Day 12 ~ Bonaire
Wednesday, May 4
I have faced the ocean and lived. Bonaire, we have been told, is the world’s best spot to snorkel, so I put on my Good Wife hat and agree to try.
We join a dozen or so other cruisers (including several of the Serials) on a catamaran jaunt to Klein Bonaire, courtesy of Woodwind Snorkel Tours. The guides – and there are four – are attentive without being annoying and quickly size us up. The old lady with the chubby thighs obviously needs special help, and after fitting me with fins and a kiddie-sized mask, they also provide a flotation belt and a little float tied to my wrist, which will keep me reasonably buoyant.
I have faced the ocean and lived. Bonaire, we have been told, is the world’s best spot to snorkel, so I put on my Good Wife hat and agree to try.
We join a dozen or so other cruisers (including several of the Serials) on a catamaran jaunt to Klein Bonaire, courtesy of Woodwind Snorkel Tours. The guides – and there are four – are attentive without being annoying and quickly size us up. The old lady with the chubby thighs obviously needs special help, and after fitting me with fins and a kiddie-sized mask, they also provide a flotation belt and a little float tied to my wrist, which will keep me reasonably buoyant.
And once I remember to breathe, I actually dare to put my head in the water. The view is so amazing, I almost forget that I am in the middle of the ocean (OK: not the middle, but significantly farther away from land than I can swim) and in 150 feet of water. There are fish seen only in cartoons: fish with rainbow stripes, fish with blue fluorescent edges, long yellow fish, fat orange fish, fish that seem to be made of nothing but bones and clear cellophane. And there are turtles! We swim with a turtle (I’m impressed that I can keep up, considering this is his native habitat, not mine) and through huge schools of smaller fish and coral and giant orange sponges. It’s like living inside an aquarium, although the standard doctor’s office waiting room has nothing like this. Snookie goes a little nuts with his camera-in-a-baggie, and shoots 100 or so pictures without actually using the viewfinder. (The pro on board took most of these, but I got the frogman shot!)
The two hours fly by, but I’m happy to come in early with the rest of the novices – one guy is already there, sucking on oxygen and looking even more peaked than I. I do have one battle scar: Early on, I drifted into the shallows and got dangerously close to the coral. I knew enough not to stand up and totally destroy them, but couldn’t figure out how to get out. Our guide pulled me away, but not before I scraped my lily-white skin on centuries-old coral. It will take 100,000 years for the coral to recover; hopefully, my tush will heal a bit faster. (It’s sunburned, too. I poured a half bottle of sun block on my body this morning, but didn’t even think about protecting the back of my thighs. That’s typically not an area that sees daylight.)
After a quick shower, we head back out for the requisite shopping tour. Bonaire is the smallest and least developed of the islands we’ve seen – no obnoxious street vendors, no KFC and perhaps most significantly, no Diamonds International. That just about sums up our criteria for a great vacation spot.
We do shop, though, and make it back to the ship in less than an hour with yet another Christmas ornament (a gourd with a carving of a sea turtle) and a small watercolor of an underwater scene. We also spend some time chatting with the gallery owner (his wife is the artist) who says the hotels are to blame for any pollution on the island, not the cruise ships. Sewage, apparently, is a hot topic. Maybe Snookie could run their treatment plant . . .
We do shop, though, and make it back to the ship in less than an hour with yet another Christmas ornament (a gourd with a carving of a sea turtle) and a small watercolor of an underwater scene. We also spend some time chatting with the gallery owner (his wife is the artist) who says the hotels are to blame for any pollution on the island, not the cruise ships. Sewage, apparently, is a hot topic. Maybe Snookie could run their treatment plant . . .
We somehow summon up enough energy for dance class, and it’s time for the rumba. The steps are just different enough from what we know (or think we know) to be confusing, but we add a nifty turn to our repertoire. Getting out of our comfort zone: It’s a good theme for the day.
Our walk tonight is more of a stroll, and we manage only 10 laps. Neither of us can face the mediocre service and food in the dining room, so we head back to the Bistro for an evil dessert crepe, followed by the “interactive dance party,” which we hope will give us a chance to dance to the big band. Nope, but we do get an opportunity to ogle a whole new group of cruisers.
We tend to see the same people everywhere – the dancing “pros,” who turn out to be European dance instructors; the line dance couple, notable for the husband’s penchant for wearing dress shirts with French cuffs on his strolls around each island; the older couple who dance with the energy of teenagers; the vaguely Asian tango twosome, who are a nationality I haven’t yet deciphered; the tiny blonde and her balding husband from England; and of course the crazy French guy who turns up anywhere there is dance music. I guess they could say the same of us.
On the other hand, we seldom see the casino crowd, the early diners, the stray kiddies or the wheelchair set. (The people next door, for example, have spent the entire trip in their room with the Do Not Disturb sign on the door. They locked themselves out on the balcony the first day, so maybe they’re just trapped inside . . . )
Our walk tonight is more of a stroll, and we manage only 10 laps. Neither of us can face the mediocre service and food in the dining room, so we head back to the Bistro for an evil dessert crepe, followed by the “interactive dance party,” which we hope will give us a chance to dance to the big band. Nope, but we do get an opportunity to ogle a whole new group of cruisers.
We tend to see the same people everywhere – the dancing “pros,” who turn out to be European dance instructors; the line dance couple, notable for the husband’s penchant for wearing dress shirts with French cuffs on his strolls around each island; the older couple who dance with the energy of teenagers; the vaguely Asian tango twosome, who are a nationality I haven’t yet deciphered; the tiny blonde and her balding husband from England; and of course the crazy French guy who turns up anywhere there is dance music. I guess they could say the same of us.
On the other hand, we seldom see the casino crowd, the early diners, the stray kiddies or the wheelchair set. (The people next door, for example, have spent the entire trip in their room with the Do Not Disturb sign on the door. They locked themselves out on the balcony the first day, so maybe they’re just trapped inside . . . )
