On one of our evenings, we went on a romantic sunset snorkel cruise. That was the intent at least. The cruise turned out to be a hysterically bizarre monsoon/thunderstorm, ocean-trek that prompted the Gilligan's Island theme song to continually run through my mind. Ryan asked if I wanted to be Ginger or Mary Ann, but I opted for Lovey Howell. Who wouldn't?
It started off idyllic (see photo) and very gradually progressed into a quease-inducing water gallop underneath blackening skies. The captain was determined for us to stalk dolphins and once we caught the briefest of glimpses, we spun a maritime u-ie and halted at cove where the instructions were to strap a life-jacket to your waist and bail into the darkly opaque waters to snorkel amidst the colossal downpour the skies were raining out. Pops had about 5 minutes in the water before the lightening began and frantic waves to return to ship began. I was too busy minding my mouth-a-gape position to ever make it into the water. I think Lovey Howell would have done the same.
But that's the thing about travel, I am learning. It's hard not to have imaginings and expectations ... and many of them come true. But when they turn south, you end up with an entirely new experience and memory that you couldn't have dreamt up. And often, once you survive it, it becomes the stuff good stories are made of.