Dreaming · of · that · island

This one is kinda long-it's gonna be at least a two-parter.

The tension over the scuba incident did nothing to take away from the guilt I inevitably felt walking into the spa an ordering up a Swedish massage. I was begining to loath myself for being an American with money-paying some girl to ease my tension with scented oils and her hands….and I felt a little dirty about it.

But the allure and appeal of satiate my curiosity overwhelmed the apprehension. To play it “safe” however, I also booked a pedicure: nothing sick here, just a lady spending the day at a spa.

I suddenly found myself wondering, hoping for a male masseur-knowing how long it has been since I have been truly touched-who could blame me if a man’s hands working on my body aroused me? I noticed with regret that my name was placed on a waiting list under a female masseur’s name-a woman would be the one to touch my soon to be bare skin. Anxiety hits-again.

I sit on a comfortable couch in a tastefully decorated room which is painted soothing in earthen tones. Incense perfumes the air as new age music plays softly on speakers-the tourists seem happy. Everything in the room accuses me:” this is all for your pleasure” and what right have I?

I am about to leave when suddenly my thoughts turn back home-to the stresses and questions there…I know I need this. I need to relax, clear my head a bit-experience something other than the stress I have become to familiar with.

And then she arrives; my angel of calm walks around the counter to see her next client. She has very dark skin-like wet earth, the same clear eyes I see all around. No smile-this is after all, just her job. I am suddenly embarrassed. This is the woman who will touch me? Only because I’m paying her to. The thought does not sit well with me.

My first scuba lesson is a freebie the resort gives to rope the tourist in. I came to this island knowing that I wanted to learn scuba diving, so a free lesson is just great to me. I walk with my husband to the other end of the pool to meet my instructor: Richard (no, not Ricardo-even though we are in a Spanish speaking country.)

I am sure there was a flush to my face as he took my hand to shake it, and said my name in greeting. He was so beautiful. His skin was like warm caramel, and just as smooth. His hands were soft, and strong. Head crowned with short curly black hair that almost begged for a hand to be running through it. And his brown eyes with this smolder that made me feel a bit weak. He smiles at me with a slight overbite and I am suddenly very worried about my husband standing there watching me-and I’m only shaking this man’s hand.

He says my name in what I’m sure was a purr and begins to explain what we will do in the pool. There is much touching as he puts the equipment on me-I’m sure I will faint when his arms wrap around my waist to put the weight belt on me. And still that prayer on my lips, “please god-don’t let me be obvious, not in front of my husband”.

Perhaps it was the lust that led to the nerves. The sensation of breathing underwater is more than unusual-it is unnatural. I am instructed to take off my mask underwater and breathe through the regulator. I panic when water flows into my nostrils-forget that there is air in my mouth-jump up out of the water. Richard looks at me-trying to comfort me, calm me. I try again. I fail. I become very uneasy-and begin to think that scuba is not for me-but I look at my husband who is beaming-giddy almost, thinking about our dives soon to come.

We finish the freebie lesson and my husband pays for the course for me. I don’t have the heart to tell him that I don’t every want to do this again-not in the pool, and certainly not in the ocean. I swallow it-as I have so much. Keep quiet, keep peace.

I remember there is a spa at the resort, and decide that maybe a massage is just what I need to calm me-give me time for logic-help me face the tomorrow of my fear.

The pool water was cold-a stark contrast to the warm air. It was not quite what I’d call refreshing.

I stripped off my cotton dress and lowered myself down the steps, into the water, and quickly submerged. I turned back toward the stairs where my son waited. As I kick off the bottom, I realize a terrible thing: I have purchased my swimsuit top in a much too large size.

I somehow manage not to flash all the other tourists, but the wet top reveals enough cleavage, and the water is cold enough that I feel scandalous.

I look up at my husband, standing on the edge of the pool, and attempt some damage control.

“I guess I bought it too big” I meekly say-waiting for the scoff, the comments about how everyone is looking at me. I do my best to rearrange the sticking wet fabric, searching for some decency-my mind racing with memories of previous scolding.

I feel no shame-only some small pride in myself that anyone might want to look-yet this brings guilt. And the fear: how my husband will cluck and fret.

And then he does the most amazing thing. He smiles and tells me that I look good. I smile back and readjust. I am satisfied, because someone had wanted to look-and that someone did like what he saw.

Day 2

The dawn spills out multi colored light on the lush greenery around. The sun, as it will, finds its way in through cracks in the tightly drawn shades. The baby is already awake and laughs at me, “wake up mommy” his little chuckles say “there is so much to go see.”

Our destination will determine our dress. Shall we go to the pool, or the beach? These decisions can wait until after breakfast. I put on my new swimsuit and feel fine. Cover up with a cotton sun dress-light and cool-my legs feel the slight stick in the air for the first in a very long time. The air is nowhere near as humid as Louisiana-the change is refreshing.

Breakfast is delicious-a buffet with more food than I have ever seen. My husband gets up for more eggs, and as I sit with the little one I notice a couple in the corner. Two men-the first short, dark hair, pale skin-the second a muscular man with ebony skin. I look at them and wonder if this is their secret-their only time to share a love together as they shyly hold hands across the table. I build a story for them in my mind’s eyes-their secret rendezvous, the world that won’t let their love be. I decided that this is the trip that will help them throw the world away-and cling to each other. My husband returns to the table, and I pull my gaze from them-get up for more coffee, happy with myself for giving them a fairy tale.

When I return I catch a glimpse of “my” couple not behaving at all in a manner befitting the beauty I deemed they should have. My pale skinned character is sitting shamefully with his hands in his lap, studying the floor, as his companion scornfully sips coffee. This somehow breaks my heart, deflates me. Do I really have a chance here?

I spear a piece of melon, and bite into the cool flesh. It is so sweet it is almost bitter, and I chuckle to myself at the irony of my breakfast becoming my metaphor. No one hears me.

Answers to the vacations questions that everyone asks-but no one cares about.

-The hotel: is nice. The rooms are small, there is no water pressure in the shower, but the toilets flush, and the rooms are clean.

All of the roofs are made of thatched palm. It amazes me when it rains that no water gets in. All the buildings are open; the only doors are the ones that lead to guest’s rooms and the occasional broom closet. The breeze blows through gently all the time, smelling like the sand and ocean.

-The food: wonderful, in an “I’m eating at a resort”kinda way. Still-it’s nice to not have to do dishes.

-The people: varied. The English speakers are mostly small minded Americans-convinced they own the world. I am mostly ashamed to be among them. I try to disassociate myself by constantly practicing what little Spanish I know. The employees of the club are very patient with me as I try.

The other main tourist group here is those who speak French. The French speaking men are among some of the most softly beautiful men I have ever seen. (Well, as a group they are) They speak soft and flowing verse, like sonnets are their language. Sometimes I catch myself staring at their lips as they talk.

There is of course-Spanish. It surrounds us as most of the American tourists talk down to the hotel employees in badly accented Spanish as if to say “how hard could this be? Now talk to me in English because I have more money than you.” I hate them more everyday.

-the weather: too perfect.

-the water: more blue than I could have dreamed.

-Myself: longing to share every thought-with only a book to listen. I sit on the porch sipping Coca-cola from a long necked bottle until the early hours and write on…in paradise.

This is not a regular blog type blog. The whole purpose of this is to put down in a more permanent way and clean up a journal I kept on the most amazing trip of my life. Sometimes it is ugly, sometimes it is sexy, sometimes it makes no sense, but it's mine, and I will share it with you.

Enjoy.