Departure day, 6:00 a.m. punto (on the dot.) It’s dark out. I, and mis cuatro compadres, pile onto the bus for our final Cuban ride— to the airport. I nestled into the front seat behind Harlem, our driver for the past nine days; the doors close, wheels now set in motion—it is done. The interior lights are off, it is eerily quiet, no one is talking. A lump forms in my throat, and I can feel the water start to rise over my wider-than-normal eyes, not wanting to blink the dam open.
Water spills over my lid’s edges, warm salty streams trickling their way toward my chin. Swipe, sniff, swipe, sniff. “Wow, what is happening right now?” I ask myself.
The tourmaline waters and white sandy beaches of New Providence Island, Bahamas—that’s where I was last week having a day by and on the beach. Much of the trip was a bust. Between the unusually cold weather, the (not my style) all-inclusive 70s resort and a Montezuma-esque Revenge bout with something not-good-in-paradise, brought me home early to the opposite phenomena of 90 degree weather happening in San Diego!
BUT, and I use that here to negate the above because there are always brilliant jewels to any journey, if that is the way you choose to view life—right? Right.
I found a sunny spot for the lounge chair which happened to be right next to one of the palapas you reserve for extra money. It was not hard to notice the two resort employees who were beach raking their way from the front of the palapa, dragging the sand up and over a berm, fizzling out near the shoreline. I couldn’t help opening up a conversation with the two of them, about what the heck was going on—it just didn’t make any sense.