by the skin of our teeth

*Last night I participated in my first live storytelling.  The theme was "by the skin of my teeth".  It was fun, and I look forward to doing more. This was the story I told:

I was 22 and he was 26 when we got married.  We received the best wedding present people like us could receive.  My new mother in law gave us a weeklong honeymoon vacation to the West Indies Islands, where we would take a sailboat from Barbados to a new island everyday.  I say it was the best for people like us because "people like us" can't afford such extravagant vacations.  And even if we could've, we probably would've chosen a different location.  My husband is a shade of pink that only gets pinker in the sun.  And while my skin tone can handle it, I usually like to avoid going anywhere that requires me to wear a bathing suit.  So, if left up to us (and assuming we could've afforded our own honeymoon), we probably would've chosen someplace like Scotland.  He gets his overcast and I get my turtlenecks & tweed.  But even though we didn't choose the location, the gift suited us perfectly.  First of all, it cost us nothing.  And at that point in the game, we had nothing.  What's more, at 22 years old, indecision just came with the territory.  To have someone say, "be at this place at this time, and when you do, have a lot of fun" is the best gift you can bestow on two young idiots who could waste years in useless deliberation.

The day after our wedding, we caught a connecting flight from Miami to Barbados.  And from Barbados, we traveled by taxi (beat up mini van stripped of it's sliding door) to the port where the sailboat we'd call home for the next week was docked.  I've seen countless sailboats over the years, ranging in size and grandeur, but nothing could match what we were about to board.  It was not unlike a pirate ship... almost cartoony.  It was wooden and beautiful, but it looked like it belonged on the ocean floor with a treasure chest and a skeleton in a vest.  I had no idea boats like this were still in operation.  By the time we arrived it was late and dark, so we went down to our cabin and got ready for dinner.  That night and the following day would be spent at sea, traveling from Barbados to St. Lucia, the first stop on our honeymoon adventure.

I could fill a book with all the amusing things I thought I knew at that age.  One chapter would certainly be dedicated to how little I really understood about marriage.  Specifically, how little I knew about honeymoons.  I think I thought that a honeymoon was just a week of sex.  And not just any kind of sex, George Michael's version of sex in the Careless Whisper video.  Silhouettes of people in dark rooms tossing their wet hair around.  But just as you can't watch that video over & over for a week straight, you also cannot have sex for a week straight.  It is scientifically impossible.  In fact, after the first romp of the honeymoon on our first day at sea, there was not much more to do in the cabin than shrug, put on clothes, and come up for air.  And so we did.  When we reached the deck, the Caribbean sun was so bright it hurt our eyes.  As our eyes began to adjust, the hustle and bustle around us was startling.  There was a kind of energy on deck that is only felt when surrounded by people who've already been awake for hours and hours.  Crew members speeding by with silver dome-topped trays, folks who are already on their fourth game of shuffleboard, people wrapped in towels who've already been in the ocean, and everyone was gripping their morning sparkling wine.  By our younger standards, we had not slept in.  Rather, it was everyone else who'd been awake since 6:00am.  It was that moment that it dawned on us that we were sharing our honeymoon with shipmates of the "active senior" variety.  There were at least 40 years separating us from every other person on that boat.
       Well, not every person.  There were two girls on board from France who bore an uncanny resemblance to Audrey Tatou.  Both of them looked like Audrey Tatou.  I'm not sure if they were twins, friends, or lovers, but they were far too attractive (and obviously did not share my love of turtlenecks & tweed) for me to want to share my week with them.  So I scanned the crowds further.  There was one other couple on board that was even remotely close to our age range, and from what I gathered from my moment of profiling, they appeared to be people we could enjoy.  Bruce, the "optometrist" from New Jersey, and his wife whose name I've forgotten.  I will never forget Bruce's name because Bruce wore diamond studded rings on 2 of his left hand's fingers and 3 on the right that spelled out B R U C E.  I like to imagine that somewhere out there is a man with B R U C E spelled out in scar tissue across his face.  This was the kind of man Bruce was.  And while I've failed to remember her name (she really should've invested in name tag rings as well), I will always remember the scale of her hair, the rhinestone bathing suits, and her voice.  Dear god, her voice.  We had little in common with Bruce and his wife, other than the fact that we were of Sicilian descent, but befriending them ensured our first day at sea would be as entertaining as an episode of the Real Housewives of New Jersey.  To my surprise, they became real friends by the end of the week.
       And then there was the crew and staff.  The young, hot deckhands, sun kissed and sculpted from yanking masts each day... the assortment of cute European maids in their antiquated costume-like uniforms... the 3' tall Thai masseuse named Poppy who both killed us and healed us with her fingertips and feet (she really used her feet to massage us)... and the 7' tall Russian bartender named Egor and his cocktails involving egg yolks, coffee grinds, and salt... and last but not least, the captain.  He was a very serious man from Luxembourg in a very serious uniform from 1912.
      These were our shipmates.

While this was a far more charming alternative to the Kathy Lee type cruise line I was familiar with, it still had all the markings of a vacation package.  And if I sound ungrateful or elitist, I'm not.  It was really nice being served breakfast every morning with accompanied unlimited mimosas; it was nice to be handed an itinerary with activity options; it was nice to have people clean my cabin, leave chocolates & mints on my pillow, and curtsey as they walked past me in the hall.  That was definitely the last time anything like that would ever happen to me again.  The thing to know was that the itinerary governed all.  Without it, you were just a fool who missed morning cocktails (6:00am) or dinner (4:30pm).  It told us of the day's activities, and gave specific directions in multiple languages for where we ought to be when it was time to leave.  I believed that the itinerary could make us better people, starting with earlier wake up times.  It didn't take long for us to figure out that toting that piece of paper around everywhere was a small price to pay for the amount of priceless info it held.
        You could find a list of the day's activity options on the back of the itinerary.  There were always 3 options:

Option 1: Stay on the boat, eat, drink, and be merry.  I'm pretty sure Bruce and his wife were the only ones to choose this option.

Option 2: Choose from a selection of organized activities on the island.  I'm pretty sure all of the active seniors chose this option.

Option 3: Explore the island du jour freely.  And if I recall, this option was written in a tiny font with a tiny asterisks next to it that had the tiny disclaimer "not responsible for whatever harm befalls you when left to your own stupid devices".  But in very big letters under that read,

"THE BOAT WAITS FOR NO ONE".

The point was taken, but we still chose option 3 90% of the time.  The only other shipmates who chose option 3 like us were the double Audrey Tatous in all their topless glory.  We only took part in the following organized activities: a kayaking tour through the island's inlets, biking in and around the banana orchards, a spiced rum taste testing, and (my favorite) banana boating.  Banana boating is exactly what it sounds like.  It's an enormous yellow inflatable that's shaped like a banana.  Up to four people straddle the banana and hold on for dear life, because it is then attached to a motor boat and pulled at speeds up to 80mph.  As I'm sure you can imagine, in the event that you find yourself riding a banana on the ocean, it becomes increasingly slippery.  This in turn means that it is not uncommon to flip off the banana.  But what you might not know is that somehow, against all odds, flipping off a fast wet banana is really fun.  What's more fun than doing it yourself?  Watching 4 80 year olds ride a big banana and flip off, that's what.

Our first stop was St. Lucia.  It was a British island.  The following day we traveled to St. Barts, a French island, and we would alternate between British & French islands everyday in the same way after that.  I won't bore you with the details in the differences between political climates, but I will say that these two types of islands are very very different.  It is really hard to ignore how poor the British islands are (I can only speak for the ones we visited), as it was clear how difficult it must be for them to get back on their feet after a hurricane.  We were bombarded with people begging me to braid my hair, placing beads around our necks, or offering to get my husband high upon arrival.  But what started as naive pity through my clean American eyes quickly faded.  We soon fell in love with the culture and backdrop- mountains and glittering waters; the most warm people; colorful shanties and old trucks full of colorful cases of foreign sodas, chickens, goats, & iguanas darting here and there; barefoot children playing soccer in the streets; delicious unidentifiable jerked meats at every corner; cinnamon trees; spiced rum that flowed more freely than clean water.  It was all so unlike us, so exotic, so intoxicating.  We were inspired, excited, and exhausted as we waited for the dinghy to pick us up and bring us back to our pirate ship that evening.
        Despite the fact that St. Barts shares the same landscape as it's neighboring British islands, we could feel the difference between St. Lucia as soon as we set foot on land.  It oozes a kind of douchy opulence that is very specific to the region.  It's the amalgamation of a European discotheque lifestyle mixed with the breeziness of the Caribbean... the island was infested with men in linen pants and oversized sunglasses on vespas; $10 espresso drinks; $50 small plates of food disguised as an Abstract Expressionist painting; ocean front verandas with white curtains blowing in the wind.  While this was obviously the double Audrey Tatous' element (seen at every turn topless, splashing one another and giggling), this place was so unlike us.  It was just on the other end of the "unlike us" spectrum.  I'd be lying if I said I didn't enjoy the French islands too.  Much like a rich chocolate torte, your tooth may hurt after a few bites, but you still love it.  Each day we would have to gear ourselves up for the inevitable culture shock, but everyday we'd sit on whichever island's dock at sunset, waiting for the same dinghy to pick us up, and we'd gaze into each other's newlywed eyes and make unrealistic proclamations about our future to come.

Seven days pass, and our unknowing reality check is eminent.  It's the last day of vacation.  Luckily it happened to wind up also being my least favorite island thus far, which made the idea going home to a sparse one bedroom apartment in Atlanta a little easier.  We still did all the things we'd done on the British islands days earlier... rented a scooter and traipsed around, ate the last bites of the best unidentifiable jerked meats I've had to date, drank florescent sodas that would be otherwise offensive if had anywhere other than there, and splashed in lagoons.  (Oh look.  There are the double Audrey Tatous again.)  We ended the day drunk on what we new would be the last spiced rum we'd have for a long time (I don't think I can ever drink it again actually), and drunk on love.  We sat on yet another dock at sunset, waiting for the same yellow dinghy to pick us up, and talking less about the place we'd seen and now more about the place we were going.  We dreamt of simplifying things.  We could do anything!  We could sell all 10 pieces of IKEA furniture to our name and try to find an oceanfront shanty.  We could work anywhere and do anything.  Love governed all.

Wait.  Love didn't govern all.  The itinerary governs all.  The itinerary.  We noticed there were no other shipmates on the dock yet.  Were we early or were they late?  We looked out into the sunset, where our pirate ship could be seen in the distance every other day before today.  Where was it?  We opened the itinerary, and there, plain as day, it explained that we would be boarding from a different dock on our last day.  The south side dock.  Where is the south side dock!?!?  In the ugliest fit of hysteria, one that no new husband should see so early in a marriage, I began flailing my arms to hail a cab.  Any cab.  Another mini van stripped of it's sliding door pulled up and asked us where we were going.  In a moment of desperation, I jumped in and yelled, "south side dock!  Fast please!  We're late!"  Our driver, the angel, didn't slow down for anyone or anything.  He sped back through the banana orchards and mountains from which we had just come, past the jerk meat stands, past the lagoons, past the shanties, and didn't stop until he pulled up onto the beach.

"This isn't a dock, sir.  This is a beach..."

He didn't say a word, but pointed out into the direction of the rapidly setting sun.  There was our pirate ship, getting smaller and smaller by the minute.  What was ugly hysteria was now a slow sob.  We had no money left over on our last day, we had no passports, and in 2002 we didn't yet have an iPhone.  All we had were the bottles of rum we'd bought with the last of our money, our cameras, and the now useless itinerary.  While my husband was having a word with the taxi driver, I noticed only one other person on the desolate beach with us.  It was a shirtless Rastafarian with dreadlocks that touched the sand, carrying a large white styrofoam cooler.  As he got closer and saw me crying, he said, "Aw naw... it's okay.  I got some space I can rent out to ya for real cheap", and held up the cooler.  The chills from fear of becoming the next unidentifiable jerked meat chased away the tears.  Fortunately, our driver was already talking to the coast guard who was already contacting our captain.
        Never did 6 words hold more truth than "THE BOAT WAITS FOR NO ONE" did, and the captain refused to turn the ship around.  Eventually he begrudgingly agreed to send a rescue dinghy for us.  Minutes later, we see the same dinghy we boarded every other day flying towards shore, but this one was red instead of yellow.  And unlike the tidy boardings we had from a dock every day before, now we were summoned to wade out to them.  This captain was going to make an example of us with every opportunity he could.  They didn't appear to be too far out, but as I swam further and further, waves going over my head, I realized how weak a swimmer I really was.  And by the time I reached the red dinghy, my husband had already managed to pull himself aboard.  I looked up at 5 able bodied men- 4 hot deckhands + 1 hot husband, but 0 helpful men.  I asked for some assistance, and all 5 men hoisted me up and over the side, as I imagine one does with a large tuna.  Drenched and humiliated, we sped back to the pirate ship.
          It was a view of the pirate ship we'd never seen before.  I don't think vacationers are supposed to see it from that angle.  It appeared to have grown since the morning.  What was cartoony the first night of our honeymoon was now menacing the last night, as we sidled up next to the flapping rope ladder.  We were instructed to jump from one moving boat to another moving boat.  I couldn't believe it, but I did it.  My husband was not far behind me.  By the time I reached the height of the side of the ship where cabin windows began, I noticed the active senior faces pressed against the window.  We were a spectacle, good enough to pull them away from the shuffleboards even.  Dripping wet, I continued to climb the ladder, trying not to be distracted by the camera flashes going off around me.  The railing of the deck was lined with active seniors, vying for the best position to get the best view of the rescued Option 3ers.  As grateful as I was that this happened on our last day, I still dreaded what awaited us at the top of the ladder.
         The very serious captain in his very serious uniform greeted us.  Spectators circled around, making the shame even greater.  Bruce and his wife looked so disappointed.  And even the double Audrey Tatous stood in the crowd with double scowls.  Didn't anyone think this was funny?  I would've thought it was funny if the double Audrey Tatous were standing there, dripping wet, minutes after being stranded on an island.  But no one shared my humor.

The captain said in his very serious German accent, "Did you have your itinerary?"

Two cameras and a bottle of spiced rum were lost during the rescue mission, but somehow I still had a firm grip on the wet itinerary.  I held it up.

"Did you read the itinerary?"

Heads hung low, we muttered, "Too late."

"I suspect you both will read the itinerary the next time you take a trip like this?"

We nodded, but the truth is, we knew people like us would probably not take another trip like this.  Trips like this required the kind of comfort that was outside of our comfort zone, but I suppose we managed to squeeze an adventure in at the last minute anyway.  All we could do was slink away, back into the cabin, and end our honeymoon with a Careless Whisper.