Culebra: September 2009

The Engineer and I stand in the back of the ferry breathing diesel fumes and watching Culebra disappear into the distance under the late afternoon light. On deck the aging boat is crowded with weekenders from Puerto Rico and elsewhere and we’re anxious to escape their sullen stares. The bored, bovine gaze of fellow passengers is enough to send us toward the aft of the boat. Their vacation is over, at least in their heads; they’ve moved into Monday like time travelers. But we know better, another bonus that comes with being a part of the Middle Period. It’s taken us years of multiple choice exams to learn that the vacation is this ferry ride and all the awkward places in between—the seat-gripping turbulence, the unexpected overnight in Cleveland, the room in the tropics with the stubborn air conditioner. Maya Angelou once wrote “you can learn a lot about a person by the way she handles a rainy day, lost luggage, and tangled Christmas tree lights.” I cherish the rain, always travel carry on, but the Christmas lights get me every damn time.

The Engineer and I are pleasantly tired after two days of exposing our pasty white bodies to the Caribbean sun. How I love the liberation that comes with being old! I want to scold the 20-somethings who saute their skin in the name of vanity but it’s just not my place. Better to sit back and slather on the 70 SPF from the comfort of our umbrella. And the day has been good. Over colorful drinks we’ve discussed at length the plan to fetch Kiwi and begin life anew aboard a sailboat in this restful corner of the world.


Suddenly, two men approach us in our section of the boat as we stand watching the bow spray warm sea surface water in the direction of Culebra. They’re an odd couple– one tall and slender with the intensity of an eagle, an excellent likeness to Peter Krause in “Six Feet Under”. The other is stouter, an aging, California surfer with perfect, small teeth. They are grinning, and seem harmless, but I self-consciously shift my few possessions to the opposite side of my body. Casey stares them down.

How are you guys doing? asks Krause, his eyes wide and intense.

Great! We respond, a little too gleefully, almost nervously.

We just came over to say hello. We saw you on the boat earlier and you seemed so joyous and happy, explains Krause. The surfer smiles in agreement.

The Engineer and I have frequently been accused of smiling too much, mostly by strangers and in similarly safe contexts where it’s unlikely we’ll be shot or mugged. Of course, this is the greatest compliment we could receive. It reminds us that we are akin to award-winning actors. Equipped with an arsenal of breezy smiles and circular banter we somehow manage to deflect attention away from what writer Richard Ford called “our own idiotic miscues”.

Our initial reticence subsides. And suddenly, the conversation blazes forward (Krause has adopted several kids from the Dominican Republic)! Time passes (this, despite the overzealous conversational emphasis on the Bible), and before we know it we’ve disembarked and are scuffing our flip-flops gleefully as we trod back toward the parking lot. This impromptu double date has come to an end. We exchange cards, handshakes, talk some more, shake again, say good bye. And once again, we collect a memory of our travels grounded not in landscape or seascape but in people. Because it’s always about people. The Maori had it right.