Jessy the Flying Yapese

He doesn’t upend his torso like a dabbling wood
duck, hyperventilate wildly by sucking the life out of the sky, or clumsily beg
purchase from the ocean’s liquid skin to gain momentum like so many fluorescent
pink-finned snorkeling tourists. Rather
curiously, he appears to take a breath, under his breath. Inaudibly, ballet-like, as though he were aflying cat; he slips his padded paws beneath the waves, pulling deeper with his
arms and upper body strength alone, until he finally concedes his legs and fins
to contribute to the task with one caveat, they are never to break the surface,
the sound barrier. He seems to float
suspended by the blue for a moment, drifting slowly downward; contemplating,
calculating, and anticipating his quarries next move. Without warning he is equalized and soaring,
one arm outstretched like superman, a blue camaflouge wetsuit replacing the
familiar red cape; fins efficiently, almost mechanically, slicing through the
last seconds of his prey’s peace. A silent
stealth bomber speeding unmercifully towards its target. Briefly disappearing in the depths, he
suddenly emerges out of the darkness with light—the white underbelly and
flippers of a turtle which flap with urgency.
The beast panics, squirms, and attempts (unsuccessfully) to rid itself
of this unwelcome hitchhiker, not unlike a giant remora attached to its
back. As the free-diver gently guides
the trophy up, they spin together, a slow waltz ensues through the light-beams
refracted from the intense tropical sun above.
Gracefully they dance, helping each other swim closer to the surface and
their next life-giving breath.
Jessy Hapdei was originally taught his art form
by village elders in Ulithi, Yap, Micronesia.
I have been honored and humbled to witness his craft as I often swim
behind him near drowning as my snorkel drops from my mouth in sheer awe. As a sea turtle biologist, I’d rather not
think about why or how he used his talents in the past. I am only thankful that he is working for our
team now; assisting in sea turtle conservation and research on the island of
Saipan, in the Commonwealth of the Northern Mariana Islands. Our in-water tagging program would not be
possible without his specialized hand-capture skills, as the use of nets or
rodeo are not feasible in this part of the Western Pacific.

By Tammy Mae Summers, Published in the State of the Worlds Turtles (SWOT) Magazine 2009

Chapter 16: Home Sweet Home

The package didn’t look like any of the other Christmas
gifts I had received at the Saipan post office.
Someone had taped the whole entire package with clear shipping tape that
wasn't even sticking to the box anymore. What probably started out to be your everyday
square brown box looked like it had traveled through 3 months of a rainy season
in Central America, the cardboard corrugations splitting and frayed, and the
box itself squashed into the shape of a trapezoid. Upon opening this
road-worn visitor, my hands stuck to something and wouldn’t let go. The bubble wrap was soaked with a sticky
liquid the color of sunshine and smelled of the first hint of Spring after a
long cold bitter winter. I unwrapped a
portion of the bubbles (none of which popped, as each bubble had happily
consumed its weight in bee-sap) and within found a ziplock containing a less
than half-filled
bottle of Watkins Apalachicola Tupelo Honey that had a cracked plastic lid
scarcely hanging on to its last screw! I think the remainder of the honey
must be dripped along the entire 49 states, Hawaii, and Guam and
mixed like caramel swirls in cake batter with the cold blue currents of the
Pacific Ocean! I envision the poor postal carrier that was on his last shred
of patience striving to get everyone's packages to them in time for X-mas. Working overtime and muttering to himself
about how he didn't even get his bonus this year because of the economy
and how Santa gets all the credit. Then coming
across my wet, sticky, wilting box and him ending up with tacky hands for the
rest of his route and cursing Apalachicola FL and Siapan MP, the names posted
in bleading ink, smeared with a golden-hued substance, the unforgettable
fragrance of Tupelo blossoms drooping lazily over the Apalachicola River
wafting towards his cold nose, and after licking his fingers with curiosity,
must have forgiven us for ruining his favorite blue nylon uniform. He proceeds to cover the failing
cardboard with an equally sticky tape in hopes of combating whatever was
mysteriously oozing from the corners and went on with his business of making a
customer halfway across the world truly the most blessed of persons this
holiday season. He could have just as easily opened the package, deemed
it un-shippable and hazardous, tossed it, and sent me a sterile postcard in its
place. But during this sticky situation
some semblance of Christmas spirit won over his tired feet, his kind heart must
have spoke to him and whispered how I longed for a taste of my favorite
swamp. A taste that connected me with my
kinfolk, my beekeeper friends George & Miss Carla Watkins & Jimmy
Moses, and that most special of all places where my heart lies--the
floodplains, tributaries, barrier islands, blackwaters, bays, and fishing
villages of Apalachicola, Florida.
Once I finally figured out what was inside this ball of
bubbling beespit, I immediately mourned the loss of more than 1 lb. worth of
pure simple & sweet ecstasy. But being a glass jar is half
full rather than half empty kind of person, I quickly went about recovering the
losses. I carefully removed the heavy-with-honey bubble wrap and gingerly
licked the essence of Apalachicola from one of the bubbles. I
looked from side to side guiltily in my empty apartment like a child that knows
she is about to do something wrong but feels oh so right about it. Finding no-one there to judge me, I proceeded
to devour and suck the life out of that syrupy saran-wrap, a few meek pops in
protest is all it had left in it after the long, wet trip from Florida to the
South Pacific. I laughed in pure delight
as though I was 3 years old again.
Tupelo honey dripped down my chin and vivid images of Winnie-the-Pooh
stuck in a honey tree, hind paws and bulbous yellow bear-bum wriggling out of a
hollow and crying for Christopher Robin’s help crossed my mind as my giggle
intermingled with popping sounds. I’m
here to tell ya, I licked that bubble wrap so clean the ants in my apartment
couldn’t track it down.
New Years Eve in Saipan, I sit here alone sipping my tea,
adorned with the sweetest tasting Apalachicola Tupelo honey I’ve ever had
yet. They say in life, the taste is
sweeter when hard won and believe me when I say this honey has paid its’
dues. But then again, so have I; I guess
that is why I appreciate it as much as I do.

Chapter 15: Going out to the Country, Hey Don't you Wanna Go?

My parent’s life story has never been writ and I now find
the urge to let it be known. I begin
this tale where I enter the story. They
found each other as first loves and teenagers in the early 70’s and I was born
shortly thereafter. The wedding photos
are etched in mind as if I attended, which I guess in a way I did since my
mother was already several months along at the ceremony. The bride wore a floor-length hand-me-down
gown with an umpire waist reminiscent of the sixties style. If Woodstock had been a color, it would have
been found on this dress; its’ vibrant purple, turquoise, and white flowers
running like a child’s finger-paints to the grass. I felt safe behind it. My father’s unruly long brown curls and blue
collar demeanor contrasted sharply with his lavender dress shirt and tie that
was as white and wide as his smile. The
muscle cars; Barracudas, Galaxies, and Novas that lined my grandparent’s
driveway were adorned with big puffy tissue flowers that formed pastel peace
signs and spelled out the word LOVE along the hoods and doors. But underneath the event’s soft colors lay an
undertone of hard feelings. My
grandparents were traditional folks brought up during the depression era and
had a difficult time accepting their middle daughter’s teenage pregnancy. Times being what they were, it was not as
commonplace as it is in today’s society.
People still worried about what the neighbors thought. So my parents packed up and moved to the
west-coast of Florida where they lived in a whitewashed clapboard cottage steps
away from Madeira Beach. I am told that
after I was born, my mother would sing and dance while she cleaned the house or
baked homemade bread to Beatles songs while my brown fuzzy locks could be seen
bouncing just above the edges of the white bassinet to the music, my tiny
fingers clutching the side for balance as I bobbed. Our house was always filled with music,
America, Crosby, Stills, Nash, & Young, The Doobie Brothers, Yes, John
Lennon, The Allman Brothers, Jim Croce, Fleetwood Mac, Gordon Lightfoot, and
The Grateful Dead to name a few. But I
was breastfed on the Beatles and had my first taste of saltwater in this
place. Both music and the ocean would
become a life-long staple for me, a never-wavering constant, friends that
comfort me in times of loneliness, like a mother’s love.
But I digress… Once I
was born, my grandparents came to their senses and stopped shunning my parents
once I won them over with my sweet face, and our family moved back to NY. (This turn of events was a major bummer for
me since I was destined to be raised on the water, but the Niagara River would
have to do for the time being. I made it
back to the Gulf of Mexico eventually.)
My baby sister came along 2 years later, which made my parents 19 and
high school dropouts with 2 kids. I
don’t remember my dad being around much in those younger years since he was
working third shift at the steel plant, sleeping during the day and working all
night. He worked his ass off at a dirty
hard dangerous mind-numbing job for 11 years so that my sister and I would have
a roof over our heads. My mother had the
thankless task of raising us hellions until I was 12, when she decided to go
back to work. She spent the next 8 years
going to night school, taking a class here, driving an hour there, and this
after working a full shift as a bank teller on her feet all day. I am extremely proud of my parents. They rose above being teenage pregnancy
statistics, and without any help from their parents, have come a long way in
their careers. My father took a big
chance and quit his safe union job at the steel plant. Hard hat plastered with Buffalo Bills and
Sabres stickers, blackened steel toed
boots (that he still has to this day) in one hand and a lit cigar in the
other, he walked out of those factory doors and never looked back. He worked his way up the ranks as a radio
salesman, writing commercials and guest starring on morning shows as Buffalo
Bill. He never graduated high school but
the man can clear 5 figures now from pure ambition, street smarts, and hard
work. And my mom, after years of working
a full time job, raising 2 kids, and going to night school is now an accountant
for big industry.
But I don’t think this is where either of them had intended
to end up.
For as long as I can remember, wherever we have lived, a
stack of Farmers Almanacs and Burpee seed catalogs have adorned the living-room
coffee table. And my mother has had a
garden, whether it was in the form of spindly seedlings reaching for a hooded fluorescent
grow light with 3 feet of snow drifts outside the window, a 4’ x 4’ weed-ridden
plot of nothing but compost and Florida sand where papayas and pumpkins
make for strange bed-fellows, or hundreds
of feet of hand-shovel-turned black dirt mixed tenderly with horse shit from
the nearest stable, where my sister and I would sneak sugar-snap peas and
cherry tomatoes right off the vine in the summertime when we tired of playing
with tadpoles in seeps enveloped by Forget-me-nots. (They are still my favorite flower, which befits
my gypsy tendencies.)
Once upon a time we owned land out in the countryside in a
small cow town named Warsaw. May parents
called it The Farm. It had a view of the
entire valley and the next foothill over.
It had acres of open pasture filled with purple clovers that my sister
and I would pluck and savor the honeysuckle sweetness between our teeth. There were wind breakers between property
lines where we’d climb the trees and make imaginary forts. There was a small stream that ran through the
middle where our Barbie dolls would whitewater freestyle down the rapids. Behind the creek there were wild strawberries
hiding among the knee high grasses that were matted down into large patches
where the deer had bedded the night before.
There were elderberry bushes that we’d gingerly pick tiny berries from
the delicate stems. My mom would can
this black gold and give elderberry jam as presents that family members fought
over at Christmas time. There were
blackberries that grew to be the size of your big toe in bramble thickets that
even a jackrabbit would think twice about entering. Yet it always seemed that the biggest,
ripest, juiciest prize was shining deep violet-black just beyond reach and
you’d come out looking like you lost a fight with an alley cat, just to get
your purpled lips around one. There was
a forest at the back of the property line that we’d take walks through, to hear
the Fall leaves crunch beneath our feet and smell Autumn. I have memories of my dad, all bushy-bearded
and ball-capped behind a fire-engine red Roto-tiller he had just bought,
plowing large swaths of earth and my mother, knees in the dirt, planting
strawberries, fruit trees, and corn in her plaid flannel shirt and wide-brimmed
straw hat humming away, as my sister and I toted hay to her for mulching. My parents dream was to build a log cabin on
The Farm and get back to the land; like so many other hippies of the time. But not all stories have “they all lived
happily ever after” endings. You see,
the driveway we used to access The Farm was an easement across the land owned
by the man in the big house that lay in front of our property. When it came time to finalize plans for
building I guess they needed permission to drive the heavy equipment and logs
across this man’s property (our driveway) to access the construction site. Turns out this man didn’t want a house built
on the property behind his and was successfully able to keep my parents from
realizing their dream. In the end, my
family needed the money so badly in order to start over new somewhere else that
even though my dad had sworn the last person he’d sell the land to would be the
man in the big house, we didn’t have any other offers, so my parents had no
other choice but to sell and move back to Florida.
I do believe that my parent’s spirits were irretrievably broken
that day. That they have spent the last
20 years moving forward only to yearn for getting back, back to the land. Their relationship with each other also
broke, my mother waited until both us kids were out of the house, but then the
music stopped. My parents still love
each other dearly, don’t get me wrong…they call often, take care of the other
when hardships happen, they just can’t live together without driving the other
crazy. I think when they lost the glue
that held them together, my sister and I and The Farm, there just wasn’t
anything left to make it stick. I still
like to dream that someday, when they both retire from the fast-lane, they will
build that log cabin together on a hill overlooking a grassy pasture with
horses and cows grazing. I picture my
dad with his feet propped up on the front porch railing smoking a doobie
looking out on my mom with her hands in the dirt and a watering can by her
feet, as a spring breeze carries her song away.

Chapter 14: Leatherback and Lace

I stood there contemplating whether
the heavy tracks leading up the steeply sloping sand berm were of human or
turtle origin in the inky darkness. When
I had sufficiently convinced myself that they were human I turned and took one
more step towards finishing my patrol, when I looked up from my path to see a
voluminous blackness slowly creeping, lunging, breathing, resting, breathing,
and lunging her heavy body awkwardly out of the sea. This female’s body was created by design for
the water and not very practical on the land.
However, her instincts, passed on from her dinosaur ancestors for a
million years, were to seek out a beach from whence she had hatched in which to
lay her offspring, and successfully complete her circle of life. She struggled with her weight issues up the
berm, slowly, ever slowly. I crouched a
fair distance from her, waiting to pounce once she began digging so that I could
look at her flippers for tags. She was
approximately 6 feet long and 5 feet wide, probably weighed in at 700 lbs, and
had a shell that looked different from all other turtle species, with ridged
lines running lengthwise down her back instead of checkerboard patterns of
plates. She was a Leatherback, the
deepest diving, the biggest nesting, the largest egging, the greatest at
everything, sea turtle. What a tremendous
honor indeed, to be in the presence of such a magnificent fish.
She would grunt and groan while she
meticulously dug her nest as if she was a pregnant woman in labor with child. The undertones in her grumbling voice spoke
to the trials of motherhood with every shovel-full of sand she removed from the
deepening pit below her. Her first nest
chamber kept caving in between her sheer weight and the dry sand area she had
chosen just above the berm. She
abandoned it and moved to a spot just a few feet away, this pit also
caved. She crawled down the large sand
cliff again and I thought she would leave us, then she got her bearings and
started up the hill for a second attempt.
What an overwhelming effort to pull her weight up and over and begin to
dig again. Her third site was still too
close to the water but it was located within some vegetation so it did not
collapse this time. We would have to
relocate the nest to higher ground. Like
a catcher sprawled over home base I stuck the entire length of my arm down into
the black hole of her nest, face in the sand reaching for a greater extension,
and began to gather cue-ball sized eggs with my gloved hand and place them
aside for later. She naturally held her
canoe paddle-sized hind flipper between her eggs dropping and the outside world
to protect them from predators. I was
hoping she knew I was trying to help her and not stealing her precious cargo as
my skinny arm slipped into the narrow crack between her flipper and the side of
the nest. One hundred and twenty eight
eggs later, she finished laying and began to cover her nest. I scrambled to gather the remaining smaller
yolkless eggs as she pinned my arm in the process. She had more strength packed in her toenail
than I had in my whole arm.
Like a wind-up toy she mechanically
threw sand back with her front flippers and packed it down with her hind
flippers, not realizing that she was covering eggs that weren’t there any
longer. With such force that the sand
flew up and back about 8 feet, spraying us if we weren’t careful to stay out of
the way. After much throwing and patting
to camouflage her nest sufficiently, she began to lumber toward the sea. With what appeared to be a sigh of relief,
but was probably just her taking a breath, she headed down the berm. Halfway down she slid like a child on a snowy
hill and practically fell into the lapping tide. I thought I saw her smile. Her back shiny now from the water, glistened
in the full-moonlight and the twinkling lights of Christensted. She slipped beneath the surface sleek, black,
and beautiful and flew through the sea effortlessly, leaving her laborious task
behind and returning back to her true element.
We relocated her nest to an area where her babies would be safe from
storms. It was the least I could do to
get them off to a good start, after all, she blessed me with a memory that will
last a lifetime.

Chapter 12: The 2nd Annual Lagoon-Reef Eco-Challenge

Jon boy had no idea what he was
about to get himself into. I had spent
the last 2 months helping to organize a kayak race and was keen to test a
hypothesis as to whether it was harder to paddle or organize the #$@*&^! race. In past races we had a total of 18 tandem
kayaks entered (36 people), this one however had already doubled its popularity
in one year with 42 single and tandem boats competing (approximately 72 people). This, let me tell you, is no easy task to
fundraise for prizes and figure out logistics for a race this big with only 3
committee members performing the lion-share of the work; myself being one of
them. The 2nd Annual
Lagoon-Reef Eco-Challenge would traverse the entire northern portion of
Ambergris Caye, a total of 43 miles through shallow lagoons, narrow mangrove
channels, a portage of 1/8 mile over mud-flats, littoral forest, and rocky
beach, and finally, back-reef ecosystems.
Contestants paddle 29 miles the first day, camp out on the beach in
Bacalar Chico overnight, and start the next day with a 14 mile push to the
finish line.
Jon agreed to be my partner for the
race. Jon and I had been best of friends
throughout our Peace Corps service, like the little brother I never had, our
off-center personalities, quirky sense of humor, and “what you see is what you
get” attitudes clicked, we were like peas and carrots. I truly believe the only reason why I
didn’t give up during the portage section of the race was due to Jon’s positive
feedback and his quick thinking. I don’t
think I could have done the race with anyone but him. Afterall, only a really tight friend would
allow you to pee in the same kayak he was riding in, a mixture of seawater and urine
washing about his feet?! It was a race and on the second day it
would have been too time consuming and difficult to paddle out of the deep
water and maneuver out of the sit-inside kayak to take a wiz!
Lucky for Jon, the first day was in shallow
water where getting in and out was easy.
It was filled with twisty narrow passageways though the red mangroves
where you could attempt to steer but instead found yourself bouncing off of the
banks like a super-ball in an ADD child’s hands. We laughed a lot. Until we got to the portage area where you
had to carry your kayak 1/8 mile over “land” from the lagoon-side to the
seaside; then we cried. (My boss had
lent us a heavy sit-inside tandem kayak with no handles. They had been broken off and replaced with
duck tape. The seats were also damaged
and would slide out of place if you shifted your weight. On top of this it did not come with spray
skirts for the hatches, which would prove a problem later on.) The “land” was partly made up of mangrove
marsh that during the wet season is a foot underwater and during the dry season
(and the kayak race) was mud that would suck your shoes, your calves, and your
knees into its abyss if you let it.
Swamp muck, smelling of rotten eggs and making your hands extremely
slippery once you fell into it a few times while attempting to get your leg
back from its sticky grasp. Covered in
mud and the faith quickly draining out of my face after only 10 feet of trying
to carry a kayak with out handles, slippery hands, and no upper-body strength
through this quagmire; Jon’s light bulb
flashed. He grabbed a few downed
mangrove logs and laid them under the kayak, we heaved and hoed, swore and
screamed, slide and sunk, the bog slowly devouring us along the way. I vowed revenge against my boss not only for
making me plan and organize this race but for giving me the most ghetto kayak
in the fleet. We finally reached hard
ground after spending the last bit of our energy and an hour struggling through
the Bacalar Chico bog. To say I was
exhausted would be a huge understatement. I had arrived at that point in which one has
to reach down into herself, dig deep into that bottomless mud pit, retrieve my
shoes and my spirit, and surface with a reserve that human beings are so well known
for in trying times. Jon urged me on with
shouts of well-timed encouragement, as we hefted and huffed the beast of burden
through the forest, tripping over stumps, muddy hands slipping, clawing to keep
hold, labored breathing counting off the paces until the next break, getting to
the top of the hill and drop kicking the piece of shit kayak over onto the
rocky coral laden beach, sliding slowly towards the water once again. I’d like to say this was the end of our pain,
but it wasn’t. We then had to paddle
another ½ mile to the campsite that included a shallow rocky area called Robles
Point, where the barrier reef came particularly close to the beach. This is where the spray skirts I mentioned
earlier would have come in handy. The
waves started breaking over us, the sea washing into our hatches, water levels
rising around our hips, and the kayak getting heavier to paddle with every
stroke thanks to the extra weight from our water retention. This is the point where Jon probably wanted
to kill me, but he’s such a genuinely kind soul, he didn’t. The journey was no longer fun; we wanted to
be at our destination. It was a struggle
to keep our hope and our boat afloat.
We did make
it to the campsite, we were the last boat in, lunch had been finished hours ago
by the front-runners and dinner was on its way.
I rinsed off my mud and salt-encrusted skin, ate, and crawled into the tent
to sleep at 7:00pm. The start was 9:00am
the next morning accompanied by everyone taping blistered hands, slathering
lotion on sunburned skin, and trying to get psyched for another 14 miles of
pure hell. The winds were blowing from
the east and you would think pushing us into shore, but instead it caused the
kayak to pull farther out towards the reef.
Jon and I were both constantly having to compensate for this and steering
with all the strength we had left for shore while getting pulled towards the
reef. Zig-zagging our way to the finish
line, Jon figured we had actually paddled twice as far as everyone else, but
unfortunately there wasn’t a prize for that.
In the end, team Green Go!
(get it, gringo?) finished 4th to last to the cheers of the crowds
lined along the beach. I had an
overwhelming sense of accomplishment, for not only did I help to make this
successful community event happen but I had also paddled it, which is something
no other race committee member could lay claim to. Take it from me; they don’t call it the
Eco-Challenge for nothing. Someone asked
me why on earth I would voluntarily enter a race like that? To this I replied, once you’ve achieved an
undertaking such as this, you know that whatever trials may come in the future,
you can overcome them, and realize
your goal, even if you come in last, its not quitting that counts in the long
run.

Chapter 11: Octopus Whisperer

Her skin had been burnt one too
many times by the intense Belizean sun and she reminded me of a rotisserie
chicken. I would have had a hard time
deciphering where the wrinkles began and the layers of fat ended if it weren’t
for the teenie-weenie string bikini that looked like it was helping to hold up
more weight than its fair share on the old woman. When she traveled about the small island
padding barefooted on the white coral sand paths she was always followed ceremoniously by a wolf pack. Four pure-bred German Shepards that weighed
in at least 110 lbs a piece never let her out of their sight. Heaven help the pirate who landed on this
island. Long, gray hair tied in a loose
pony tail, she was an island character if I ever saw one. She brought to mind the last bastion of the
like in the United States; the practically extinct species of the original
crusty, rusty old Florida Key’s Conchs.
Her husband had bought this island in the early 50’s, one of 4 patches
of sand and coconut palms along an atoll surrounded by hundreds of patch
reefs. It was named after a famous
pirate named Glover and supposedly the great-great-grandson of Capt. Morgan
himself was buried there along with his treasure. The only sapphire and diamonds I found, however,
were in the crystalline aquamarine waters and in the overwhelming sense of
peace one achieved while visiting this birthstone gem.
Close your eyes and imagine shades
and hues, vibrant blues and melancholy greens, the sounds of palms rustling in
the warm breeze and waves rhythmically pounding the reef face in the
distance. Digging your toes in the sand
and never wishing to remove them from this soft-spot, ever. Keep your eyes closed and begin paddling a
kayak over to a nearby patch reef. From
the surface it looks simply like brown rock.
As you slip into this free floating liquid world and view it from below,
the brown rock morphs into ivory mazes of brain and mountains of boulder star
corals, violet sea fans wave at you in the surge, while fish every shade and
tint of an artist’s pallet are blended together and with one stroke of the
brush, melted into Mother Nature’s greatest work of art. A coral reef so healthy, filled with so much
life and color, you become a mermaid dancing with the fish, sinuously gliding
through the storm sculpted coral channels.
Open you eyes, but keep a little sand in between your toes and water in
your ears.
I had traveled to this place in
search of the illustrious and illusive whale shark, this being one of the few
places on the globe to witness this behemoth.
It was not in the stars for me to dive along-side one this time. However, other critters had plans for
me…
The scuba divers on the island
dubbed me the “Octopus Whisperer.” While
on a night dive one evening under the reassuring security blanket of the full
moon, I encountered an octopus with the beam of my dive light. He started out on the reef wall and I knelt
on the sand bottom intently watching his exotic show under my spotlight while
smiling into my regulator. In my mind I
was talking with him, as I realized he was hunting and using my light to his
advantage. He would slowly crawl
forward, perch his opaque body on top of a crevice or wrap his tentacles around
the base of a branching soft coral and then, Pop! He’d puff up like an engaged
parachute, turn from a mottled brown/gray coloration to an iridescent-neon
green-blue and begin pumping his body and bulbous head down—capturing the fish
I had just seen a moment ago scurry under his umbrella for cover and devour him
before slithering his way to the next tree stand. I must have watched this go on for 10
minutes, hoping the buddy and Divemaster I had left behind in my trance was one
of the 4 other light beams now shining onto this intriguing 8-legged creature. I must have mental telepathied my friend a
wee too strongly because he began to grope his long and numerous tentacled arms
directly towards me. As he inched closer
and closer, I had visions of those suction cups wrapping around my mask and my
regulator falling as I screamed violent bubbles forth in fear. I attempted not to panic, after all he wasn’t
the beast from the classic 20,000 Leagues
Under the Sea, he was only about 2 feet long and that was with his arms
fully extended. Still closer, oozing and
parachuting, until he was within spitting distance. I then slowly moved my hands which had been
resting on the sand bottom, but as I did, my extra regulator (which is also
technically called an octopus), swung forward as I moved backward and at that
same moment—Splap! One of the tentacled arms of my new beast-friend jabbed out
and wrapped around my dangling regulator hose.
Needless to say I was bit jilted and literally taken-aback. I believe the whole sorted incident freaked
little Occy out as much as it did me cause he made a mad dash to the safety of
the reef wall, turned brown for a better blend, and I swam off to find my long
lost Divemaster.
Several days later, sitting on a
dock lost in thought and transfixed by moonlight drifting over the seas surface,
I noticed movement out of the corner of my eye in the grass flats below
me. I shined my headlamp onto yet
another octopus, flexing its tentacled arms and eyeing me with curiosity. I hadn’t purposely conjured this one in my
mind like the last. In fact, I thought
it an odd place for an octopus, 50 feet from shore, in no more than 3 inches of
water, and no coral in sight; only seagrass.
He performed the same graceful moves, dropping dramatic shifts in shape
and color as if he was an affable poltergeist; creeping along the turtle grass
blades and straight into my heart. What
had I done to deserve being given a glimpse of light into the wondrous life of
this creature of the night, twice? Truly
a profound privilege was bestowed upon me that I will carry with me
always. These are the moments we live
for, the rest is just filler.

Chapter 10: I've Got Blisters on my Buttocks!

It all began when I told the young girl if her team might need help at some point
during the race that I'd be glad to assist. She told me to hang on a minute and
ran down the muddy river bank, before I knew what was happening she came back
again and said Yes! Right now! Well in Belize “right now” can mean anything
from right this second to 3 days from now, but by the look in her tired eyes I
could tell she meant right this second, because she was gonna drop if she
paddled one more mile. A little history… La Ruta Maya is a 170 mile canoe race
down the Belize River that takes 4 days to paddle.
Paddlers start every morning at 6:00am and camp in the evenings in 3 different
villages along the race route. It is the fourth longest canoe race in the
world. The first day is 49 miles, the second and longest day is 60 miles, the
third leg is 36, and the fourth is 25. It is not a race for the weak of heart,
it is a great challenge, and as such, has much honor attached to it. The race
follows in the tradition of the ancient Mayans when once they paddled their
heavy dugout canoes on trade routes from thriving cities now in regal ruins
such as Xunantunich and Altun Ha to the sea and the barrier reef beyond. I was
to have a seat in this race until my team fell apart at the last minute. I had
worked out at the gym on the rowing machine for hours every day for the past 2
months. I had gloves, Gatorade, and glowing ambition. I had years of paddling
experience on kayaks, and a few hours on canoes. My team had evaporated under
the hot Belizean sun, but just because two of us couldn't/wouldn't participate
didn't mean that the third was going to give up on this opportunity! It was
9:00am and 15 miles into the longest day of the race when I finally got my
chance. I jumped onto the front seat of the canoe with an excitement that is
only seen from contestants at the starting line of the first day. I had
forgotten my paddling gloves and my Platypus water bladder in all the rush but
luckily the team already had food and water on the boat, so off we went. The
team that I was assisting was actually not officially in the race at all, in
fact, they were a support canoe that helped teams who had capsized and that
picked up trash floating in the water that paddlers threw overboard. I'm really
not sure if anyone had told this to our steersman however, since he had us
paddling as if we were racing. His name was Calvin, a Belizean that had been in
La Ruta Maya the past 4 years, his teams had finished in 2nd and 4th place-an
incredible record and one to be greatly respected. My other team member was
also a Belizean male, a computer science high school teacher, who I'm sure
probably thought this race a simple task after attempting to teach 60 teenagers
about computers. No amount of preparation could have helped this white girl
when it came down to trying to keep up with two Belizean men's paddle strokes.
It was only thru sheer will and stubborn determination that I was able to keep
pace. I'm also pretty certain Calvin was going twice as slow as he was
accustomed to doing in the past, otherwise I would have been a goner. It was
hard to concentrate on paddling when our surroundings were so breathtaking. I
found my mind drifting as we passed towering strangler fig trees, soft and
bushy bamboo stands, howler monkeys noisily complaining about our presence, and
hundreds of birds including chachalacas whose raucous call almost rivals that
of the monkeys, brilliant green and red squawking parrots, and the peaceful, shimmering
gray-breasted martins that skimmed inches over the river surface seemingly
following us to make sure we were OK and when they were assured we were, would
then perch on fallen river snags as we paddled by. When I needed energy I
shoved a handful of candy bar, hardboiled egg, or salted peanuts into my mouth
and began paddling again while I chewed it down. When I got thirsty I grabbed a
“shilling bag” (a small plastic bag filled with water that costs a quarter or a
shilling). When I needed to pee, well, that was an issue. I asked the guys what
the last girl did when she had to pee. I had seen other girl paddlers getting
out on the river bank, or jumping out into the water while holding onto the
canoe to do their duties, but these methods would slow us down tremendously.
They told me she hadn't gone at all-this meant she was most likely dehydrated
and one reason why she had looked so worn out. I decided that the bleach bottle
cut into a bailer that I had picked up as trash floating along the way was sent
from the river gods for a reason. Now ladies, picture if you will pulling down
your shorts, scooting down to the front of the seat while laying somewhat prone
and holding a bleach bottle underneath you while you attempt not to rock the
boat with your weight. OK now picture it with two male strangers sitting behind
you, yep you got it. OK now envision doing this three times in one day because
you were paddling for 8 hours straight! With that problem solved I then moved
onto the next, which involved the occasional flatulence brought on by having
eaten a typical Belizean breakfast of greasy fry jacks, eggs, and beans (black
beans whipped in a blender and mixed with coconut milk). The first couple of
farts I was able to somewhat muffle while timing them with the sound of paddle
strokes splashing in the water. However, the 4th one was quite loud, high
pitched, and seemed to reverberate off of my fiberglass canoe bench seat, so it
was heard by the two Belizean male strangers downwind from me. After we all got
a good laugh out of it, I tried to explain how Americans aren't accustomed to
eating beans and fried foods for breakfast and how it reeks havoc on our
digestive systems (or at least mine.) We reached camp around 5:00pm that
evening and I surprisingly enough begged my team to allow me to paddle with
them the next day. They said their boss wanted to go the next day but that I
could possibly paddle on the final day of the race. The final day of the race
came around and Calvin said his boss annoyed the hell out of him and he wanted
me in the canoe instead. That was a really big compliment for me coming from
him; though I didn't know whether he meant it because he got to see my butt 3
times the day before or because I was a good paddler, but either way I was back
on the team! The start was anarchy. The loud thumping of helicopters flying
overhead filming us, 102 canoes side-by-side, the boat horn signaling to begin,
paddles thrashing the water, steersmen counting strokes out loud and yelling
switch!, canoes scraping against each other in a furious fight for the finish
line. Because the 4th day was only 25 miles long there were no breaks for my
team and it was a bit harder because we didn't have the current urging us
forward. I sang a few bars from the O Brother Where Art Thou soundtrack to make
the time pass, namely Man of Constant Sorrow (by the Soggy Bottom Boys--which
was definitely the case in my status at that particular point,) and Down to the
River to Pray, a couple of suitable Beatles tunes such as Help! and Yellow
Submarine, and the Mighty Bob Marley's Don't Rock my Boat. This crazy American
one-woman show kept my Belizean team members quite entertained for awhile also.
We were getting closer to the sea; between the tidal influence and the winds
pushing against us as the river widened, it was getting more difficult to keep
up the pace, so I shut up. When I made the effort to look up from my work I
noticed the change in vegetation and bird life. As we slipped closer to the
sea, cohune palms had changed to royal palms, red mangroves had replaced
calabash trees, and green herons swapped spots with kingfishers and kiskadees.
There were even two bottlenose dolphins who escorted us for awhile; they made
traveling through this river look easy! Nearing the last 10 miles we entered a
tributary that was a narrow shortcut and a red mangrove tunnel of love. These
were the most impressive mangroves I had ever seen, completely covering our
passage, the 50 foot tall canopy enveloped us, while the prop roots reached and
stretched out in an Alice
in Wonderland type of fanciful gigantism. With the bridge (finish line) in our
sights we began to sprint. To put everything we had left to give into digging
our paddles into the water. I gritted my teeth, my lips trembled, and as
thousands cheered I worked harder, dug deeper, reached within myself for extra
power, and came out of it on top, soaring above all the obstacles I had
encountered in Belize and looking down on them from another vantage point. I
did it, at least part of it, and it felt good--the race had symbolized my Peace
Corps service. It had its low points and its high points but all in all it was
a life-changing experience and when it got tough you just kept treading water.
After 70 miles, I now have amoebas again from bathing in the river for 3 nights
and blisters on my behind; I suppose those were the low points, the high points
were everything else.