With its well-established system of national parks and protected areas, Costa Rica has since the mid-1990s been considered the poster child of eco-tourism. However, signs of the burgeoning growth of tourism abound. Manuel Antonio, the most popular national park in the country, has suffered from environmental decay and loss of habitat from too many visitors, raw sewerage being dumped into the Pacific, etc. We heard from every guide we encountered that this former crown jewel of the Costa Rica Pacific coast has turned into an island amidst uncontrolled and extensive growth. Species of monkeys and other animals that can’t merely fly away are further endangered as the gene pool continues to shrink. The guides consider a stint at Manuel Antonio a requirement to be endured, as they aspire to be employed in the misty Monteverde Cloud Rain Forest Preserve in the north, or the new jewel of the untouched primary rain forest, the Osa Peninsula.
I’ve experienced this dynamic of Discovery, Build-out, Exploitation and Decay in my home state of Florida for decades. My travels since the late 1970s have truly shown me how as few as three years can make the difference between experiencing a place, environments, people and cultures Before and After the airports or cruise ship terminals are built, the hoteliers take over the prime environments, and the rough-and-ready tracks are replaced by pavement and insidious development. Thus, in planning for our trip, I had determined to avoid the overly-trammeled tourist paths.
My travel mantra remains to experience the wild places before the rest of humanity and the inevitable hyper-growth catches up to these areas. So, my plans for our Costa Rica vacation had us driving from the airport in San Jose up to the cloud rain forests in the mountains near Monteverde, spending three days exploring the area, maybe glimpsing Arenal volcano from a distance, then driving back to San Jose to catch a short flight down to the off-the-grid Osa Peninsula, best described as a primitive paradise of rain forests, empty beaches, and backwater settlements.
We knew that this itinerary would entail a lot of hiking along steep rain forest trails, as compared to leisurely snorkeling or driving around tropical islands taking in fauna, flora, history and various cultures. And we weren’t disappointed! I had planned for guided night walks, zip lining and rappelling down waterfalls, so this trip would be less relaxation and more work-out but hey, you can always hang around and relax at home, right? Besides, the main goal was to spot a lot of wildlife and to be thoroughly steeped (once again) in a tropical rain forest– a favorite environment.
The driving out of and back into San Jose was as challenging as LA, Atlanta, Miami or Boston. There was the poor air quality, many, many trucks, lanes that came and went unexpectedly, a decided lack of road signage anywhere, noise, and really crazy drivers on motorbikes and in a variety of sh!tbox vehicles.
While I played road warrior, Robin gamely “navigated”, combing through printed Google maps at various scales, a country driving map provided by the rental car folks with indecipherable scribbles illustrating a short cut to the toll road out of the city, and Trip Advisor forum tips ranging from “Don’t even try this trip if you have less than 4 hrs to make it before dark!” (I made it in 2.5) to “Forget the rental, take the bus or hire a driver.
We actually enjoyed the trip once the traffic was behind us. We left the Pacific coast and started up the blindingly dusty gravel roads into the scenery of small farms, ranches and towns tucked into the steep mountain terrain.
The SUV kept us high enough to clear most of the boulders strewn across the twisting, steep and straight-drop-to-nowhere track as we crossed extremely gusty passes that rocked our boat and whipped up large dust-devils that obscured the view. Thank goodness for a new vehicle with working AC, but no recirculation option meant we ate dust the whole way into Santa Elena. To add to the excitement, the loose footing meant we slid out on almost every hairpin and we seldom got above 25 mph. Not to mention the bone-jarring potholes and the sun glaring off the dusty windshield and the grimy inside of the windows. Challenging? Tiring? You bet.
IN SANTA ELENA
I was ready for a cold anything when we arrived at our little motel-like digs, tucked down yet another dusty, potholed “street” in a sketch part of a sketch town, above the dusty little backpacker berg of Santa Elena. But the tiki bar in the tiny eating area was closed (at 6pm??), so we got a nice hot cup of coffee, which failed to refresh. Still. We were here, so off to town we drove, looking for a spot of chow.
We ended up eating at a diner-like affair on the main drag, which was paved with bricks that slumped into large potholes. The place offered “tipical” fare, which is typically rather dull.
Robin learned that night that “beef” in this part of the country at least, was lacking in flavor and chewability. I figured the chicken is always a smart choice, when traveling to Central America destinations, and was rewarded with a meal I could tolerate, but barely. Subsequent tacos where the backpackers hung out was the smartest move, and the location for the coldest beer too, ha.
We spent the next two days and one night hike exploring the cloud rain forest of the Monteverde national preserve and a nearby private property with extensive trails and wildlife viewing. See our photos for a genuine sense of this portion of the trip!
The cool, windy, misty and mysterious cloud forest was hauntingly beautiful, and because we arrived early in the morning, we were treated to a rare sighting of a mated pair of Resplendent Quetzals. We paused for quite some time to watch the male busily digging out a nesting hole in a dead tree. The best shot I could get was the male’s resplendent tail feathers poking out of the hole and jiggling with the vigor of his efforts.
The next night we were delighted with all the critters we saw during a two hour guided night hike through rain forest trails.We spotted coatimundis, an aguti, an anteater sleeping in the fork of a tree,
OFF THE GRID
A special, serendipitous experience began with our decision to go down a track way off the grid (seriously, even Google maps is clueless), past a “Closed- turn back” sign which we ignored “Hey this road looks traveled– uh, mostly”. That track was hands-down the most challenging, painful and exhausting driving at 15mph I have ever done but the scenery was spectacular and the payoff at the end of this hour jaunt was this magical old homestead-cum-hostel carved out of the rain forest on top of a steep ridge with a spectacular view of Arenal volcano and the lake at its base.
We were met by two playful kittens as we painfully hauled ourselves out of the dust-covered SUV. The panorama view pulled us to the edge of the grassy parking area and a steep drop off. The rain forest rolled away toward the massive volcano, pitching down sheer ravines and covering the steep series of ridges. Waterfalls cut through the wall of green in the distance, glinting in the afternoon light. The wind at this elevation (likely 6,000 ft) was cool and steady, with gusts enough to blow my ball cap away.
The only sounds were the wind, rain forest birds, and the swishing of the landscaped greenery around the property.
The kittens cavorted while we took photos. Only after taking in the sights did we turn our attention to the lodge-like structure behind us. Heavily constructed of massive logs, the place stretched out across the cleared hilltop, offering plate glass windows to the view before us.
I smelled wood smoke as we entered the arched, high-ceiling entryway, went down a short flight of stone steps, and walked the length of the cavernous dining area. A couple was seated at one of the tables, enjoying the incredible view.
I approached a solid wooden counter at the end of the room and saw a huge fireplace behind the counter and a stack of large logs that looked like a wood pile for some serious stoves. And sure enough, I could see into the industrial-sized food prep area to my left and there were two men, chopping away on greens and veggies on long metal trestle tables. Behind them open wood burning ovens were glowing away, coughing clouds of smoke back down the chimney and into the area with each gust of wind outside.
The atmosphere was so, well, atmospheric! The prevailing quiet, interrupted by the chopping and the sounds of gusting winds buffeting the building– the smoke, the rasp of a heavy wooden chair across the stone floor as Robin sat down at a table behind me— it was all so weirdly transporting. I felt like time hit Pause for five seconds. What a tranquil, timeless kind of place.
The spell of course was broken as our host ambled out and asked in Spanish if we’d like to eat. A brief confab ensued, with Robin leading the way in her capable Spanish to the conclusion that there was little on offer and we’d be taking pot luck. Or, as our host described it, a “tipical” meal, which we were grateful for, having eaten little that morning besides a scrambled egg and squashed protein bars retrieved from our backpacks.
While we waited for lunch to be served, I repaired to a couch nearby, joined by the kittens, who wore themselves out playing, then settled down in my lap for a snooze. The quiet descended again, and the smoky stillness of the airless room started to lull me to sleep until I got up to open a couple of windows high above the plate glass expanse to let in some of that invigorating mountain air.
Following our meal, we buckled in and buckled down for the return trip to Santa Elena, back up and down that killer, twisting, slippery, rutted track. The forest soon engulfed us but was broken here and there by open vistas of incredibly steep pastures dotted with trees and tangled underbrush. Not a cow or horse, donkey or mountain goat in sight. I couldn’t imagine spending a day on a small horse, struggling up and down those pitches chasing up cattle. What a hardscrabble life the rural farmers and ranchers must lead!
Back to our little, high-ceiling room at the Monteverde Mountain Lodge, with its lovely, dusty landscaped garden area, the noise of construction from a third floor addition, the incessant racket of muffler-less motorcycles at all hours, the barking dogs throughout the night, and the sound of the wind slamming against the building. We slept with windows closed, earplugs in and a small fan blowing the dust around the room and into our sinuses, eyes, ears, luggage and any drink left uncapped.
TO THE OSA
We were glad to take our leave after three days in Santa Elena and head back to noisome San Jose, getting lost and tangled in city traffic, making our way back to the rental car place, and catching a small but beautifully appointed plane, us the only passengers, down to Puerto Jimenez on the Osa Peninsula.
At the tiny airstrip next to the graveyard in the noisy, crowded, dusty town, we were met by our driver, who carefully placed our bags in the bed of the pickup and covered them with a tarp as a nominal dust cover. Now we faced what we well knew to be an hour-long, truly bone-jarring ride down yet another dusty, god-awful road through ranching and teak wood-growing country.
The scenery was pleasantly distracting, with the Golfo Dulce to our left framed by high mountains, and the flat farming terrain to our right, bordered by towering rain forest hills folding back to the western horizon. Even so, it was difficult to see a lot through the blur of the jouncing and thumping, and taking photos was completely out of the question. We just endured and tried to chat up our driver, who was shy due to his lack of English. Robin was in the back seat gritting her teeth to protect her tongue and my Spanish is beyond desultory, so it was a non-chatty drive.
The fun part was the road-guard Capuchin monkey, whose image resolved out of the dust as we approached a section of canopy road. It sat facing us, and as the truck slowly approached, it hiked itself up on all fours and bared its teeth– a clear warning to stop. We laughed and, suspecting it was holding traffic for its family to cross, we looked up into the trees overhead and sure enough, five more monkeys were making their way down a tree. The road-guard glanced at them, then glared at us, teeth bared, then glanced at them again. I half expected it to motion “hurry up there!” to the troop, who eventually crossed quickly right behind the guard.
With one last glare and teeth-baring, the road-guard jumped across the road, following the troop, and we resumed our trek, amused and thankful for the short break from our rough ride.
IN THE RAIN FOREST
el Remanso was our home-away for the next five days and boy, it was worth every strained muscle in our backs and necks to experience this paradisiacal unspoiled, wild place.
Some folks choose their vacation spots for the food, or to be pampered, or just to relax. We tend towards the “active” vacation experience. I’m deeply grateful that Robin is more adventure-minded, gathering experiences vs, say, souvenirs. As hard as she works, she deserves some pampering or just hanging out by a pool but she’s game for hiking her butt off, sweating buckets, eating unknown and perhaps not-great food at unpredictable times, sleeping on mattresses that are more park bench than not, or being awakened at the barest crack of dawn by the startling, abrupt and incredibly loud Howler monkey calls right outside the cabin.
Things like the probability of running into the fer-de-lance, the most dangerous snake in Costa Rica, or falling off a steep trail or a zip line or on rappel may give her pause but she is a brave and tenacious fellow traveler! Of course before we went I didn’t tell her that the reason the fer-de-lance has such a fearsome reputation is that many people are bitten because of its association with human habitation and that many bites actually occur indoors. Kinda like I didn’t tell her a lot about Australia’s enormous variety of toxic and venomous creatures before we slept in the open (no screens, no doors) in the rain forest of Tropical North Queensland.
All this to say that I respect and admire Robin’s willingness to undertake these journeys rather than insisting on a vacation of pampering or even just relaxing. We have done some pretty adventurous stuff and I guess our activities this trip certainly added to the list. Plus, Robin delighted and surprised me with her willingness to undertake rappelling down waterfalls in the rain forest, no less. I am very proud of Robin’s stamina, strength of character, determination, and the extreme focus she brings when it’s Game On and time to learn how to do something on the fly, depending on your sense of balance, timing, and paying close attention to things like thorny plants, army ant columns, snakes, scorpions, spiders and slippery and dangerous footing.
I could wax on about the el Remanso property, the awesome staff, the incredible logistics challenges they face daily to just keep the place running way out there on the tip of the Osa, way far from any hospital or store or easy access to even get in and out of that area. It’s most definitely for the fit, outdoors wildlife peeps, the adventurous, the hearty and hale.
If it’s dawn yoga or a spa treatment you seek, this ain’t it. But they do have a fantastic yoga platform just off one of the many winding gravel paths that snake throughout the property, as well as a lovely massage area quite secluded but where one has a stunning view of the ocean way down there through a gap in the forest canopy. But we saw nobody using those services.
What we did see, and hear, and experience on many levels was the never-ending parade of wild animals, reptiles, amphibians, insects, and birds galore.
We could hear them moving in the forest canopy, shuffling or darting along the forest floor– even whipping past (a bat just missed hitting me in the ear one dusk- I actually felt the wind from its wings.) We observed critters sleeping, hunting, mating, nesting, rooting and just going about their business. We could smell the musk and piss from the monkey troops overhead and just upwind. We spotted deer and peccary tracks at the edges of creeks, and coati and ground-dwelling bird tracks in the moist beach sand.
We felt the salt air from the ocean shore and the mists rising from rushing waterfalls, and the cold water flowing over our feet as we carefully stayed to the center of the river’s flow to avoid snakes on either bank. Sweat poured down our arms and dripped off our fingertips in the 100% humidity hovering over the riverbed during one night walk, way deep in a ravine, cut off from any breezes.
And yes a fer-de-lance made an appearance, darting under our night river walk guide’s boot. Rinaldo the guide didn’t spot it but I happened to be watching for snakes in the circle of my flashlight and warned Rinaldo to stop. Later we got an eye level close-up view of a non-venomous green snake stretched out on the limb of a small tree, bent on getting to the two small birds eggs in a nest mere inches away.
What I didn’t miss were man-made sounds. The rain forest was all-encompassing, all-present, and spending an entire afternoon walking trails quietly or sitting on the deck and just listening and watching, was all the conversation anyone needed.
The new moon hadn’t made its appearance so the nights were draped in absolutely black night skies, the stars bright as diamonds on display, the planets shimmering and the satellites barely moving, if at all. We’d turn off all lights in our cabina and in minutes the show was on. Some nights I hated to go to bed but the daily dawn chorus and an at-first-light hike with guides were typically waiting, and we needed our rest to get through the heat, humidity, and just plain day-long workout hikes.
We visited in-between seasons, so what few guests we saw (maybe 10 toward the end of the week- the place accommodates 31) were other couples, some younger than us, some older. Several were semi-pro bird watchers, there was one pro photographer hired by the management to gather shots for marketing. There were no children in tow.
As the owner and his wife explained, most visitors are there for the outdoor activities, the wildlife, and being in the rain forest. Many learn of this magical place by word of mouth. Still, el Remanso has earned the Trip Advisor 2016 Choice Award, consistently gets 5 star reviews, and people like Bear Grylls and other TV animal kingdom and critter show producers discovered this place some years ago. It won’t be long before Travel & Leisure does a piece that brings this area to the attention of a lot more travelers, but for now the sheer pain of getting there keeps the hoards at bay.
I hope they never pave that hellish road leading in or that’s the beginning of the end.
Again I point to our photos with captions and the videos on my YouTube channel Costa Rica playlist as well worth the time, if you want to experience these places vicariously. I’ve worked hours to edit shots and videos and welcome the opportunity to share with friends and family. Please feel free to comment on photos or videos too!
Costa Rica is definitely a place to visit time and again. We have quite a few friends who have a long history visiting and some who are planning to retire there–that’s a whole different topic. But as such magical places become easier to access and the tourist numbers keep growing exponentially, there will be changes, and in my experience few of them are good.
If you do your homework on Costa Rica, you’ll discover why this tiny country may have a real shot at avoiding the worst of the negative effects of a shrinking globe, population pressures and attendant problems, greedy developers, corrupt officials, infrastructure collapse, pollution and the whole ball of wax. Sure they have challenges, such as the Taiwanese mafia holed up in Puntarenas and manning fleets of illegal shark finning boats, poachers trawling the national marine parks, turtle egg poachers, wildlife poachers, etc. But I prefer to look at the potential of the majority of ticos and maybe even some of the ex-pats to continue to lead the way, raise voices, and raise hell to protect the future of this achingly beautiful slice of Central America. Pura Vida!
Australia. Down Under. Oz. Simply an amazing, spell-binding place to vacation!We arrived to a Tropical North Queensland late summer, having left a southern Appalachian late spring. There was little difference between the two climates, even though our destination was the tropics of the Coral Sea, 16 degrees below the equator.
The real contrasts were the trees (various figs, paperbark trees, and over 700 varieties of eucalyptus), the Aussie accents and learning new expressions for familiar objects and activities. Examples include “brekkie” for breakfast, “tomato sauce” for ketchup, “serviette” for napkin (“nappie”, goes on a baby’s behind), “troppo” for tropic, “esky” for cooler (we deciphered this in a welcome note from the owner of our digs), “servo” for gas station (look for the signs!), and “ta” for thank you. The checkout lady at the grocery store confused us for a second when she referred to the “chook” we bought (chicken.)
And the ubiquitous “No worries–Cheers!” from simply everyone, including the staff working security screening at the airports. What a breezy culture.
We were amused and often baffled by the road signs, the town names, and the Aussie money! Large, thin, colorful bills much like Caribbean dollars started at $5, and the weight and bulk of the many coins we ended up toting was, well, weighty. Coins ranged from .20 to .50, $1, $2. If you search Google Images you can fill in the blanks.
But of course it was the unique wildlife of this oldest of the ancient landmasses on the planet that held us in thrall– or rattled our cage, as in the case of our nightly nemesis the Orange-Footed Scrub Fowl, a chicken-sized Megapode (BigFoot for Latin lovers) sounding very much like a screaming child, a crowing rooster or clucking hen, and a drunk gargling a full bottle of Listerine. Loud. At night. Mostly.
Actually we became fond of these birds as they scratched around under trees in parks, throughout neighborhoods, parking areas in the rain forest, pullouts along the coast, and almost anywhere you’d expect a scrub fowl to be scrubbing around.
Our lovely digs in Port Douglas were situated a couple blocks off the beach and each dawn the scrub fowl vocals were augmented by all manner of tropical birdsong, and punctuated by frequent fly-overs of flocks of cockatoos, lorikeets and many of the more than 630 species of birds reportedly making Tropical Northern Queensland their home. I managed to record a minute or so of the morning chorus, which you can view and listen to on my YouTube channel
Critters and Hazards
Enthusiastic tourists, we welcomed the chance to check the boxes on our most desired critter encounters. Hug a Koala- check. Pat a ‘roo and feed a Wallaby– check. Walk with an emu– check. Photograph a platypus and a cassowary in the wild – check. Snorkel amazingly brilliant and healthy Great Barrier Reef areas and spot A) huge Maori Wrasse, B) Giant Humphead Parrot Fish, C) Reef Shark. And a special treat: get photographed diving just above a venerable, large Green Turtle as it rested on the top of the reef– big fat check mark!
We were successful in avoiding the Most-Deadly-On-The-Planet things that Could-Kill-You-Swiftly or make you very “crook” (sick.) No spiders or snakes bit. No Box Jellies (“stingers”) stung, no salt water crocs attacked, no sharks circled our snorkel spots, no venomous octopus or cone shell lurked with deadly intent, and we didn’t trod on a toad, a scorpion fish, a bull ant or a giant centipede. Heck I had to look up half of these to even know what the dangers could be!
However I’m sure we did court mishap, whether we were hiking down trails in the rain forest, slipping along sandy paths to a deserted beach, or stumbling over razor-sharp volcanic rock approaches to out-of-the-way waterfalls.
Likely the most hazard-prone activity we undertook was driving the Great Dividing Range of coastal mountains via steep, winding switchbacks through the rain forest at night, and flying down endless straightaways through the savannas and grasslands where signs warned “Unfenced road-beware of stock and wildlife”, complete with cow and kangaroo silhouettes violently meeting the front of cars. Then add getting through numerous traffic circles (“roundabouts”) in the city of Cairns, especially when driving on the wrong side of the road and sitting on the wrong side of the car (“Drive Left- Look Right!”)
I did have to dodge a big ‘roo road kill on the way back from the Atherton Tablelands, threading the little rental car between a massive stiff hind leg sticking out into my path, a chunk of unspeakable on my right, and a huge transport rig bearing down in the oncoming lane. Other than that, the roads everywhere we went (and we went a lot of places) were refreshingly devoid of road kill, which we attributed to so little traffic in an area of Queensland that is mostly national parklands (rain forest) and only lightly settled.
In The Bush
Once out of the city of Cairns (“Cahns”, as in beer, pop. approx. 500k), mid-day traffic began to wane and roadside businesses dwindled to nothing. We drove north along the coastal Captain Cook Highway, which climbed up and over numerous steep mountain pitches and wound along under a lovely tropical treed canopy. Any place out of the cities and in the country is apparently “the bush”, so we happily tooled along, however jet-lagged from days of travel and a 15 hour-ahead-of-our-bodies time change.
On our way from Cairns to Port Douglas, our HQ for our 11 night Oz Getaway, the view from Rex Lookout was stunning, and the Coral Sea bathing lovely beaches and crashing against rocks helped keep us alert.
Along the coast, “the bush” is basically rain forest, and during the week, the further north we drove on various adventures, the fewer settlements we encountered. Just a few miles north of bucolic Port Douglas (pop. 3,200), if you get off the Cook Highway and onto the only other “road” noted on most maps, (forget GPS and mobile service, you are in the bush!), you actually run out of road. The pavement dribbles away to rough “track” that wanders off to the northwest, following the wild, beautiful and croc-infested Daintree River.
Staying on the Cook Highway was wise, and led us just 15 miles north of Port Douglas to Mossman Gorge, a stunning natural beauty in the World Heritage listed Daintree National Park, set within a steep-sided valley on the Mossman River. Along the way, we passed through a coastal plain featuring rampantly healthy sugar cane fields viewed against majestic, jagged mountains heavily green with rain forest cover.
Even though we had a couple of days of windy and rainy conditions, the low clouds and thick mists crowning the tops of the highest peaks made for spectacular scenes, some of which I managed to capture in-camera. Be sure to visit my photos link for pix, and Lynn’s YouTube Channel – Oz for brief videos!
Adventures in the Rain Forest
We spent more time in the rain forest than on the beach or in PD, or even snorkeling the Great Barrier Reef (GBR). This was intentional. I chose PD as our base because it was wonderfully convenient to the Daintree National Park and the nearby Atherton Tablelands, all of which were readily reached by the Cook Highway.
If you Google “Daintree National Park” or even “tropical northern Queensland” and check out Google Maps, you’ll see how the Cook Highway describes a large oval from Cairns up to Mossman and then west and south, in the rain shadow of the Great Dividing Range, to the amazing beauty and stunning vistas of the Atherton Tablelands. This area of I-dunno-how-many-square-miles embraces beaches, rugged and undeveloped coastal areas, ancient rain forest and dry grasslands and savannas, each environment home to unique and strangely unfamiliar fauna and flora.
We learned that these rain forests are among the oldest on the planet, which makes sense if you study your geography, plate tectonics, and history– or watch a lot of nature or travel programming!
Bush Trek to Cooktown
Toward the end our stay, we were off to drive north along the Cook Highway, across the Daintree River via car ferry, and onto the now narrow two-lane, twisty and switch-backed Cape Tribulation Road. Through the wilds of the coastal rain forest to points further on, we drove for over an hour until we ran out of pavement in a tiny beach side village tucked into the rain forest.
Here, in Cape Tribulation, we arrived in the late afternoon under threatening skies at the Rainforest Hideaway, an aptly-named BnB. With only 4 small structures, this place was just the ticket to spend an off-the-grid night in the rain forest. Limited electricity provided by a generator, composting toilets, and a micro-cabin awaited us, as did the experience of taking an outdoor shower in the rain forest. No photo of the facilities here, you’ll have to hit Our Oz photos link for that one!
We’d both developed a Nasty Head Cold our 3rd day in PD, so here we were a week later, coughing and blowing our noses most of the night. The sounds of heavy rain soaking the surrounding greenery did little to soothe, as I found myself struggling to avoid getting tangled up in the mosquito netting while fishing around in the dark for that dang Kleenex box.
After a rough night, we were up at the crack of dim rain forest light, to a visit by a Cassowary! One of several that make this corner of the rain forest home, this 2-year old male was enjoying a breakfast of fruit just off the raised deck of the open-sided reception area. What a treat, to watch this ancient and other-worldly appearing bird as it slouched along in its unique and somewhat sinister way with its head nodding with every step, and its back parallel to the ground. (Robin stands next to a huge adult replica in the photos collection.)
My attempts to get a decent photo of this guy in such dim light failed miserably and too, I was wary of holding the camera within reach of a bird with a reputation of being aggressive and nasty-tempered.
I’m simply fascinated with this strange life-form and was delighted to see one so close up! We’d spotted one the afternoon before, when we first arrived at Cape Trib and strolled through a park-like area on our way to a beach path. But here we were near enough to touch this large, curious bird, whose head bobbed up over the edge of the platform from various places as he walked around the veranda, peeking inside to see if more fruit was in the offing!
If you’re as fascinated as I am, and enjoy National Geographic stories and photos, check out this link for a brief tale of Cassowaries and their homeland, the wet tropics of Northern Queensland. Cassowary NatGeo
All too soon it was time to say goodbye to Big Bird, as our guide Mike D’Arcy arrived to escort us on his 11-hour guided 4X4 tour of the rain forest, unspoiled coastal beaches, a small Aborigine village, and eventually Cooktown.
The Cooktown Wiki entry describes this scenic little town as “… at the mouth of the Endeavour River, on Cape York Peninsula in Far North Queensland where James Cook beached his ship, the Endeavour, for repairs in 1770.”
Cooktown was lovely, offering a quiet town, a tasty repast of fish n’ chips (fries to us), and lovely scenes of the river debouching into the Coral Sea from atop Grassy Hill.
After visiting the amazing James Cook Museum, located in a stately 19th century former Catholic convent school, we retraced our steps along the dusty, potholed, rough Bloomfield Track, stopping to spot waterfowl at a lovely estuary setting where I found the paperbark trees a photo op.
We passed back by the trail leading off to Bloomfield Falls, where that morning we’d rested after a bit of a trek to try spotting the resident croc that lurked in the inviting creek below the falls. But, no croc sighting, so we pressed on, the 4X4 splashing gamely once again through the wet-foot crossing and arriving at the beach at Cape Tribulation.
We’d visited here early in the morning (seemed simply HOURS ago!) when the tide was in. Now, at low tide, the sea was practically at the horizon and the expanse of exposed beach seemed to go on forever.
The light at early dusk was simply magic: shades of mauve, cyan and a powdery purple played on the undersides of rain clouds on the southeastern horizon. I was drawn to a few stray red mangrove trees whose exposed roots tantalized my photographer-brain, and suddenly the entire scene was bathed in an ethereal silver light.
Some distance down the beach, Mike and the four gals were exclaiming over crabs in the sand but I was transfixed, as I splashed through large puddles left by the receding tide and found the shot I knew was waiting for me– I just had to capture it before that light slipped away!
That shot alone was worth the aching back, the red cold-sore nose, a full bladder and a dozen other annoyances of a day spent banging about in a cramped 4X4. I was ready for a beer, dinner and bed! But first– a little two-hour drive back down the coastal road in the pitch dark, through the rain forest, over switchbacks, to the Daintree Ferry– and home in Port Douglas.
Snorkeling the Great Barrier Reef
This was truly the genesis of our trip. Snorkeling the Great Barrier Reef had been a dream of mine since I first experienced the underwater realm as a SCUBA diver way back in the early 1970s. It took awhile, but 40-odd years later, there I was, Robin beside me, finning over this vibrant, fishy, brilliantly colored reef system. I truly had more than salt water in my eyes as I blinked behind my mask at the breathtaking scenes that presented themselves, no matter which way I turned my head.
Our third day in PD had us boarding the vessel Wavelength for the run out to the GBR off Port Douglas. Here the reef system came close to the coast– not as close as further north perhaps, but close enough to get there after a 90-minute run in a 60-foot, twin-diesel, monohull craft.
I’d chosen Wavelength Marine Charters because, unlike the other charters in the area which carried 90 to 200 people aboard (egads!), Wavelength offered small group, low-impact reef experiences, and “… employs qualified marine biologists as crew in order to offer a high level of interpretation of the Great Barrier Reef.” True enough, and the first mooring ball we tied up to in the lee of Opal Reef brought us face to face with a large Green Turtle as it rested quietly on the top of the reef some 30 feet below.
Luckily one of the marine biologists had her camera, and captured a shot as I dived down to get a better look at this gorgeous and serene turtle, which was about the size of a dining-room table. The water clarity here wasn’t as clear as subsequent stops, where we saw all manner of Coral Sea life, including giant clams, clownfish snuggling down in massive and colorful anemones, and more staggeringly healthy and massive hard and soft corals than I have ever seen on any Caribbean reef.
Many species of fish here are quite differently colored than in the Caribbean, and indeed uncounted species are simply not found in the Caribbean. I found my internal database somewhat lacking when it came to accurate fish-identification, but frankly the selection was simply overwhelming. Triggerfish, parrotfish, butterfly fish, sea basses, various cods, wrasses, the odd-looking unicorn fish, and the beautifully-striped and red-lipped Sweetlips flipped, darted, hovered and cruised until I felt I was swimming through a kaleidoscope of fishes. And I guess I was.
I desperately wanted to spot a specimen of the famed Maori (AKA “Humphead”) Wrasse, and at our second dive spot, two cruised by about 25 feet of depth, just inside the visibility veil. Wow, those fish were BIG and impressive, as the pic illustrates!
And speaking of huge, the giant clams we swam over on various dives on the two different days we went out with Wavelength, were, well– giant! The non-aggressive (joke) mollusks we saw sported psychedelically-patterned mantles in colors ranging from electric green and disco purple, to intensely orange, flaming pink, and so forth. But the amazing thing, aside from their sheer SIZE, was the plethora of neon-colored dots (eyes?) throughout the mantle. Looking at photos is one thing, but floating just a couple of feet above one of these massive mollusks and viewing the details of its shape and coloration in clear water with the sun providing a handy spot-light– well, that was sheer magic.
Our second trip out to the GBR on Wavelength was truly special. When we arrived at the first dive location, one of the crew waved us to the stern of the boat and, pointing at the inflatable dingy floating beside the swim platform, asked with a grin if we wanted to be dropped off up current of the anchored boat to enjoy a private drift dive back down to the boat. Of course we said Yes!
Turns out we had apparently impressed the crew during our previous trip aboard, with our years of snorkeling experience, our calm demeanor in the water, packing all our own gear, and tipping the crew after that first, amazing excursion. So, while the newbie tourist snorkelers splashed and squealed around the reef near the boat, we got a scenic, serene drift dive along the gently curving reef structure, moving at our own pace and observing the critters going about their business, oblivious to our quiet hovering above.
That was truly a treat, and we expressed our appreciation with another generous tip to the thoughtful professionals of Wavelength Charters. And a smashing review on their web site, Facebook page and on TripAdvisor, too.
Savannas and the Tablelands
Our photos really tell the story of the two trips we took to the Atherton Tablelands. Highlights include driving through the misty mountains and crossing the Great Dividing Range to the dry savannas beyond, where the roos and other indigenous critters live on the grasslands that are dotted with thousands of termite mounds of all size and coloration.
Visiting the region of deep, crystal-clear crater lakes surrounded by nothing but rain forest was a series of eye-opening surprises, as were the many waterfalls, the little towns looking all the world like movie lots of hundred-year old Australian bergs (another joke but a truism I guess.).
The giant “curtain fig tree” was simply breathtaking, you really should view the brief video snippet I caught of this 600 year-old behemoth.
Checking out the funny and unexpected signs on roadways, buildings, businesses and in public toilets, seeing a platypus swim 30 feet away — these were moments I’m very glad to have caught on video and in-camera, as I walked around in a head-cold induced fog, trying my best to fully LIVE every moment, in-between bouts of coughing and drowning in sinus gunk.
Homeward bound, we awoke one morning in Honolulu knowing we needed to get to the Pearl Harbor Visitor’s Center to see what we could before our flight from Honolulu to Atlanta took off that afternoon.
By now we were virtual zombies, quite numb from dealing with the time difference between Brisbane and Hawaii, the addled confusion of crossing the International Date Line, and dealing with the dregs of a severe head-cold. But hey, we were STILL on vacation, so we two middle-aged gals dragged our jet-lagged and horribly sleep-deprived-after-23 hours-of non-stop-travel selves out into the rental car and next thing you know (or as best I can recall), we were on the deck of the USS Missouri, standing just about where the table was placed for the signing of the document that officially ended WWII.
This was a real treat for this history buff, and even as foggy as my brain was, I still felt an intense mix of emotions for what happened– the conflict, the loss of millions of lives, the horrors. I won’t wax lengthy on this one but suffice it to say, I was moved. I’ve spent a lifetime studying history, and my particular interest in WWII really came home to me in many moments I was fortunate to experience here.
So, what’s my personal Big Takeaway from this trip? Beyond the amazement that we could even GO, the keen appreciation for the fact that we could weather it (you gotta be tough to travel these days) even sick as dogs for most of it; the gratitude for being blessed with the ability to marshal our financial and planning resources to make something as complex as this come together and, not least, the support of family and friends who provided the peace of mind knowing our home and critters were cared-for in our absence: my takeaway is this…
… Don’t Go on such a lengthy trip and spend ONLY 12 nights total in-country! Spend more time so you can truly breathe it, embrace it, and LIVE every moment as if it is your last.
This trip challenged me in many ways; the planning alone turned out to be extraordinarily detailed even for OCD me. The budgeting, saving and tracking of spending was a chore but very smart and necessary. Communicating with people hours and days removed, even via relatively “easy” internet comms was often difficult and frustrating. Figuring out travel timetables, airline schedules and plane seats, accommodations in several cities, towns, and on different continents proved daunting. Taking advantage of currency exchange rates, finding ways to reduce the costs of foreign transaction fees and international mobile phone coverage, uncovering “cheap” sources of transfer to and from en-route hotels, sifting through the best and inexpensive places to stay, to eat or buy food en-route definitely paid off in spades. And, covering our butts in the event of major issues was time-consuming and necessary, but proved gratifying and added room for flexibility and serendipity to embrace experiences I never could have anticipated.
It does pay to study your geography! Through the months of studying maps, Google Earth, Trip Advisor, and a host of websites patiently bookmarked and frequently revisited, I learned much about the areas where I wanted to go, stay, visit, drive to, fly to and so forth.
Long before catching our initial taxi ride to the MARTA station in Atlanta to head to the airport, I had been mapping, estimating drive times and conditions, studying ocean tides and winds, boat schedules, train timetables, and weather forecasts. By the time we hit the ground in Honolulu, Brisbane, Cairns, and our pied a terre in Port Douglas, the places we were to visit and the routes we would take to get there were as familiar to me as they could be from such a distance.
A brutal head-cold took hold of us almost as soon as we boarded the Hawaiian Airlines flight from Honolulu to Brisbane. “Aloha” and “mahalo” were the watchwords, but the soothing, mellow Hawaiian tunes piped through the ‘plane were drowned out by the unrelenting sneezing and coughing of Aussies. I donned my hoodie, plugged in ear plugs, strapped on my silk eye mask and surgical face mask and, like Robin across the aisle, huddled in my “extra comfort” seat, doing my best to prepare for 9 hours or so of flight forward in time. Or– was that backwards?
That flight made the previous 8 hour leg from Atlanta to Honolulu seem a lark, in spite of the fact that I had given up my “extra comfort” seat on that flight due to a simply huge man sitting next to me who basically laid ON me. The flight attendants were vastly sympathetic, and moved me to a wonderful emergency row seat with extra, extra legroom right next to the amidships galley. A note from the attendant helped me get a full refund for the extra seat purchase and went a long way toward dealing with my Mad over being literally squeezed out of my seat.
By the time we landed in Brisbane we were too addled by the time shift to do much more than clear customs and catch a quick shuttle to our nearby no-frills hotel, where we grabbed a bite to eat, slept a few hours and hustled back to the airport to catch the 2 hour flight up the coast to Cairns.
Mid-day in Cairns found us in our rental car, with me coping with sitting on the “wrong side” of the car and driving through city traffic on the “wrong” side of the road.
Right away we were met with a series of fast-moving traffic circles (“roundabouts”), which will test the mettle of the most sanguine traveler who is extremely jet-lagged. Once again, I found myself switching on wipers instead of signaling a turn (“Oops, you’d think I would remember that!”) However, the car was low-mileage, very fuel-efficient (at $5/gal for gas equivalent, that was critical!) and by the time I was met with hairy, winding, steep, twisting mountain roads a week later I was down-shifting the automatic gearshift left-handed and steering one-handed with aplomb. Thank goodness we humans are as adaptable as we are!
Drunks and Cultural Differences
Our digs in PD were awesome–except for the neighbors who partied until after 2am–loudly. Then there were the drunks from the nearby pub that closed at 1am, walking up and down the street outside screaming, hollering, and kicking over garbage bins- nightly.
Set those disturbances aside and Port Douglas was simply a wonderful little place to call “home”, especially as it was so laid-back, friendly, and convenient to all the places we wanted to visit.
Cultural Differences: I noticed that most men speak in a higher tonal range than men in the U.S. I can’t account for it.
Everybody went about with head-covers on- the ozone layer is thin over much of Australia and residents and visitors alike are very careful to cover up from the sun. I saw very few exposed bodies out on the beach, for instance– most people wore long-sleeves of lightweight material.
Aussies deserve their reputation for being very friendly and approachable, if not garrulous. Drunks aside.
Aussies love their beer. They love their ‘roos and koalas and cassowaries and the GBR and the other things that attract tourists. I think they even love tourists, although we took a LOT of ribbing for being “yanks”.
The medical system is awesome, based on my experience with a physician in PD, who told me I was going to survive my cold and then went on to disclaim (not too heavily) about the mess the U.S. healthcare system is in. Interesting chat.
The road signs are amusing and often confusing– approach a roundabout and try to figure out any sign describing the traffic pattern, while driving at 45 MPH or so. Not.
The stars are right overhead, brilliant, fascinating. Every night, anywhere in tropical north Queensland. What magic there is in the clear night skies. I am saddened that in our suburban existence on the east coast of the U.S.,we have that experience pretty much removed from our daily experience.
I love Oz. I wanna go back.
When I was around 12, I made up my mind I was going to learn to SCUBA dive. Watching the old Sea Hunt episodes on TV served as the initial inspiration and a steady dose of Jacques Cousteau TV specials in the late 1960s and throughout the 1970s served to cement my fascination with the sport. Being raised virtually surrounded by water on the east coast of Florida, I spent a great deal of time outdoors, swimming in pools, the ocean, the rivers and even abandoned limestone quarries that had filled with seepage from the fresh water aquifer that underpins much of the state. By the time I came to live in Ocala, in the north central part of the state, I added fresh water springs to my list of underwater places I simply had to explore.
I was 17 and my younger brother John was 15 when we managed to convince Mom to put us through the basic open water diver’s certification course. We knew SCUBA would come naturally to us. After all, we kids swam and snorkeled like fish; water skied in lakes, paddled canoes and kayaks with aplomb, and operated small gas engine boats with skill and caution. We had little fear of diving from a high fork of a water oak or swinging on dangerously slippery ropes into fast-running currents of the many rivers in central Florida. We were respectful, but not fearful of the alligators, snakes, snapping turtles and people floating in inner tubes that often thickly populated the many bodies of water we explored.
We believed that adding SCUBA diving to our outdoor skills was a given, and were egged on by visits to nearby Silver Springs, where we swam in the crystal clear waters of the main spring. Back in the early 1970s, locals could get onto the grounds of the attraction on a cheap “day swim” ticket. This gave us access to the breezeways between the ice cream shop and the souvenir shops, where framed publicity photos festooned the walls.
We learned that many of the Sea Hunt episodes had been filmed at Silver Springs, as well as Tarzan movies and titles ranging from “The Yearling” to “Rebel Without A Cause”. Over the years the list has grown, from underwater sequences of James Bond films and National Geographic specials, sequences featured in Crocodile Hunter and Discovery Channel and too many commercials and documentaries to count. We just knew it would be SO cool to stay underwater and explore wrecks and caves and dodge sharks.
I gained my basic underwater certification in 1972, from the National Association of Scuba Diving Schools, now defunct. John couldn’t hack the math and never managed to pass the final written exam. No problem, we figured I could always rent gear for him on my card and we could still dive together, which we did on numerous occasions in the 1970s.
I did my open water checkout dive on Molasses Reef off Key Largo in the northern Florida Keys. Then, the reef was wonderfully alive, full of fish and massive brain coral, stag horn and elk horn corals. Captivated by the sensation of floating along, listening to the snaps and crackles of fish and shrimp, I had to constantly remind myself to check my bottom time, air and depth gauges to ensure I didn’t overstay my time or use too much air before returning to the boat.
The basic skills of SCUBA came as natural to me as breathing, and I quickly learned to fine-tune buoyancy by inhaling and exhaling while naturally orienting my body to the current and surge. I felt just like the fish, free in this watery world. I still remember floating just off the sandy bottom between reef heads, gazing upward at the shafts of light arrowing through the shallows, where soft corals waved back and forth in the surge. I had spent weeks studying books on marine species and silently named everything I could see, from southern sting rays and moray eels to Nassau groupers, yellow snappers, soft and hard corals. I learned to look in tiny crevices for snapping shrimp and kept my eye out for nudibranchs, as well as fish-cleaning stations – just like the ones I’d seen on one of those Jacques Cousteau specials!
Captivated, I continued my diving education in the cold springs and rivers in central Florida. Wearing a wet suit and diving in the 72 degree water of the springs wasn’t quite the thrill of diving on a fishy reef, but I learned to appreciate the unique aquatic environments that were close to home, and managed to get myself into a couple of close calls underwater that taught me valuable lessons about just how dangerous diving can be if you don’t keep your eyes peeled and pay close attention to where you are and what’s going on around you.
I found a diving buddy in my best friend’s husband. S was a good teacher, with almost a decade of diving under his belt. I felt safe in his company, even if I doubted my ability to successfully pull his 6 foot 4 inch frame out of a scrape. Thankfully I never had to save his bacon, but he had to come to my rescue on two occasions that still give me the willies today, remembering them.
S introduced me to diving in the rapid current of spring fed rivers. My first experience was on the Silver River, which flows from the headwaters at Silver Springs, running clear and cold until a few winding miles downriver, where it flows into the Ocklawaha River, which is a black water river, stained opaque by the tannin from the trees that line this natural waterway.
We entered the Silver River from a short canal dredged from a public boat ramp. Locals know it as the Boat Basin. We hauled our gear along a muddy, root-filled path beside the canal to where it met the Silver River proper. S warned me that I would sink into the soft bottom at the edge of the river bank, so I carried my flippers and stepped into the water with my mask and regulator firmly in place. Good thing, because I sank up to my butt in that muck, weighed down as I was by the tank and weight belt. I wasn’t strong enough to pull myself out as S had, so he yanked me loose, and I tumbled into the current of the river, rolling on my back to quickly don my flippers, peering through the cloud made by the current washing the mud off my legs. I rolled back over and quickly finned toward the bottom to avoid the prop of any boat that might buzz by.
Technically, we were, um, breaking the law diving this section of the Silver River. S said it was dangerous, the narrow river flowing swiftly and boats zipping overhead. The river wasn’t very deep, maybe 40 feet in spots, but the branches from fallen trees could snare the unwary, and many lures, with rusty, nasty hooks hung down from these obstructions, some strung tightly enough to garrote a diver, some swinging in the current waiting to snatch a body part or equipment. So, yeah I guess this was a crazy idea but we figured if we stayed in the middle of the river, went with the flow, listened for boats and hugged the bottom when they came overhead, we should be fine. The visibility was astounding. I could see across to the either riverbank underwater. Or what I believed to be the banks. It was hard to tell through the forest of tree limbs and branches.
Believe me, the last thing on my mind was fear of ‘gators or snakes. I had my hands full, following the mass of bubbles created by the movement of S’s flippers, keeping my body oriented downstream to a current that kept trying to flip me ass over teakettle, watching for obstructions, and maintaining height over the bottom to avoid the deep eel grass that lay almost flat from the pressure of the current.
The eel grass fascinated me. I knew that large catfish, which the locals called “sucker fish” hung out in the grass. I had seen some as large as 4 feet in length swimming in the head water of Silver Springs. I’m not sure why, but for some reason they creeped me out, far more than the thought of bumping into a ‘gator.
I must have been daydreaming about sucker fish, because the next thing I knew I felt something grabbing the base of my neck, which rapidly stopped my forward motion. The current immediately grabbed my lower body, levering my feet toward the surface from the force of the water. I couldn’t swim up, dive down or, worse, twist around to see what I was hung up on. As I fought off the panic and tried to feel between my shoulders I felt S push my butt toward the bottom and pat me on the shoulder. I was pretty freaked, but knowing he was there helped me to calm down. He jerked at stuff at the base of my neck, while masterfully keeping us together in the pull of the current. I could feel him tugging on the hose of my regulator and felt my hair being pulled out by the roots, which didn’t help the panic. I envisioned being tangled on a tree branch or limbs, and he must have pulled my hair, which was long and tied into a ponytail, out of a snarl.
As I recall, S pulled me gently up-current a few feet to clear what I could now see was the fork of two tree limbs festooned with densely packed branches. A clod of sand and mud kicked up from the bottom mostly obscured the scene, and we didn’t hang around to study the area. Holding my hand, S quickly tugged me along toward the center of the river. My brain was settling down from the panic, and I mulled over how stupid I was, thinking about those damned sucker fish, allowing myself to drift toward the river bank. I remember resolving to pay attention from now on. I had just had a personal lesson on just how hazardous this sport could be.
In the middle of the river S motioned for me to follow him to the surface. I lifted up my mask and removed my regulator to ask what the hell had happened, and he quickly told me to keep my mask on and regulator in my mouth and listen. He was holding onto me while we drifted down-current. No boats were in the area and we were well clear of the riverbanks.
S spoke fast, telling me I’d gotten hung up in a tree and he’d had to cut my hair where it had gotten entangled with branches that had caught the first stage of the regulator. Thank goodness he had a dive knife strapped to his leg. He apologized for chopping my hair, but went on to say we had to get down to the bottom before a boat came by and that he’d stay right beside me and let me know when we were close to the place where we were to get out.
Memory is a funny thing. I can recall a lot of that dive in great detail. I remember shaking from the cold and fear but feeling steadied by S’s calm, reassuring manner. I had no idea where I was, or where we were to get out to walk back to the car. I was completely dependent on S, which was a scary thing, if I think about it.
I remember just wanting the dive to end, and spent the next unrecalled period of time concentrating on staying right next to S, not floating higher, not sinking deeper. I kept sweeping my head left and right to try to see the river banks, but the river was getting wider, which meant the current was slowing down. There were fewer bends in the river now, but the water was also not a clear as earlier, and visibility was dropping rapidly. I guessed we were getting near the spot where the Silver River let into the Ocklawaha River, where S had said we would end the dive.
S motioned me to follow him to the surface. He broke the surface before me and, quickly ducking down again, he pushed my shoulder so I stopped rising. Then he turned his face mask directly to mine and I could see him grin around his regulator mouthpiece and wiggle his eyebrows, almost concealed beneath his wetsuit hood. He had some mischief in mind. I was in no mood for games but gave him the OK sign when he motioned for me to wait a second. I floated almost vertical about 4 feet from the surface and watched as he very slowly eased his head out of the water.
S motioned for me to surface and as I popped up next to him, he took the old-fashioned, single-stage regulator mouthpiece from his mouth and let it fall into the water, where it dangled around his neck, bubbles seeping up to the surface. He grinned and said “See down there?” He motioned with his head to the left bank of the river, which was about 80 feet away. Downriver, on a flat section of the bank, a woman was sitting on a bucket, cane-pole fishing. A small boy played in the shallows next to her. Neither of them had seen us yet. S said “Let’s have some fun. Stay next to me, float as low in the water as you can. Keep an eye on them and don’t be surprised when I push you back down fast. OK?”
I was puzzled but nodded. I let air out of my buoyancy compensator to lower myself so that my mouthpiece and chin were underwater and paddled to keep myself vertical, watching the boy and the woman. We quietly drifted downstream to almost directly across from them, but still neither had spotted us, probably because we were so low in the water, with a dark riverbank of trees behind us. Also, it had become cloudy and the wind was ruffling the surface of the river. S had on a black wetsuit hood and my dark hair probably didn’t stand out.
Suddenly, S took the mouthpiece out of his mouth and raised it above his head. The regulator let out a loud and sustained HISSSSS, which startled me as it echoed off the trees lining the river. I got a glimpse of the boy’s face as he lifted it, jumped straight up from a crouch and screamed at the top of his lungs “Mommy! Mommy!” while pointing frantically in our direction. The woman was twisted away from us on her bucket, fiddling with fish on a stringer. I saw her start and lift her head, and then the next thing I saw was a froth of bubbles as S shoved me, hard, below the surface. He was looking into my mask. His mouthpiece was back in place and he was laughing so hard that bubbles were pouring out all around his lips. I whooped into my regulator and almost lost my own mouthpiece. What a hoot!
Some minutes later I was still chuckling to myself, even as I was shivering from the cold, when S grabbed my hand, motioned “up” and led us to a broad section of the river bank under the old barge canal bridge that spans the Ocklawaha. I remember us clambering out of the river, laughing our asses off. My teeth were chattering, I was so cold, but I managed to get my flippers, tank and weight belt off. S was howling with glee. “Did you see that? Man, that kid is NEVER gonna be able to convince his momma that he saw a sea serpent or whatever the hell we looked like to him. You just KNOW she didn’t even see us. And that regulator hissing? That was brilliant! Too damn funny!” And so on.
I was freezing and drained from too many adrenaline rushes that day for it all to sink in. The story was much funnier in the retelling to his wife, which we did when we got to their house, toweled off, changed clothes and got some hot coffee in us.
As funny as that part was, the scary getting-stuck-on-a-tree thing gave me pause. Not to mention my mangled pony tail. I remember my mother being horrified when I walked into the house that evening. The first thing out of her mouth was “What happened to your HAIR?” I got into a bit of trouble for diving in the Silver River, which my step-father knew was a seething mass of obstructions. “Hell, I won’t even run my little boat that far down the river to avoid damaging the prop,” he admonished me. So I had to promise to never dive in the Silver River again or any other body of water where it was illegal to dive. I kept that promise. Well, more or less…