Paradise Lost

After flying into Belize, I grabbed my gear and immediately beelined for the coast. When I arrived, I spent a week living on the beach, carefully hollowing out a palm tree trunk with my multi-tool blade, sculpting the pliant wood until a sleek sea kayak emerged. I used sand—course from broken coral—to smooth away any splinters, and lashed several dried palm fronds together to fashion a crude yet effective paddle. A bottle of champagne, a permanent marker, and my usual literary flair allowed me to christen my vessel the “Pequod,” which would later prove to be a very unfortunate choice.

I hit the open water with gusto, looking forward to exploring the vast Caribbean, its sapphire-blue waters glittering like glacial ice. Hours lengthened into days, which in turn lengthened into weeks, yet still I paddled on, chasing the rising sun. During the day I settled into my touring routine—a slow and deliberate pace of strokes and sweeps—and at night I drifted on moonlit tides, lulled to sleep inside my kayak’s cockpit by the steady rhythm of the sea.

Suddenly, one day, I had a chance encounter with an angry sperm whale (query: is there any other kind?) Because their ridiculously tiny eyes rest on opposite sides of their ridiculously massive heads, sperm whales have difficulty correctly judging relative scale, but they have no problem reading. Upon seeing the name “Pequod” emblazoned upon the bow, this particular whale (whose identity I shall not reveal; let’s just say his last name happens to be a fairly good indicator of his personality) became quite wroth, thinking I was a certain tenacious captain who had caused the whale some mischief in days past, and that my kayak was the captain’s hated vessel. Up came the leviathan’s bony crown, and the mini-Pequod was split in twain (not unlike her larger namesake), her contents—namely me, and my camera equipment tucked away in a dry bag—spilled into the unforgiving sea. Call me Ishmael.

The current quickly washed away my gear and supplies, leaving me alone. I doggie-paddled for what seemed like days before my strength, artificially fueled by a dwindling supply of energy drinks, began to wane. In the end, the sea laid claim to my soul, ushering me to Davy Jones’ Locker. I struggled at first, but soon relinquished my hold on life, accepting my fate and the peaceful release of the warm waters. Darkness reached for me, and I did not flinch from her embrace.

I remember little of those hazy moments, but by Poseidon’s grace I did not die that day. I was rescued by a giant sea turtle, who for some reason was named Frank (not a very sea turtlish name, if you ask me, but then again, I am not an expert on such things). He found me floating in the abyss, and whisked me to the surface where he performed emergency CPR. I came back to life in fits and starts, expelling liquid death from my flooded lungs. Frank and I became fast friends, my only companion in the wide watery wild.

For weeks, I lived as Frank lived, slowly traversing the vast blue, diving into the shallows to wrestle conch meat from the shell with my teeth, surfacing for air when the need arose. Frank taught me which shellfish tasted best, whereas I taught Frank about Einstein’s theory of general relativity (which was of little practical use to him, but he was greatly impressed nonetheless). In time, our friendship blossomed into true brotherhood.

When the sharks came for me, Frank was very brave in my defense. He should have been in little danger, as all he had to do was retract his head and flippers into his shell to avoid injury. Nonetheless, he fought off the sharks with the ferocity of a mother bear defending her cubs. Not used to prolonged combat, he quickly began to tire, and I feared he would fall victim to the sharks on their next pass. Although it grieved me to do so, I pushed Frank away into a nearby strong current, where he quickly drifted away, out of danger. The sharks, preferring the delicate taste of man-flesh to stringy turtle meat, surrounded me like a hyena pack closing in for the kill. I waited to face my fate alone; I never saw my good friend Frank again.

The leader of the sharks, a massive great white with eyes like a doll and a heart as black as coal, came for me, his grinning countenance revealing a thousand slashing daggers aimed at what remained of my moxie. I grabbed the only weapon at my disposal—a conch shell—and braced for impact. Not unlike brave Samwise facing the monstrous Shelob, I aimed the pointy end of the conch at the oncoming menace, closed my eyes and prayed for a quick end. The ravenous beast, eager for blood, realized its peril only too late, and trying to turn away, impaled itself on the conch with murderous force. The other sharks, seeing the fall of their great leader, slunk away in shame, their tails between their legs—or rather, between the places where they would have had legs if they lived on land. I was victorious, but alone in the deep.

I hollowed out the shark and inflated its skin, forming a crude raft, using its mighty tail as a sail. I caught the East Wind, and pointed the bow of my shark-raft in the general direction of the coast. Soon, the wind became a gale, which in turn became a hurricane. I rode before the howling storm as if adorned with Mercury’s winged sandals, shouting at the tempest like mad King Lear.

My shark-raft could not bear the force of the whirlwind, and soon began to break apart. Once again, I was thrown into the callous sea, sent adrift in its turbulent waters. I swam only to stay alive, not knowing which direction was East, West, North, or South—or even up or down. All hope seemed lost, and I drifted into dark dreams.

I awoke to find that I had been tossed ashore upon a coral reef surrounding a remote deserted island. To my surprise, bobbing gently in the shallow waters next to me, I found one of my dry bags, which I had lost weeks ago when the whale had rammed my kayak. Inside, perfectly preserved, were my tripod, camera, and lenses. Looking about, I realized the storm was about to break, with the setting sun piercing the gaps between the retiring clouds. Weak from my ordeal, I nonetheless managed to struggle into position, taking a photo before the moment, and my strength, failed. I threw myself upon the sandy beach, and I slept for the first time in months.

The next day I hitched a ride on a passing cruise ship back to the mainland. After ages at sea, my bronzed skin, chiseled physique, and flowing mane of Fabio-esqe hair made me quite popular with the ladies on board (as well as a surprisingly high percentage of the men). After we pulled into port, a group of libidinous septuagenarians treated me to drinks at the local watering hole. I raised a few glasses to Frank, and waxed loquacious about my deserted island—a paradise floating in a sea of turmoil, adorned with a crown of radiant green, glittering with the light of a thousand upon thousand jeweled grains of sand, swaying gently to a breeze as old as time, barely rising above the dominion of water that unites us all in life.

Then I hopped on a plane and got as far away from that place as humanly possible. Central America is freakin’ redonkulous.