Call for Pizza
Let’s try uploading that picture of the divemaster house again – it really has to be seen to get a feel for the vibe around here…
It didn’t take me long to wade into the wave of island life here. I haven’t worn shoes for a week and my skin has turned shades I never knew it had the guts to bare. I’ve given up on waiting for the one shower in the Divemaster house, and have found that washing down with the boat hose a few times a day works just as swell. Every day before the morning dive, I make my way to a local shop for my daily oatmeal-banana liquado (ice, whole milk, 1 banana, oatmeal and sugar — HEAVENLY!). Yup. I’m feeling pretty local.
Finished my First Aid course this week and I’m in the process of becoming a “certified” Rescue Diver. “Are you okay? I’m emergency trained. I can help you. Someone call for pizza!” (In practice, we call for pie instead of help, to avoid mistaken cases of emergency.) I remember learning a bunch of this stuff in high school, but it’s hard to appreciate the value when you’re 16 and your buddy is slipping the dummy the tongue. Extremely valuable information that I feel SO much more comfortable having in the know. I highly recommend hittin’ pause in the tape of daily life to take the course (only a half day, $50 buck course at your local Community College). And maybe if you’re lucky, you’ll even get some tongue back.
A friend from the island was robbed and shot this week on a trip to the mainland (La Ceiba). He died yesterday. Lots of those big “value of life” questions flying through the ol’ cranial these last few days. (Another recommendation — know your blood type. Immediate knowledge of such critical information could come in real handy someday — might even save a life. So ask Mom (she always knows that stuff) or get a blood test next time you see ‘Doc, and save yourself the hassle of figuring it out on the countdown-clock of life. I’m A positive. Now I know.) Gettin’ harder and harder to keep reassuring my parents that it’s “safe” down here. But I signed the bottom of that life-contract, accepting all those risks in the fine print, in tradeoff for getting to ride the rollercoaster. I don’t have time to wait in line. And when I get to the top, my arms better be in the air.
You are missed Gal.