We gathered ourselves and made the necessary pit stops along the way, gas, snorkel gear, bathroom breaks, microwave pizza, beers and other normal necessities associated with a small adventure for a group of twenty year olds. Our wagon train consisted of Jasibe, Miguel, Jasibe's sister, Simone, Nathalie, Simone's daughter, and the two of us. I was surprised to find ourselves pulling into a day resort parking lot, for some reason I was expecting us to park the cars on the side of a dirt road with very little clearance for other cars and hiking in through a rarely used but manageable trail that navigated its way through mangrove forests and open marsh land. Instead we were trespassing through the resort, thanks for the parking, and tromping down the beach. Jasibe had us take note of a point of mangroves extending into the ocean and told us heaven awaited on the other side. I could picture it we would wrap around the point and a secluded bay would be waiting for us. The distance looked manageable, it was the variety of hiking where Point A is in view of Point B and Brain tries to tell itself that the distance is too great, and tries to tell Body all of the downfalls of the distance, "You are going to be walking in sand you know." But experience has taught Body to just start trudging, and before any parts can complain to the next of the folly of their ways your Body is standing on Point B and Brain staring back at point A feeling stupid.
The sun was out and our jolly party of conch shell marauders started our journey. We came to the beach on a magical day it was hotter and more humid than what we were accustomed to, the sea was churning heavier than usual and we were most blessed by putrid seaweed the ocean had been vomiting onto our slim hiking path for the last couple of days. In some areas our sandy bath was interrupted by hundreds of feet of thick rotting sea vegetation with the accompanying smell one only finds with death. Every footfall was akin to the stench misting us as if we were stepping on the pumps of the most vile antique perfume bottles. Yet we continued because as Body predicted we were at Point B in no time, and there was no more decaying sea mass underfoot, in fact there was no more beach at all, we were standing at the tip of a great mangrove forest that had thrust a great finger of tangled of biomass into the sea.
I was starting to see that look on Steph's face, it's a look that tells me that she is being a trooper but the current situation should be changing as soon as possible. We changed the situation as soon as possible, we began bushwhacking our way through the mangroves in hope that Heaven would recognize the penance we placed upon ourselves and be open to us soon. As most bushwhacking goes we wandered in circles got tired and gave up. We couldn't go around the the tip of the finger either because of the rough seas, we couldn't see what is usually the white sand bottom through azure waters. We didn't want to step on broken conch shells, lion fish, or crocodiles. I've heard that there are crocodiles on Cozumel but I figure there are Crocodiles here like there are wolves in Oregon, I am not really worried about getting eaten by one, plus how big could they get in this dense forest.
We made do with sitting in a spot not quite vegetable rot and only a few feet from where as I exited from the forest hundreds of tiny beetles decided I made for a good transport vessel.
Steph was beyond reconciliation so we bided our time as the crew ate and we attempted to snorkel in swirling currents of flotsam seaweed muck. I gave up early grabbed our gear and we deserted our friends. I really wanted to take pictures of the horror of it all but I had a feeling my placing all the repugnance that was around us on a higher pedestal than Steph would have only ended up with my camera going for a swim. I had to play the mean husband and just start walking at a clip a little faster than Steph's. The key to our emotional survival was to not dwell on what was underfoot and focus on the checkered flag at the finish line. In no time I had Steph sitting in a chair drinking a beer back at the resort we had used for parking. Here I began to understand the true torture Stephanie was going through. One of her most hated things back home is walking barefoot on wet grass, that translation hadn't made it through my nerve endings but Steph's feet had made the translation perfectly and converted it into a few other languages as well as speaking in tongues. It was all over though and the rattled gang met up with us a little later as gathered ourselves in the parking lot next to a swamp mourning our disappointment over rejection from heaven. And hey look, some crocodiles, big crocodiles.
