigs, and nearly getting sucked into some hole on the Gulf floor. As a result, he is now afraid of elevators and finds himself behind the desk at the Econo Lodge of Wichita Falls. As riveting and as questionable as the conversation might have been all I wanted to do was to get out of the heat and into the nice coolness that I knew only the Econo Lodge could provide.

     My mom and I too tired to climb four flights of stairs hopped on the elevator, found our room and opened the door. We were immediately presented with a stifling hot, musty, dingy room with a fridge. I turned on the A/C and told my mom to stand beside it so that she could cool down. Ten minutes later, my mom and I were in a full sweat and we believed that the A/C unit, like the room, was subpar.

     Having already built quite a rapport with “Lance” I had no problems calling him to ask about the poorly functioning A/C. Secretly my mom and I hoped that this would enable us to leave the Econo Lodge and find a nicer place to dwell for the night.

     “Lance”, knowing that he would be taking the stairs, made it surprisingly quick to our room. I assumed that I must have inadvertently turned on the old Rebecca charm and “Lance” and his partially functioning heart had now fallen in love with me.

     Not wanting to damage his heart any further, I asked very politely about the A/C, hoping against hope that it would be broken and my mom and I could leave.

     This is approximately when things took a turn. I mistook “Lance’s” love for me for the love that he felt for the Econo Lodge. “Lance” became very defensive about the air conditioning unit and went on and on about some alleged heat wave. My mom, noticing that I had lost “Lance’s” trust, joined the conversation. She typically is not as polite as I am, or willing to pretend she cares and took a bit of a tone with Lance.

     “That’s it! You are being very rude!” He yelled pointing directly at my newly retired mom.

     “Oh, I don’t think I am though ‘Lance’. That is your name?”

     “You are a very rude person.” Still pointing at my mom and now shaking a little.

     “We would just like to get our money back and leave.”

     “One more word out of you and you will have only five-minutes to leave the premises before I call the cops!” Still pointing and shaking.

     “But...”

     “That’s it. You are now banned for life from the Econo Lodge and five other affiliated hotels in the greater Wichita Falls area. I will give your money back, but do not try to come here again. EVER!”

     “Lance” turned on his heel and disappeared down the nearest flight of stairs.  

    

Hell on Suitcase Material

    Disgruntled by the rejection from entering the gated bathroom area I resolved that I was going to have to come to terms with an aching bladder. This luggage was going to be the death of me. If I were so rich that tossing the bags aside wouldn’t leave a finicial mark of any kind, well then that is what I would have done. Alas, I wasn’t rich enough for that sort of behaviour and carried on with my spirits dashed and my temper flaring. I feverishly pushed the trolley that carried my bags and followed the arrows that pointed towards the taxis. Getting the hell out of the train station had to happen quickly, for the safety of its staff members.

     Reluctant to part with my trolley I ignored all signs that read “NO TROLLEYS BEYOND THIS POINT.” Who was going to stop me? One look at my face would have sent a pride of hungry lions running for cover. I was too tired to care and staff members to scared to approach.  

     I made it to the taxi area and was relieved to see that there were plenty of taxis from which to choose. I unloaded my bags from the out of bounds trolley and lurched my way towards the taxi that was closest to me. As I reached the door of the taxi, I heard “You must take taxi at front of line.” Of course, I do. Why would I have thought otherwise? Why were the day’s hurdles becoming insurmountable? Was this some sort of test from the Powers That Be to see how far they could push me before I became unglued? Would I be punished if I for swearing at the taxi driver that was now making me drag my screeching, black mark leaving, floral printed, pile of crap luggage the length of ten taxis?

     I reached the cab at the front of the line in a full sweat and if it were possible steam coming out my ears. The cab driver was kind and helped me load my amputee bags into the cab. I collapsed on the seat, kicked out at one of the suitcases and then had a forty-minute conversation about London and the Olympics.

     When I arrived at Euston station, there was only a precious few minutes to spare before the train left. This meant that there was no time for a trolley and only just enough time to run with the crippled suitcases to platform ten. Why it couldn’t have been platform one, I don’t know, but it wasn’t.

     Up and until this point I bitched and complained about having to walk around pulling dead luggage. I had not realized that the worst was yet to come. Running with said juggernauts only had me longing to walk with them. The screeching had reached a fever pitch, the black marks thick and I dare say permanent and with the sheer speed in which I was moving, I believe there may well have been the odd spark. I no longer cared; my dignity had long since left me. 

     When I arrived at platform ten, whistles were blowing, conductors were yelling and I, with Herculean strength hurled my luggage onto the train. However, just because I managed to make the fourth mode of transportation of the day did not mean that I had time to rest. My bags were stacked high right in front of the door. People were moving about the train cars still searching for a seat, which left me with little hope. If empty armed passengers couldn’t find a seat, then surely I would be left standing for the next two hours. I hadn’t this sort of endurance. Before I could concern myself with being left seatless I still needed to move my bags away from the door before the next stop. I peered around the corner and saw a luggage area, a full luggage area mind you, but a luggage area nonetheless. My bags, come hell or high water, were joining the others. With a lot of banging, kicking, pushing, more kicking, heaving and using the lord’s name very much in vane, I eventually managed to pile up my cases.

     I spotted an empty seat near the luggage pile and sat down. I hadn’t slept in over twenty-four hours, my hair was flat and greasy, my makeup was flaking, my clothes had stretched to an unrecognizable size, which made me feel skinny and I was hungry.

“Excuse me.” A fellow train goer was trying to get my attention. “Excuse me ma’am.”

I took a deep breath and bore a fake smile “Yes.”

“That seat is reserved. You aren’t allowed to sit there.”

     I sat there anyway.

     One more train to catch before this horrid journey would conclude. Five minutes before my arrival at Chester station I started to organize my bags for a slightly speedier departure.

     The closer we got to the station the more people filed in behind me. Everyone was in a hurry and I, unfortunately, was at the front of the line. The pressure was immense. As I slowly inched my bags towards the sliding train doors a saviour appeared.

“Do you need help?”

“Yes I do. Thank you.” Assuming she was volunteering.

     She asked which train I was catching and then informed me that we only had five-minutes to make it. These details no longer surprised me. Of course, learning that I had to be on the other side of the platform did.

     When the doors opened, the lady grabbed the smallest of my bags that still had working wheels and leapt from the train at a full run. She was either making off with my computer and an extra pair of socks and underwear or expecting me to follow. I paused momentarily wondering if I had just made my first(?) naive travel mistake.  

“Follow me.” She yelled without breaking stride.

     I know it is never a good idea to look a gift horse in the mouth but I was still standing on the train with two cases that were reluctant to move. I appreciated the help but it wasn’t going to do me any good to have one bag on a moving train while me and my other bags watch it disappear in the distance.

     I kicked the bags out the train door, scattering the passengers that were waiting to board. I jumped out behind them, grabbed the handles and began to run. There was, as you might expect, a trail of poor language, high-pitched noises and the trademark black streaks.

     I caught up with the lady at the elevator where I was able to take a thirty-second breather. The doors opened and we were off and running along a platform that took us across the train tracks to the next elevator. I had another thirty-second breather before the elevator doors opened. Again, the lady sprinted off. She ran alongside a train until there was an open door at which time she flung my suitcase inside and waited for me to catch up. She helped me load my two bags and then said good-bye as she walked off wiping her brow.

     I was finally on the last leg of my journey that was taking far too long and required for too much effort.

     It will be expensive suitcases from this point on.

Hell No Longer On Wheels

     I contemplated my fate while I waited on platform seven with my four bags and no wheels. It was nine a.m. I was jet lagged and wouldn’t arrive at my final destination until five p.m.

     The train was five-minutes away and I was still operating on plan A. Plan A, like the suitcases, needed discarding. Dragging the bags was clearly something I wasn’t going to be able to escape. That was just a cross I was going to have to bare. Nevertheless, the tube station still needed skirting and the only feasible way in which I could foresee that happening was by doling out money for a taxi. Plan B would now read train, taxi, train, train.

     Moments before the idea of pushing my bags onto the tracks entered my mind, the train arrived. It was go time. I grabbed my insufferable bags and started hauling them towards the train door. Up and until this point the dragging of the bags had been a relatively quiet procedure, other than my sour mutterings. This time things had changed. Whenever I pulled, my bags produced a loud screeching sound. Fantastic! Not only did I look like an asshole pulling stupid bags around, but now anyone who hadn’t already noticed would be alerted to the fact that there was an asshole dragging stupid bags around.

     With my heart rate pumping at maximum capacity, I reached the lip of the train door. I paused there for a moment trying to conjure up enough strength for the final pull. Just as I was about to make the all-important yank a very nice woman offered a helping hand. As I pulled, she pushed and together the cases made it onto the train with only seconds to spare before the door slammed shut and the train sped towards London. Unable to say thank you I gave a feeble wave that I don’t think the woman saw. 

     I squished the suitcases into the corner by the door and collapsed into a seat. Exhausted from the three-minutes of hardcore exertion and jet lag, I shut my eyes and waited for my vital signs to enter a normal range. When I opened my eyes, I admittedly was a little taken aback. What the dickens? Am I in Jamaica? I counted ten family members spanning what I believe was three generations. I also counted only twelve seats. Whether this Jamaican family liked it or not I would be joining their family outing right into London. They didn’t seem to mind my presence and merrily went about their business with a strange white girl sitting amongst them.

     When the train arrived in London, I lugged the incorrigible bags through Victoria Station in search of a trolley. Victoria Station, I feel, is a very nice and very busy place. It’s not the sort of place were one would wish to pull around eighty-pounds worth of screeching luggage. Luggage that was now leaving behind a trail of black streaks.

     I paid one-pound for a trolley and immediately tried to load it. Tried being the operative word. Each time I managed to lift a portion of the two tethered bags and aimed them towards the trolley, the trolley inched away. Around and around I went like a farm animal stricken with circling disease. At first, my anger was only directed towards the luggage, but after the spinning trolley situation, my rage fanned out to include not only the trolley but also to the people that passed by and watched me struggle. Perhaps my foul language had turned people away, or possibly, they weren’t nice people. Either way by the time I managed to circle the trolley and the bags into a wall I was spent.

     My next chore was to find a toilet, which turned out to be one of the easier tasks of the day. However, once I reached the bathroom area, I noticed trolleys were not allowed in. Disgruntled, I moved along to the phone store so that I could buy a phone. The purchasing of said phone went surprisingly well. I asked the nice phone salesman if I could leave my bags in the store while I nipped to the loo. He said no. I’m guessing he thought I had tightly packed my bags with bombs, and I was fleeing the scene before I flipped the switch. I walked past the bathroom area one more time and noticed there was a luggage entrance. Brilliant! I approached the gated toilet community and asked the nice man guarding it if I could please come in. He too said no. What? Was this a joke? A modern day Billy Goats Gruff? Fondly remembering the tale, I felt that ramming the guard with my trolley would not be in my best interest. Instead, I asked why I wasn’t allowed through.

“Your luggage.”

Oh, the goddamn luggage. “But you’re standing behind the luggage gate. Surely I’m allowed to come in through there.”

“No! You have too many bags.”

“So I can’t come in?”

“No!”

“But I really need to go to the bathroom.”

“Sorry, you have too many bags.”

“Why is there a gate that clearly reads luggage with a picture of luggage on it, if someone like myself, with luggage is not allowed through the gate that says luggage?”

“Sorry.”

     He wasn’t sorry.

To be continued…

Hell on Wheels

     The floral print drew me in. It was subtle but it was there and it was enough for me. I have always wanted matching luggage, and pretty matching luggage was all I could’ve ever dreamed. Buying the lightly floral printed suitcase collection, I felt had no drawbacks, only perks. Fancy floral perks. I left the store confident and pleased with my purchase.

     As soon as I got my new cases home, I started stuffing them full of clothes. Summer clothes, winter clothes, and clothes designed for inclement weather. The next day I was bound for England to work for a minimum of three-months. You may well be wondering why I waited until the last minute to make this purchase of such grand cases. The reason, I am afraid, is not important.

     When I arrived at the airport, I had visions of myself whisking through departures looking particularly stunning with my snazzy luggage wheeling behind me. My hair would be just so, my makeup flawless, my stride strong and purposeful. All the while on lookers would be dazzled not only by my shear beauty but also by my luggage. How could things go wrong with such perfect suitcases?

     I hopped out of my rental car, and quickly unloaded my bags. A Yaris, I didn’t feel would play into my vision of elegance and beauty. I made my way through the parking lot, hair flowing, dawning sunglasses, walking with a strong step with my suitcases at my heels. This WAS all that I had imagined. There was however, just one little, minuet issue. My bags seemed a titch heavier than I felt necessary. I had weighed the flowery bags numerous times at home and felt almost sure they weren’t over weight. I couldn’t understand why I seemed to have a concentration of lactic acid building up in my thighs and streaming towards my biceps.

     As I lumbered towards ticketing, the bags grew heavier. Sweat poured from my brow and my once free flowing hair had turned limp and damp. My makeup was streaming into my left eye, leaving me with a nasty twitch. The vision I had created for myself had quickly evaporated. Instead of looking like a suitcase model, I now looked like a performer at a circus sideshow.

     Eventually I found myself at ticketing and at the end of a very long line. Normally discouraged by such lengthy lines, I found myself pleased that I had time to wipe the makeup from my cheeks; attempt to re-fluff my hair and to give the bags a quick once over. Just in the off chance something had gone wrong. Pretty bag number one appeared to be in fine running order. Bag number two, however, was not. At some juncture during my five-minute walk from the car to the counter, I had lost a wheel, and the other wheel, though it was still there, was at such a jaunty angle I couldn’t imagine it was much use. Bag number two was clearly a right off and my concern lay with bag number one. Would bag number one pull through?

     If I were getting pick up at Gatwick, I wouldn’t be worried about anything. However, I was not getting pick up but instead, once off the plane, having to catch a train, then the tube, then another train and then finally one more train. All this was to occur with presumably no wheels.

     Having dealt with the underground and all of its inner workings with perfectly good luggage once before, I knew that attempting it with crippled luggage would be a mistake. As with previous calamities, a new plan would have to be formulated.

     Eight-hours after having boarded the plane it was time to be reunited with my floral printed luggage. Luggage that I once loved. I dreaded the sight of my two bags. They had let me down and the floral print was going to taunt me. Look at us, aren’t we pretty? Such pretty bags we are! Aren’t you so pleased you spent money on us?

     I got a trolley, hurled the bags on to it, and wheeled my way towards the train. Trolleys of course aren’t allowed on the train platform, which meant my bags were going to have to pull themselves together. I had three working wheels between the two bags, so bag number one was going to piggyback bag number two. I knew this would put undue stress on the wheels of bag number one, but figured I would deal with that problem when the time came. By the time I had made my way down to platform seven, I was down to one wheel, and it only had a few rotations in it before it too would expire.

     The whole wheel business was unfathomable. Not only did I have two forty-pound bags with me but also a purse and a carry-on bag. All four of these bags were going to have to come with me on a train, tube, a train and a train. I had eight-hours of travel in front of me. Chopping and changing along the way. I was literally going to have to drag the stupid, smug, floral printed bags around behind me, like a dray horse.

     To be continued…

Snorkeling in Tofo: The Dramatic Conclusion

     Last you read, I was wedged between scuba brackets and the side of the boat with an impromptu g-string. Which was nice. To add to the humility of it all, the skipper hit the throttle as I tried to stand. This unnecessary hitting of the throttle forced the Zodiac to rear, which left me floundering on the floor of the boat. Why such speed was required is unknown, as is why they couldn’t have waited for me to situate myself. Customer service, seemingly, wasn’t a concern.

     As we blazed across the water, trouble was brewing with two of my volunteer friends. They had curled up on the floor of the boat moaning. I’m a neophyte seaman yes, but even I could tell the motion of the ocean was having an ill effect on them. This did not concern the skippers. “You’ll just have to deal with it. We aren’t heading back for only two.” Another fine display of customer service. And while I could understand the philosophy when eighty-miles off shore, I’m not sure that I understood it when only a few miles from shore. Nonetheless, the decision for my puking friends to remain on or off the boat was not mine to make. The show must go on and this show was about to start.

     We were instructed to keep our eyes peeled for large shadowy figures in the water. Large, shadowy figures eh? Does anything good ever come from a large, shadowy figure? These figures would be whale sharks and when spotted jump in and join them. Yes, by all means, let’s jump into the deep, dark, depths of the ocean and have a swim with these monstrosities. This idea sounded dubious but no one seemed bothered, so why should I? Actually, I could think of many reasons.

     It didn’t take but mere seconds for the shadowy figures to appear and before I knew it, everyone piled into the water. I, on the other hand, peered over the edge of the boat thinking that this “shadow” was enormous and perhaps there was a better way to die. Then again, Jonas spent three long days in the belly of a whale and managed to make it out alive. Maybe I could too. And with that I was in the water, flipper free thinking they were more of a hindrance than a help.

     By the time I reached the water the sharks had swum away and everyone sprang back into the boat. Here we go again; skipper Aussie grabbed my arms and flung me into the boat. I was once again wedged. No longer embarrassed by the proceedings, I quickly righted myself and joined my friends and the two Germans that sat along the side of the boat. The skipper idled along searching for more shadows.

     There were three shadowy figures this time and without hesitation I slid off the side of the boat, careful not to let go of the rope. I poked my head into the water and took a good look around. Drats! I missed the sharks again. Struggling with breathing through the blasted snorkel I lifted my head only to find that everyone had swum away from the boat, presumably following the sharks. The only logical thing to do was to wait until the skipper pulled me into the vessel. What I hadn’t counted on was the skipper nailing the throttle while I was still holding on. What on earth were these skippers playing at? Is dragging a naïve snorkeler along the side of the boat in the Skipper Handbook? This was not part of plans A, B and/or C.

     I had no choice but to let go. Clearly dragging alongside a rearing Zodiac wouldn’t be a clever idea. The ocean was still not a friend of mine and this worried me. This would have been an ideal time for a life jacket. But the skippers, who I can only assume were so confident in their life saving abilities, found no need for such immaterial devices. Who needs them? My only option was to swim to the rest of the group. Their flippered feet had carried them some distance and I, not being much of a swimmer on any level, was going to have a whale of a time getting there (sorry couldn’t resist). With fear riddling my body I managed a dog paddle-cum-front crawl, slash breaststroke with a hint of sidestroke, mixed with other nondescript variations of propulsion to get me to the others.

     By the time I neared them I was exhausted, and exhaustion in deep water is disconcerting. I, briefly, allowed myself to sink hoping to catch a glimpse of a whale shark and to take a little break from swimming. It was a two-fold plan. As I slowly descended towards the ocean floor, I was lucky enough to see a whale shark. It was gigantic and slow moving. Gray but littered in yellow spots and stripes. I found the whole experience strangely calming. It was clear the whale sharks had no interest in divers, as they leisurely swam through the water in search of a little plankton and krill. Apparently, the whale sharks didn’t scare me, the ocean did. The vast ocean, with its currents, tides, waves and that little thing we like to call a tsunami. It’s a good thing to know.  

     Satisfied with my rest and the whale shark sighting, I thought I had better surface before I truly drowned. When my head popped out of the water, I could see the skippers idling about. To my shock and amazement, they were about to idle right over the German woman. I pulled my mask and snorkel onto my head as I thought this deserved a distress call. Needless to say, if the skippers hadn’t noticed they were about to mow someone down, they certainly weren’t going to notice my mask and snorkel placement.

     “Look out!” I yelled to the German woman whose name I didn’t catch. Maybe she doesn’t speak English. Perhaps I should use some of my German.

     “Donke shon!” Nothing. Only one bullet left and it was a long shot.

     “Bitte shon!” Note to self: yelling out thank you and you’re welcome does not and I dare say will never convey an urgent message.

     There was nothing left for me to do other than watch as the skippers glided over our German comrade. How these two men can go as far as referring to themselves as skippers is beyond me. If trying to drag me along like a harpooned whale weren’t enough, I’d say boating over a paying customer was. Thankfully, for the German woman, the propellers were not propelling and she came away unscathed. The skippers were none the wiser. 

     With everyone having spotted a whale shark, a near decapitation, and two very ill passengers, it was time to dock this Zodiac. The skipper once again lay down on the throttle, the Zodiac reared and we flew along nearing the shore at a rapid pace. The closer to the shore we got the faster we went. We had to clear the break somehow and going at a speed that flirted with the idea of becoming airborne was, apparently, how this was accomplished.  

     “Hold on!” Skipper Aussie yelled. “This is going to be a rough landing.”

     Even I, an ignorant ocean goer, didn’t need anyone telling me this was going to be a forceful docking. When you make a B-line for the beach at 60 knots, it leaves little option other than discomfort. We hit the shore at top speed. The boat came to an abrupt halt, thrusting everyone forward, and before any of us whipped back, the boat listed heavily, depositing some of my shipmates and me onto the sand.

     I stood up and dusted some of the sand off. Whale sharking. Check. Don’t need to do that again.

Snorkeling in Tofo

     Snorkeling in the middle of an ocean was not something I had ever envisioned myself doing. I don’t believe, as a general rule, that snorkeling suits me. I don’t swim well. I panic if I can’t breathe through my nose. Swimwear isn’t very becoming on me. It just doesn’t sound fun on any level.

     During, 2008 in a desperate attempt to sort out my life, I signed up, on a whim, for four-weeks of volunteer work and two-weeks of travel in Africa. Part of this adventure I was about to partake in was to spend a week in a small town called Tofo on the coast of Mozambique. During the week in Tofo we would dedicate an entire afternoon to snorkeling in the Indian Ocean with, wait for it… whale sharks. Let me just point out that a whale shark is neither whale, nor shark, but instead a thirty-five foot long, filter feeding fish that happens to weigh in at thirty-odd tons.

     Why I chose this as my first snorkeling experience is inexplicable, but I did.

     There was a large group of us heading out that snorkeling day. Along with the group of people that I knew from the volunteering stint, there was also a German husband and wife duo, an Australian skipper and a local skipper. I was the only one that had never snorkeled before. Both skippers assured me that there would be plenty of time for me to get a little practice in before heading out whale sharking. I liked the idea of having practice time, and as I had seen a swimming pool nearby I assumed that was where the practice would take place.

     After we were kitted out in the well-used snorkeling gear, that admittedly, I had concerns about putting in my mouth, on my face and on my feet, I learned that the practice would NOT take place in the pool but instead the vastness of the Indian Ocean. If the above mentioned were not perturbing enough I was informed that the one item, the very item that gave me confidence, would not be used. Why a tour company specializing in water based tours found the need to do away with life jackets I found perplexing. I didn’t think to bring my own so I was just going to have to hope for the best.

     We launched, and by launched I mean pushed by hand, the Zodiac into the rough seas and set sail toward the practice area. I sat on the edge of the Zodiac clutching a flimsy rope that I suspected was to prevent me from falling in. I had my mask and snorkel around my neck because apparently if you rest it on your head you are sending out a distress call. And even though I was inwardly sending out a distress call, there was no need to cry wolf. My black plastic flippers, that I put on prematurely, were melting to the tops of my feet because of the hot African sun. And to add to my discomfort was the must-wear snorkeling/scuba company’s swim shirt that was smelly and two sizes too small. As my boobs are about two sizes too big the shirt didn’t come down as far as one might have hoped. So not only was I going to undoubtedly flail around in the water gasping for air I was going to be poorly dressed while doing so.

     “Okay this is it. If you want to practice this is the best place.” The Aussie skipper announced as though all first time snorkelers practice two-miles off shore in dark, eerie, rough waters.

     My nerves piled up as I prepared to slide into the water. The ocean was no friend of mine. But I didn’t want the pesky fear of dying preventing me from experiencing this adventure. With gritted teeth I swung my legs over the side of the Zodiac and pushed off with my hands. To my horror, my dry skin screeched loudly along the rubber side stilting my entrance into the water. It, however, did not stilt the momentum of my swimsuit bottom that shot upward. I was perched in an instantly made G-string bikini bottom, mooning the other whale sharkers, and momentarily adhered to the side of the boat. As the red in my face grew crimson, gravity finally intervened and I belly flopped into the ocean. I hit the water dog paddling, kicking feverishly with my flippered feet. My hand made G-string firmly in place. Rightly or wrongly I assumed that having flippers on would propel me through the water not only with ease but also at speed, like a minnow. What I hadn’t anticipated was because of many years of spraining my ankles the force of the flippers against the water created an almost unbearable pain. There would be no streaking through the water for me today. Instinctively, I moved on to Plan B, which was simple but clearly not well thought out, as I didn’t know there would be a need for multiple plans.

     The idea was that I would tread water and just kind of peer in from above at the sea below. Obviously, this didn’t work as treading water calls for a lot of ankle movement and as this created pain, I began to sink towards the ocean floor. The sinking created a panic, the panic created erratic breathing, which in turn had me swallowing cupfuls of Indian Ocean.

     Immediately, I formed Plan C. I dog paddled my way back to the edge of the boat and took a firm hold of the string that had prevented me earlier from falling off the boat. I could now confidently poke my head into the water without the under lying threat of sinking. As I peered into the dark green water, I realized almost at once that I couldn’t even see my flippered feet. This meant I had no idea what may be lurking beneath. The thought made me uncomfortable. However, it wasn’t every day I found myself in the middle of the Indian Ocean about to swim with whale sharks. I would not allow my unfounded fears of the deep to put the kibosh on this once in a lifetime experience.  As long as I had the side of the boat to hold onto, I could safely swim/not swim with the whale sharks.

     “Everyone in. Practice is over.” The boat started up and people started jumping back in. They did this so effortlessly, I didn’t foresee any issues as I approached the task. I slipped my mask and snorkel onto my head and placed my other hand on the side of the boat.

     “Remove your mask from your head unless this is your idea of a distress call.” All right, settle down. I slid my mask and snorkel around my neck and placed my hand back onto the side of the boat. As I clung there, I realized that there was no way on earth I was going to be able to get myself into the boat. How were people literally porpoising themselves into the boat? Clearly, these same people can spring onto the back of a horse from the ground. 

     Once everyone was loaded into the boat the skipper thought, in his infinite wisdom, that maybe I needed a little help. He grabbed my arms, and while he pulled with all his might he yelled at me to kick. I slid into the boat like a salmon into a cooler. The only difference was that I slid into the metal brackets used to hold scuba tanks in the middle of the boat and found myself wedged between that and the side. G-string still in position.

     The experience was going about as well as I could have imagined and all that remained was the impending snorkel with the actual shark, that isn’t a shark.

     To be continued.

Mobile Peep Show

     I was reminded the other day, as I watched a Paso Fino and his rider shuffle down the side of the road, of a fascinating experience I once endured.

     Some years ago, as I blundered along the front side of thirty, I somehow found myself interviewing for a job at a Paso Fino farm. Why I thought this would be a good idea is beyond me.

     The Q&A portion of the interview went well enough. It was really the riding portion that had me concerned. What did I know about riding a Paso Fino? I can assure you nothing.

     The barn manager, let’s call him Bob, walked me down the barn aisle way and introduced me to my interview horse. Standing in crossties tacked up and ready roll was Sid, a five-year old, 14’3h, chestnut, Paso Fino stallion.

     Sid was detached from the crossties and as he stood only 14’3 Bob felt no need to mount using a stirrup or a mounting block, instead he sprung with ease from the ground onto Sid’s back. If Bob were hoping for the same kind of action from me, he would be sorely mistaken.

     Bob rode out into a largish field and gave me a quick tutorial. “If you want him to trot kick him in the shoulder.” That wouldn’t have been my first choice of places to put my leg but what did I know.

     “If you want him to canter kick him harder in the shoulder.” Again, not where I would have thought to “kick” Sid, but I didn’t even know a Paso Fino could canter, so suggesting an alternative to the shoulder kick, I thought, should remain unsaid.

     “If you want Sid to slow down or stop just pull on the reins like this.” Sid came to a screeching halt. I have never intentionally asked for a screeching halt and I was curious to know how I would fare.

     “Okay, Rebecca your turn, just jump on.” Bob truly believed I had the ability to leap on a horse from the ground. What Bob didn’t realize was that I only had the ability to knock over an 1100lb horse whilst attempting to jump on from the ground.

     “I think it would be better if I could use the stirrup. Is that okay?” I put my left foot in the stirrup, and as I swung my right leg over the saddle, Sid quickly shuffled forward. This darting shuffle of his threw me off balance and my natural instinct was to give a tug on the reins. Sid immediately slammed on the brakes. Needless to say, the abrupt halt propelled me onto Sid’s neck. His long flowing mane, that I am sure some find very beautiful, was nothing more than a netting of sorts for me to get hung up in.

     “I will be right back.” Bob said, clearly having just missed the debacle.

     With Bob off to make a phone call I was pleased not to be under his scrutiny, not that I thought there would be too much of that. I gave Sid a light shoulder kick. True to Bob’s word, Sid began to trot. The only problem was with each shuffling stride of Sid’s the speed in which he went slowly increased. Fearing that I may lose control of Sid I gave a very faint feel to the reins and he jerked to a walk. I gave a little kick to the shoulder and he sped off. Tugged the reins and again he jerked to a walk. Somehow, I’d managed to create a rather lurching gait that did little more than thrust me forward and then back again. Unsatisfied with my Paso Fino riding ability, I decided to give the canter a go. I gave Sid a sharpish kick to the shoulder and I believe that what I was feeling was a canter. One can’t be too sure. Despite the herky-jerky gaits I had created, I could in fact be riding around drinking champagne just as the Paso Fino clan proclaims, for those of us that wish to drink and ride simultaneously.

     Once fully established in a full-blown “canter” Bob, naturally, returned. “Good canter!” I felt like an ass riding Sid, but somehow in spite of my awkwardness Bob felt I had created a good Paso Fino canter. “Canter up to me and stop.” I can’t even express the level of anxiety I felt about the impending halt. I braced myself against the stirrups pulled on the reins and Sid slid to a stop. I remained in my braced position chuffed with my performance. That being said, I didn’t want the job but I did want this ride to end.

     “Fantastic.”  How Bob thought that anything I had just done was fantastic amazes me. “Make him side step.”

     Side step? Really? Why?

     “Just kick him with your left leg.” I kicked and Sid shot sideways and was clearly going to continue sideways until I pulled on the reins. I finally managed a quick tug after fifty odd sideways steps.  

     According to Bob, the job was mine if I wanted it. If I took the job, fingers crossed, Bob would very much like me to ride Sid in the Paso Fino festival that was to take place the following day. Was Bob insane? Had he not seen my fine mounting display, or my overall ineptness at riding a Paso Fino?

     “The Paso Fino Festival, Rebecca, we like to be as traditional as possible. And for that reason I would like very much for you to wear this.” Tada! Bob flung open the doors to a shed as if to reveal the one item that would lure me into the world of Paso Finos. Splayed out carefully over several dusty, moldy boxes was the dress that I was to wear. The one that would inevitably transform me into a traditional Paso Fino riding Spaniard. To know me is to know that I am every bit a pale skinned, blue-eyed, buxom, blonde. Very little of me, if any, screams olive skinned, dark hair sporting, senorita. I dare say, the dress was a velvet picture inspiration. It was puffy, red and littered in black lace. Undoubtedly, the train of the dress would drape over Sid’s hindquarters and would scarcely ripple as he and I sashayed our way around the festival. I would delight people with my sudden stops and the herky-jerky fashion in which I would force Sid to travel. Meanwhile, my heaving bosom would slowly creep from the ill-fitting bustier portion of the dress. Mothers would be forced to cover their children’s eyes. Fathers would look on with eager amusement. And I, the pale faced Spanish Paso Fino riding fool, wouldn’t have a clue. Forward, back and side to side I would go, kicking Sid on the shoulder and in a panic pulling on the reins. All the while making this family oriented festival into a mobile peep show.

     I told Bob that it pained me to say that I would be unable to take the job. But, thanks so much for the offer.