The Shore Excursion from Hell.

It’s been a long time since I last owned a bathing suit. When I signed up online for the power snorkeling excursion in Cozumel, I knew I’d have to get one. The only problem is, it was now October, a time when the stores are putting out sweaters and jackets, not bathing suits. I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to find one.

I’d worried for nothing. The clearance rack not only had bathing suits, they had them marked down from $30 to $2.99. Most of them were Smalls and Mediums, but I finally found one that was XL. My last pair of trunks had a drawstring that acted as a belt, but this one used Velcro.

I told my friend Fred, an avid snorkler, about the scheduled shore excursion. He said, "Bob, are you going to be able to see anything?" That's when I realized that I would be completely blind under water. My vision is so poor that I literally can’t see the big E at the top of the eye chart. The next day Fred brought in one of his masks and snorkels for me to borrow and after much experimenting we determined there was no way to put the mask on over my glasses.

However, I have an older pair of glasses at home. I removed the arms, leaving just the lenses and frames. I was able to insert them into the mask and voila! Prescription scuba mask! I was all set for power snorkeling.

I knew that I wouldn’t want to shop while I was still sopping wet from snorkeling. Neither did I want to lug the mask and snorkel around while I was walking from shop to shop. My plan was to finish the snorkeling and then return to the ship where I would shower and change, then return to the city to spend all my money. Since the snorkeling excursion was already paid for, there was no need to bring my wallet, which suited me, as I didn’t want it to get wet, but I also didn’t want to leave it unattended while I was underwater. All I needed was my boarding pass and picture I.D., both of which fit in the plastic underwater wallet that I wore around my neck.

We arrived at the snorkeling site and were given inflatable life jackets. We put them on, and were told how to inflate them should the need arise (find the nozzle and blow in it). Next we were given our swim fins. They asked me what size shoe I wore and I told them 10 ½. The guide rummaged through his box and found a pair of size nines. I tried to put them on but I just couldn’t force my feet in them. He looked through the remaining fins but couldn’t find a size ten. He did find a pair of size twelves, which were ridiculously large on me. Every time I took a step, I left the flipper behind me on the sand. It took some very careful goose-stepping to get from point A to point B with the fins still on my feet. I looked like a Nazi Duck.

I waddled to the water, then waded in where the rest of the group had already received their power packs. While power snorkeling, instead of swimming under your own power, you hold on to a large jetpack looking device that contains a propeller. There are two speeds on this thing. Hold down just the left lever for slow, hold down both levers for fast. Simple enough.

Everyone took off after the guide, who led us to the coral reef. I followed along, but five seconds later my fins fell off. I stopped to retrieve them and put them back on and took off after my comrades.

It was then that I discovered a problem with the mask that I never considered. You can’t get an airtight seal with facial hair. If I had shaved that morning the mask would’ve worked fine. As it was, water slowly, but steadily trickled into the mask. Every few minutes I had to poke my head out of the water, lift the mask away from my face, and let the water drain out.

I was in twenty feet of water when the fins fell off again. I tilted my head down to watch them sink to the bottom of the Gulf, which was pretty stupid since that placed my snorkel under the water. Soon I was coughing and sputtering, convinced I was going to drown. I reached for the nozzle on my life jacket, but since my water filled snorkel had been my only source of oxygen, instead of blowing air into the life jacket, I only spit water into it, which didn’t make it much of a flotation device.

I finally got the mask, snorkel and lungs cleared of sea water but my now my comrades were far ahead of me, their faces under water. I had to catch up to them quickly. Time to squeeze both levers for that “fast” speed.

I shot off like a bullet. Sadly, my swim suit stayed where it was. There were no flippers to trap it at my feet. The power units are great for going straight ahead, but they aren’t so hot when it comes to turning, so by the time I got back to where I’d lost the swim suit, it had already sunk to the bottom of the Gulf of Mexico.

My first instinct was to cover my self with whatever I had in my hand.

My second instinct was to keep a fast moving propeller away from Mister Happy.

I abandoned my fellow snorkelers and headed back to shore. When I was in waist deep water I shouted up to the guide who stayed behind that I needed my towel. Whether it was due to the wind or the boom box blasting Salsa music next to him, he didn’t hear me. I shouted myself hoarse before giving up and marching my naked ass out of the water.

Once he saw me he couldn’t get the towel to me fast enough. I expected sympathy, compassion, maybe a bottle of Corona to settle my nerves. Instead he looked at me and demanded, “Where’s your feet?”

“They’re at the bottom of the damned ocean with my trunks!”

“Twenty dollars for the feet!”

I explained that I didn’t have my wallet with me and begged him to fetch the (pre-paid) cab to take me back to the ship.

“Twenty dollars for the feet! Twenty dollars!”

“Cab!”

“Twenty dollars!”

“Ship!”

“Twenty dollars!”

“No tengo dinero!”

“Policía! Policía!”

Uh oh.

The cop must have been waiting around the corner. That’s the only way I can explain how he showed up as quickly as he did. He and the guide conversed in Spanish while I tried my best to pick up a word here and there, but they were speaking too fast. Finally the cop turned to me and said, “Señor, please remove the towel.” Oh Lord, I’m going to be thrown into a Mexican jail. Naked.

“I’d rather not.”

“I’m afraid I must insist.”

I opened the towel just enough to give him a peek. He subtly reached behind him to the handcuffs tucked into his waistband. “Señor, this beach is not clothing optional!”

“Look at me! Do you see a bathing suit in my hand? Do I look like being naked is optional?” I told him how I’d lost my suit in his godless, communist waters.

“Very well, Señor, and what of the money you owe this man?”

“I no have-oh, my wallet-oh, dammit-oh!”

Just then, an old woman who had been watching the whole exchange from her Carnival Holiday Beach Towel spoke up. “I can lend you twenty bucks, sweetie. Just promise me that you won't take that towel off again. These old eyes have seen a lot, but I don’t think they could take another glimpse of that.”

I was too grateful to be offended. I gave the guide twenty dollars for the missing feet and he took me to the cab that took me back to the ship. As I boarded the ship one of the cabin stewards stood sentry in front of a large wheeled cart half full of damp and sandy towels. “I’ll take your towel, sir,” he said.

“Like hell you will,” I replied and beat a hasty retreat to my room.

Lies at lunch, trouble at dinner

I went on a cruise to Cozumel last week. It was my first cruise. I'd been looking forward to seeing the sunset from the Lido Deck but it rained every day we were at sea. So much for those stars at night, too. Still I managed to have fun.
Lunch and breakfast in the dining room was Open Seating. Since I had different dining companions I saw no reason to be boring ol’ Bob Byrd who works at AT&T. At breakfast the first day I introduced myself to my fellow diners as Dr. Byrd. I told one woman she really needed to “get that mole checked out right away. I don’t like the look of it.” Some doctor chasing bimbo asked me if there was a Mrs. Byrd. I said there was indeed, but she was ill and confined to the stateroom. Two days later this same woman was behind me in line at one of the many buffets. She asked me how my wife was feeling and I looked at her bewildered and said, “Wife? I’m traveling alone. I have no wife.” Then I commented to the person carving my meat that what with the rain and wind the night before, if anyone had slipped and fallen overboard she probably wouldn’t have been seen.
I may have been too convincing. I noticed some whispers and pointing from a few people after that, but since there had never been a Mrs. Byrd on board, there was never a formal homicide investigation.
By lunch the first day I'd already grown bored with medical degree so I introduced myself as Pastor Bobby. Naturally someone asked what church I was with. I should have had an answer prepared. Instead I answered without really thinking, "The Backwater Holy Word of God One True Church." Of course I insisted that we all say grace before eating. When the woman across from got the hiccups I pointed at her and shouted, "Out vile demon!" No one liked me, but all of them were too polite to let it show.
Dinner seating is assigned. Since I'd be sharing dinner with the same people every night I decided to behave and just be me. Behaving is in the eye of the beholder, though.

The duty free liquor shop had a free tasting just before dinner. There were a dozen kinds of rum, a couple of brands of tequila, some vodka, scotch, bourbon, and a few bottles, I wasn’t sure WHAT they were. The bartender beckoned me to a table where several little plastic shot glasses were lined up. He insisted I try one of each, and he was just too damn cute to refuse. The longer I stood there drinking free booze the longer I got to look at those brown eyes. Shameless. When it was time for dinner I was loaded.

I managed to find my way to the dining room and one of the waiters led me to table 139 where I met my dining mates: Tammy and Abigail, two friends from Georgia; Larry, traveling alone; Greg, also alone. Gerald, another solo cruiser; and Joe and Daphne, a couple, though not married.

Daphne sat directly across from me. Her boyfriend was forty-five or fifty but Daphne was maybe twenty-three. She wore a very low cut dress that she was falling out of. Her boobs were as fake as her blond hair, though better done. Her black roots were showing on her head. She wore blue eye shadow, false eyelashes, and ruby red lipstick. Every time I looked up from my soup I was confronted with those rigid boobs and that Tammy Faye makeup job.

Joe was on her left, and to her right was Larry, an older black gentleman. After the appetizers arrived Larry started telling some VERY raunchy jokes. They weren’t funny but they sure were vulgar. Every time he used another taboo word Daphne grimaced and put her hands over her ears. By then the booze had really kicked in. I wasn’t certain if she had three fake boobs or only two. After Larry’s third crude joke, and several more grimaces from Daphne I said, “Larry, turn it back a notch, dude. You’re offending the hooker!”

Dead silence.  A silence broken by our waiter who said, "In vino veritas est."

For some reason, Daphne didn’t make it to any more meals in the dining room, though Joe still showed up, and never showed any rancor towards me. I'm still not sure why he didn't beat me up.