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.   

Motorcycle Aficionado?

     Last month, while I was trying to make a quick buck at a local horse show, I took on a challenge. To some of my more foolhardy friends the “challenge” that I speak of may seem unchallenging. Scoff if you will I don’t mind. I am not embarrassed to admit when I’m scared.

     Motorbikes have always scared me and I have no good reason for this. A good friend of mine thought that I should face my fear head on and suggested I take her bike for a spin. The bike was red, which I liked very much. It was knee high which gave me confidence thinking of course that I might have some control, as I am literally twice the size of the bike.

     I should mention that it was an unseasonably cold winter day in Florida and I was wearing an astronomical amount of clothes. Layers upon layers of sweatshirts, down vests and jackets. Wool socks, thermal gloves, a toque (Canadian for winter hat), and in lieu of a scarf two pashminas. I appeared round and squishy with restricted movements.

     I was confident, to some extent, as I swung my leg over my motorized steed. I could only wish I had the freedom a t-shirt allows that six layers of winter wear does not. Nonetheless, I was doing the damn thing.

     I drove around a forty-acre field and struggled only with the changing of the gears, which I blame on the wind and my toque, as I couldn’t really hear what was going on. With the test ride being such a success, I was secure in my motorcycle handling skills. I told my friend to hop on the back of her own bike and I would take us up to the scoreboard before heading to the start of cross-country.

     As my friend checked her score I waited on the bike keeping it at a rather high idle to prevent it from stalling due to the cold weather. God I’m good at this. A complete natural. I know to keep the idle up, I converged easily from grass to dirt and I expertly missed hitting a number of people and horses. Why was I ever scared of these things? As I waited, I gave myself a good hearty pat on the back for being such a motorcycle aficionado and I may or may not have taken on the air of a Hell’s Angel or gangster of some kind. I noticed as people passed by and said hello I gave little more than a sideways glance and an off handed head nod. I knew I looked good with my hot pink pashmina peeking out of my jackets. I knew the bike sounded strong (not that I could hear it) as I kept it calmly red lined. These fools are all so jealous having to schlep around on foot where as I get to zoom about haphazardly on my hog. Suckers, all of them.

     “Rebecca I am not getting on that bike with you if you keep it revved so high.”

     What the hell does she know, but to appease her I eased up on the gas just a little.

     “You ready?” I asked with reckless abandon and before I gave her a chance to answer, I put her in first.

     “Holy f***! Holy f***! Holy f***! Why won’t it stop?”

     Sometimes innocence is bliss, but in this case, I would say a little knowledge might have proven dangerous.

     The only saving grace in this nasty bike business was the fact that when the bike, designed for a five year old, reared vertically toward the sky it whipped out from between our legs leaving my friend and I standing. However, since I was at the helm I was not only left standing but also left holding the handlebars and she was about to tip, and tip she did. This left me in a motorbike spinning frenzy. My pashmina had crept out from behind my collar and with each five meter circle completed a few more inches of hot pink pashmina appeared. Around and around I went in nothing but a blur of pink, red and a slew of profanities.

     I bet this has never happened to a Hell’s Angel and any chance I had of joining that gang was clearly disappearing with each rotation. Eventually it dawned on me that my right hand was the root of all evil. Once I managed to talk myself into letting go of the right handle bar everything stopped, except for my fear of motorbikes.

     At least now, I have a solid reason to fear motorbikes.

SWF...

     The other night, which happened to be dark and stormy, I found myself outside. At first, I thought I had good reason to be in a lightning storm holding my umbrella and wearing my pajamas. However, after a half hour of drudging through an inch of surface water encouraging my cat from under my car I decided that I was an idiot. Not only was my cat perfectly safe and dry under my car but her cat door was open and only ten feet away.

     Have my priorities gotten completely off kilter? Of course, there is nothing wrong with loving your pet and wanting them to be safe and sound. Nevertheless, when I put my own life in jeopardy simply to try to keep my cat from getting cold and wet, perhaps my life needs a little shake up.

     After a thorough evaluation of my life, I have decided to try to focus my attention on something else. That something, I am only slightly ashamed to admit, is finding myself a man.

     I have drawn up a wanted ad for a male suitor. Please see below and in newspapers, bulletin boards and Port-A-Potty’s near you.

SWF seeks Male

     I would like to meet a guy who is completely unreliable, untrustworthy and can lie like a sidewalk. A guy that loves to hear himself talk and has no idea what my last name is. I want a guy that never calls when he says he will and stands me up on a regular basis, who is unwilling to be seen with me in public, and any time really before 11 p.m.

     I want a guy who will say the words I love to hear. “If I wasn’t with her, I would totally be with you.” I want a guy that is married, or has a fiancé, a live in girl friend is acceptable, and all three would just be a bonus. However, I would prefer to find out this sort of information 4 months into the relationship. I want a guy that has more excuses than you can shake a stick at, more drama than a soap opera, has more tall tales than Aesop, and a guy who has no idea who Aesop is.

     I want a guy that will never remember my birthday, and over look me at Christmas and Valentine’s day. I want a guy who wants me for many reasons, i.e. money, transportation, and sex. I want a guy that wants to stay home (by home I mean his Mother’s basement) all day, to play his video games and/or watch endless hours of porn from his collection, while drinking beer and smoking from his “friends” bottomless stash. I want to meet a guy that doesn’t have a car, or a drivers license, one who can’t get a job, due to the amount of time spent in the big house. Finally, I want to meet a guy that has at least three baby mama’s, that he knows of.

     If you feel as though you fit the profile, please find me. I will be the woman at the end of the street with all the cats.

Citra Gossip...

     To blog or not to blog? A thought that has plagued me for the last few days. What do I hope to gain from having a blog? I have no idea. I have named my blog “Citra Gossip” for two reasons, A) because it is an inside joke, admittedly not a funny one and B) because I live near a place called Citra. As far as the gossip goes, well I would love to be able to say that my blog is going to include antics about people with in a hundred mile radius of Citra. Make it a soap opera type blog. However, the word slander makes me uncomfortable. Therefore, the gossip will have to be about me. It’s not going to be a jaw dropping caught in the act by his wife type of gossip as those days are now a few years behind me. And like my mom says I am on the back side of thirty and shouldn’t nor should I have ever been doing that sort of thing. I won’t tell you what number my mom is on the backside of, but I will say if she laughs at how old and single I am one more time she will find herself on the backside of my hand. I’m kidding I wouldn’t hit my mom; her arms are much longer than mine are. Instead, the blog “gossip” will have to pertain to some of the stupid things that I have done that have led me to the backside of thirty.