Vacation Fun

I have always been pretty lucky when it comes to travel.

On our Alaskan cruise when things got really rough and people were hanging over the side of the ship, I was bellying up to the midnight buffet. In Morocco when others were popping immodium like candy, I was actually eating candy. At the Great Barrier Reef when the crocodile showed up on the beach for a little luncheon snack, I was on the other side of the beach snacking on lunch.

Last month though, my luck started to run out.

On vacation in Grand Cayman, I was the only one who wanted to go to Stingray City. Every time I tried to bring it up, Tim and Rose would hold up their hands and say,"Steve Irwin." (crocodile hunter guy)

Okay, how about snorkeling at the lagoon? "Steve Irwin"

Glass bottom boat? Even they couldn't use Steve Irwin as an excuse there. "Three hours sucked out of our day to watch fish? Have fun. Be sure to take lots of pictures." Party poopers.

And so we spent our days lounging on the beach and lolling in the surf (not that I'm complaining, mind you.).

Until day two, that is, when the fish showed up.

At first, there were one or two white fish (about six inches long) swimming past us in the crystal clear water. Okay, not the most comfortable feeling when you don't know a trout from a great white, but no one else seemed to be panicking so...

And then, suddenly, there were more. Like three dozen. All surrounding us. Well, mostly me. Just hovering and staring and making little fish bubbles. I think they thought I was one of them, only bigger. Maybe a giant albino white fish goddess and they had come to worship.

Now we were feeling very uncomfortable. In a heartbeat, Rose threw Tim in front of her like a living shield and quickly backed away toward the shore leaving me to the mercy of the swarm. Thanks. (Actually, the only reason I didn't do the same thing was because she beat me to it.)

As their leader, I was fortunately able to command them to disperse peacefully, but anytime I stood still for longer than a minute the rest of the week, there they were again (and me without my self-tanner) staring and bubbling.

But at least they were harmless. Unlike the stingray who showed up days three through seven. If Mohammed won't got to the mountain...

This fellow decided that he needed to bond with us too.

"Watch out!" one of the other beachgoeers warned us that first afternoon. "There's a ray headed toward you!" Huh?

We zigged, he zagged. We ended up a lot closer than we wanted to be. He glided and twitched his tail.

Suddenly, I was not so anxious to visit with a stingray. Eventually, he settled down and buried himself in the sand, so that all you could see were his eyes and the tip of his very long, very barbed tail. Not reassuring.

I spent the rest of the week jumping at every rock or piece of driftwood on the ocean floor, waiting for his daily glide-by and tail twitch.

Sea life if sooo much cuter in a Disney movie when they are all singing and playing seashells like drums.

And them came the piece de resistance.

Bobbing about happily in six feet or so of water (I was not going to step on Mr. Ray.), I kicked Tim accidentally.

Even as I apologized, my brain was registering the fact that he was on my right, but I had definitely kicked something on my left. Hmmm. Before I could figure out how this was possible, Rose shrieked, "Hey, a really big fish just came toward me."

And as Tim scoffed at her and chided me for not knowing the difference between flesh and blood and a rock (yeah, like they feel the same. Puh-leeze. How dumb does he think I am?), a guy a few feet away yelled, "Barracuda!" and pointed towards us (Hah! I knew it wasn't a rock!).

As we hastened toward shore in a recreation of the fourth of July shark scene in Jaws, we looked and, sure enough, there it was. A nice, big, three-foot long barracuda. Staring and chomping some wicked-looking teeth.

Like Mr. Ray, Barry visited us daily, staring and chomping, and like with the white fish, Tim once again became a human shield (this time it was me, and I not only got in back of him, I climbed him like a tree - I did not want to become lunch!). Although Barry didn't seem to hold a grudge against me for kicking him, I wasn't taking any chances. When he showed up for his daily visit, I got out.

Eventually, our fun in the sun ended and we came back home to the states and headed for Denver.

Ahh. Good old Denver. 5,280 feet above sea level. 5,280 feet above stingrays and barracudas. 5,280 minutes (four days) of altitude sickness.

Headache, nausea, upset stomach, dizziness, sleepiness. The first two days there, all I saw were the four walls of our hotel room. Good thing I brought my camera and bought a guide book and map. I got misty-eyed just thinking of Barry and Mr. Ray.

Drink lots of water, the room service waiter told me. Drink lots of water the housekeeping staff told me. Drink lots of water Tim told me. Drink lots of water everyone told me. So I did. And it helped. Then, I only had headache, dizziness and 5,280 trips a day to the restroom. Not fun.

Eventually, I got the symptoms down to a few hours of dizziness a day and only 3,000 trips to the bathroom. And then it was time to go home.

Thank God. This travel stuff was killing me.