Part 1: 8 Years yields a story about our honeymoon that involves bananas, hammocks, and banana hammocks.

Sorry for not writing in over a week, but life has been nutty this week.  Between throwing birthday parties, celebrating an anniversary, having family in from out of town, apple-picking, going hiking, and other (not fun enough to mention here) happenings, computer time has been limited to a meager facebook chirp here and an email squeak there.

Now, on to the goods.

. . .

As I said, Terry and I celebrated an anniversary this week.  8 years, ya'll!  8 years is traditionally celebrated with bronze (bronze the first pair of shoes he ever sniffed and subtly recommended I buy scented inserts for, perhaps?), pottery (an urn to hold the ashes of all the pet remains we've shared together, no?), or appliances (his and her bidets, hmmm?).  But being the untraditional (broke) types that we are, we decided that our 8th year will be celebrated by:

1. spending this anniversary with our children.  The night was great.  I made a good dinner, had some friends over (who brought brownies and wine), and we roasted marshmallows in the backyard.
2. calling each other "mama and daddy".
3. eating more meat together.  After all, those who meat together, keep together, right?
4. ironing his underwear.
5. reading more books aloud to each other.
6. keeping secrets... as Terry asks me every time I publish a new post, "can't we keep anything private?"  Yes, darling.  Right after this one story.

. . .

So, since I'm a week late, I thought I would observe the anniversary of our honeymoon (instead of our wedding day) with one of my all time favorite stories that Terry and I have ever shared.  Enjoy.

. . .

Terry and I are given the gift of our honeymoon from Terry's mom, Lani.  We spent a week in the West Indies, eating and drinking our way up the islands, starting our fun in Barbados.  From there, we boarded a large sail boat, or a clipper, that was piloted by a very serious man from Luxembourg.  Once aboard, we were greeted by our ship mates who happened to be 75 blue-haired seniors from around the world.  It was like being in the Small World Disney ride, except the animatronics had aged.  We were unquestionably the youngest people on board (minus the enormous bartender named Egor, the very young, lean, tan... (panting) deckhands... what was I saying again?  Oh yes, and the cleaning staff, Poppie the 4 ft. tall masseuse from Thailand, and one other couple.  They were young too.)

We began sailing late at night, our course set for St. Lucia.  We were given our week's itinerary upon arrival, where we were given choices of the types of activities we could take part in- kayaking, mountain biking, Jeep tours through banana orchards, scuba diving, shopping, or (insert 75 elderly disapproving faces here) exploring on your own and at your own risk.

I doubt that anyone but Terry and I chose the last option.  These people were obviously here as a part of their senior reinvention, eager to learn "from the locals all about their culture" via banana boating and souvenir shopping.  And let me tell you nothing is more amazing that watching 4 85 year old women straddle one of these:

Now that I am 8 years older, wiser, and more interested than ever to wear a demure cowl-neck swimsuit with matching skirt, I too understand why folks chose to do the packaged stuff.  You were paying for the guide, his accent-adorned history lessons and corny jokes, and the free spiced rum that came at the end of each activity.  In retrospect it's so easy to see, we were fools to have trusted our own devises on these foreign islands.  

The first few days were actually spent doing a few of these activities.  We decided kayaking through the inlets around Antigua sounded fun.  We learned a great deal about the native flora and fauna of the island from our guide.  And while I'm usually very (cough) interested in the difference between herrons and cranes or sea grass and sea weed, this was a time that I really just wanted to "banana boat" with Terry under some palm tree.  

Terry sat behind me in this kayak, both of us sweating from our oversized neon life vests, surrounded by 8 or so kayaks of folks with names like Gertie and Herbert.  Once our tour was over, our guide, a shirtless black man with long dreadlocks and a bright smile, said that we would race back to the other side of the island for the chance to win a bottle of Antigua's own spiced rum.  Gertie on my left and Herbert on my right, we began paddling at the sound of our guide's, "GOOOO!"

In order to make a long story a little less, I'll go ahead and cut to the chase.

It was the first fight we'd had in matrimony.  Names were called.  Expletives were used.  Threats of shoved oars were delivered.  Terry and I came in last.

That night, I began feeling a little sea sick.  I decided to call it an early night, preparing myself for the following day's activity- mountain biking through the mountains of St. Lucia.  I spent my night alternating between the bed and the cabin's bathroom while Terry was sent away.  To any place where he couldn't hear his newly wed ralph up chunks of beef bourguignon.  

He went up to the top deck, headed straight away for Egon and his clipper-famous mixed drinks, and made friends with a man named Bruce from New Jersey.  Bruce, an optometrist by day and something questionable by night, wore diamond rings on his fingers that spelled out B R U C E.

He grew to like Terry rather fast, which isn't surprising.  What was surprising though was that Terry grew to like Bruce back.  I'm sure it also helped that Terry and Bruce were the only two people at the bar that night who shared the common interest of being born after the Battle of Okinawa.  Well, and Egor, the bartender, was too for that matter.  Diamond-crusted Bruce, 6'4" artist Terry, and 7" bartender Egor hit it off real nice.  Bruce was as generous as he was stylish, and bought all of Terry's many many many drinks that evening/night/morning.  And the mixed company was as interesting as the mixed drinks Egor concocted for them, with lemons, salt, egg yolks, and vodka (ralph).

Needless to say, Terry was in no mood to bike through the hills of St. Lucia at oh eight hundred o'clock.  I had slept soundly for a good 8 hours (after my final ralph of the night), so I was raring to go.  The good sport of a new husband that he was, he conceded to get up, mount a bike, and together fall last in line AGAIN to a group of peddle-pushing nanas for me.  Good guy.  And, making matters worse, when we finished the course, we were offered cups of that spiced rum that seemed to be everywhere.  Doesn't anyone drink water around here?

And so, after two days of getting our asses kicked by the itinerary made for "active adults", we opted for "Explore On Your Own and At Your Own Risk".  

Risk?  What risk?

. . . 

(To Be Continued)