Posted tagged ‘Bahamas’

A date with 30 girls

March 6, 2014

*****Bear with me here. I promise goodies at the end if you can muscle through my attempts at being witty.***

As much as I would like to regale you with tales of my adventures in finishing the 2nd draft of my book, complete with riveting paragraphs of muscling through writer’s block, multiple and frequent interruptions and a losing battle with The Lazy, I fear you’d quickly tire and look for less exciting fare. With that in mind, here’s a little break from that chaos.

I’m a lover, not a fighter. Okay, to be fair, I’m not much of either, but I can fake it like anyone else. Achebeyo and I decided to put my imaginary Don Juan skills to the test in the Bahamas. I packed the tools of my part time trade and we made our way down Island way.

Unfortunately for all of you still reading here, there wasn’t anything of note on the flights. People were fairly polite and relatively quiet, something that is rare in this age of “I can do anything I want because I’m alive and there’s nothing you can do to stop my annoying-assed behavior”. Shocking, I know. Even the TSA was miraculously kind and generous, only stopping my bag once in the scanner to review the metal and plastic contraption that was part and parcel of my intended purpose in visiting the Bahamas. Easy as cake-pie.

We arrived at the airport and were directed to a double-stretch limo that would take us to our resort. Even though the inside was devoid of booze, blow and floozies, we still felt like rock stars pulling up to the front of the resort. The moment we exited our plush ride, we were greeted with drinks (fruit juice, non-fermented) and directed to the front desk to check in. The lobby of the place was quite active and I could see pool tables, a gym and ping pong tables close by. There was also a bar and what looked like a stage with lots of tables just inside beyond the hallway past the front desk. I was excited to think I would be talking a lot about going to the gym while actively avoiding it.

We were given our room keys, instructions on how to find our room and wrist bands that indicated we were “all inclusive”. And they mean all inclusive. When I timidly asked if all drinks were included, they knew exactly what I meant and explained that the pool bar would be right outside our sliding glass back door. This would wind up being a blessing and a curse.

The room was, as advertised, nestled right behind the pool bar, and conveniently located for all of the central courtyard activities. Also a blessing and a curse. A blessing if you want to mingle freely with all the bulging, sweaty masses like me, a curse if, like us, you want to be a ghost at the resort and just interact with each other and the ocean. It’s not that we’re anti-social, it’s that Achebeyo is. Okay, not really, but she does like to keep a low profile, while I like to be the belle of the (always wearing a shirt, even in the water) ball. I’m gregarious, what can I say. Regardless of our differing views on interacting with the rest of the all inclusive crowd, we settled in and began preparations for the following morning.

I made several phone calls to find a proprietor who could, and would, service my needs. One place, recommended to me by a passing stranger in the lobby, one who could apparently sense a kindred spirit, offered part of what I was looking for, but not the essence of what I wanted. I called the number of the place I was warned to stay away from and found out they had pretty close to what I wanted, if not exactly the brand of ladies I was looking for. I checked with Achebeyo and got the thumbs up. We would be picked up early the next morning and transported to our day’s destination, just not in the same rock star manner to which we had become accustomed after one short ride the day before.

That evening, we ate at the lavish and gut-busting buffet of fine foods, limiting ourselves to enough calories to ensure we could forgo most of breakfast the next morning, but still be able to walk back to our room. Since it was still early after we finished, I wandered past the pool bar and ordered what amounted to a few plastic cups of rum with a splash of soda for flavor. They were too generous with the alcohol and I was only able to choke down one before switching back to water. Besides, I didn’t want to be hung over for the ladies the following day.

We woke up early and got ready, opting out of full-blown showers and anti-stink chemicals. The kind of ladies who would be entertaining us weren’t impressed by things like cleanliness and nice body odor. It would be a “in the raw” kind of day for us. The bus that picked us up also stopped at a few other locations along the way. Other people looking to be tantalized and titillated by the lovely ladies we would all be graced by. We made our final stop of the morning and began the process of signing waivers and shelling out the currency to make my dreams come true.

While Achebeyo wasn’t as thrilled by the day’s prospect, she wasn’t against it either. She would prefer that we indulge in less exotic activities, but she is always down for adventure, and this would prove to be quite fulfilling that regard. Once we finished with all of the red tape associated with our day’s adventure, we were instructed to board a particular boat for our…wait for it…dive with reef sharks. Yes, all that anticipation and potential animosity at your perception of what a womanizing jerkwad I am, only to find out I was making a very thinly veiled and feeble attempt at manipulating your online emotions. But as the pictures will reveal, it was the dive of a lifetime, so it was worth your scorn.

The two dives in the morning were fun, but mere cheese and crackers to the big emotional meal coming in the afternoon. We dive two beautiful wrecks, including one that supposedly had human remains in it. I would never find out, because the dark hold of the sunken ship was where Achebeyo draws the line at following me into adventure, and I couldn’t leave her to navigate the wreck on her own. We saw some lionfish which, even though they are considered nuisance fish, are truly beautiful underwater. Unless, of course, you jam a camera rig with strobes all up in their scaly grills. Then they get all poison-spine bristly and aggressive.

After we finished those two dive,s we made our way back to the docks and dumped our gear in front of the next boat, as instructed. We didn’t just go all elitist jackass and expect that the staff would cater to limo-riding wanna-be’s like us. I even sat vigil on our gear while Achebeyo took her usual 25 minute bathroom break. I keep wondering if she’s conducting international business transactions in there.

It was difficult to wait for the next dives. I was anxious and eager, like a kid who’s slit the plastic tape on his gifts days before Christmas and already knows what he’s getting, but still can’t wait to open them (yes, I was that kid). When they let us board, I listened intently to their extensive speeches about the dive rules and etiquette. You might have even gotten the impression that I was an attentive good listener…if all you had to go on was that one encounter with me. Still, it pays to know what not to do on a dive with that many razor sharp teeth attached to living torpedoes.

We reached the dive site and proceeded to make the first descent, one that would take us along a wall with a 6,600ft drop to the Tongue of the Ocean. From the moment we began descending the anchor line, my heart was racing. The reef sharks, knowing what the black-clad meatbags with all the bubbles coming out of their face-holes would mean in just a little while, were gathering to watch us flounder around in their world. They were curious, but not aggressive. While we saw many beautiful fish and some huge lobsters, my mind was on the coming dive. The one where they would feed the sharks while we watched from our “seats” on rocks in a nice sandy area about 45 feet deep known as the Shark Arena. I couldn’t have been more excited if you told me that you would finish writing my book for me, give me all credit, that it would be an instant best seller and that I would never have to work another day in my life. That’s The Lazy talking.

Back on the boat after the first dive of the afternoon, we listened again to the safety briefings and the consequences of breaking the rules. Interestingly enough, the big threat wasn’t that a shark would hurt you, it was the rest of the divers. See, the way it was explained to me, almost as if they knew I would be the one diver would would want to issue hugs to these pelagic beauties, is that if we broke the rules, the dive would end immediately and everyone would go back to the boat. At that point, who could blame Lady Justice for taking the form of an angry mob of shark divers? Not me. I vowed to keep my hands to myself. Now, I imagine the dive crew has had this same conversation with the sharks, but they don’t really have to listen, do they? It’s their world and we’re just tourists with oxygen. They can (and did) touch whomever, whenever they want.

Even after all of the briefings and explanations, about how there would be 30-40 sharks around us at all times, I figured they exaggerated the numbers to make the dive seem more interesting before you took your seat in the Shark Arena. I was wrong.

This is just a small cross section of the entire dive. Most of the rest of these beautiful ladies (and a few gentlemen) were off camera, making their way in as the snacks were presented. I was tail-smacked, brushed and ogled, but never once did I worry that things would go all Spielberg on me, where I’d be forced to fight off the swarm of hungry fish with my own bitten-off leg. They were curious, but cautious. They did get a little “competitive” when the snacks were made available, but they knew exactly what they wanted and we weren’t it. I mean, if humans were on the menu, they had an underwater buffet to pick from. You know, once you peel off the neoprene wrapper.

It took everything I have to not stick my hand out as they swam by, but as the safety briefing explained, the dive team target feeds the sharks and my hand might make a motion similar to that target feeding motion. I didn’t want there to be any mistakes about what snacks were available and who was providing them. You can’t sue a shark for accidentally assuming all the bubbling meatbags could provide food.

Photo-bombed by a shark

In the video I shot of the whole dive, the soundtrack is filthy with the excited and happy noises coming from my face. It’s not very intelligible, but the shark feeder understood when I bubble-mumbled “THIS IS SO COOL”. His head nod and hang loose hand gesture to me was all the verification I needed.

The dive went on for probably about 30 minutes, but I was so enraptured that I’m not really certain how long it actually took before we were ushered out of the shark arena and back up to the waiting boat. I made up my mind then and there that my retirement plan will include working for these guys as a Shark Don Juan like that guy.

There was definitely more to our visit to Nassau, including getting to do some basic trapeze work and fighting off persistent seagulls when food was available, but I think this about sums up this trip and my feeling about it:

Happy baldy.

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