The Snorkel Test
Okay, these pictures are a bit…um…festive? And a disclaimer is in order: I am not of the frat-party-and-beer-bonging breed. Neither do I bend easily under the application of peer pressure. (Actually, I consumed more alcohol in my three months in the Bay Islands in Honduras than in my entire four years of University.)
That being said, it happens to be that there is this nice little initiation rite of passage for becoming a certified Divemaster so fondly referred to as “The Snorkel Test”.
Yes..yes. There is ALSO a “snorkel test” requirement of the divemaster program that consists of swimming 800 meters *?* within some specified time…yada, yada. But THIS snorkel test consists of the same snorkel, a large crowd on a bar on the beach, and the nastiest, most despicable concoction of spirits your lovely divemaster/instructor friends can dream up (who, of course, are determined to up the nastiness scale at least 10 notches from their OWN *unmemorable – only because they blacked out* snorkel test).
My last night on Utila, working under the valid and true excuse that “My digital camera was stolen.”, I somehow managed to play on pity and escape my date with liver death. I sighed silently with relief as myself and nine instructors/divemasters caught our 6 AM flight for a last week fling together on the white sand beaches of neighboring island Roatan.
Ah! But who am I to try to think myself above the Gods of History, Tradition and Initiation?
A “no-no” finger nod to tequila shots is one thing, but denying a cheering crowd at a Temptation Island Crew and Cast Party (WHO by the way, were only “tempting” in that petrified and artificially sweetened I-wanna-be-another-Hollywood-Hostess-twinky kinda way *ew*) , and the yanking arms of your best and most un-trustworthy mates is another thing.
So after watching one of my fellow initiates subject himself to the treatment, I stepped up…excuse me…I SUCCUMBED to the stool in the center of the circle and accepted my soon-to-be-faced fate.
In picture 1, Nick is whispering his recently learned secret…”you´ve gotta break the seal on the mask to allow air into the nose so you can breath while you chug…” into my ear, while I am trying my best to resist dry heaving from the scent and taste of the remaining licorice flavored Sambuca *Ugh!* still dripping off the snorkel from HIS test.
Um. May I repeat…*Ugh*
And really… that´s about the end of the story. Not only do I NOT remember taking picture number 3, but apparently I passed out cold and napped the rest of the night hidden under a picnic bench on the sand volley ball court. Hey. What can I say? Alcohol is not my game. I already knew that. And at least I didn´t get chiefed from forehead to toenail with black marker *cough, cough* “Nick!”
*takes a bow*
Certified AND initiated Divemaster Solbeam.