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.
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