With troubling times and travel on hold, I thought it might be nice to share a travel adventure that really ended up being a misadventure but, in the end, years later - we can laugh and really wonder did that really happen?
My First Time or How Not to Deep Sea Fish
Hours ago we struggled through snow drifts. Now, under Venezuela’s tropical sun my husband and I anticipate tomorrow’s adventure, deep-sea fishing in paradise!
The hotels warn of beach cons. Use the tour groups we’re told. But us folk from the barren Canadian prairie are tough, we will not be conned…we’re smarter than the average bear… or in this case, Venezuelan.
Sunrise finds us on the beach. The sun peels the last vestiges of sleep from our conscious. Our guide is ready, smiling. Okay, maybe that wasn’t a smile. Actually, he looks downright unfriendly.
The small wooden boat is primitive. It holds an umbrella and a cooler. The guide speaks only Spanish. Truthfully, he does not speak at all. And he seems opposed to hand gestures. It is only the taxi to the harbour I say to the others.
We arrive in a harbour filled with luxury fishing craft. I contain my “I was right” smile. Within minutes, the smugness slides deep into the bowels of the Caribbean as we chug out to sea. The engine emits a relay of coughs. A trail of blue smoke follows in our wake.
It is not the big fishing trip we expected but it will be fun, a delightful morning of fishing on the high seas. Although it is clear we won’t be going far… there are no life jackets.
Many miles later…
There are five people onboard and four spools of fish line. There are no rods. Our recalcitrant guide keeps one, ignores us, and catches an angelfish. Someone else catches a nasty looking eel. Silent, the guide severs the line with a machete-sized knife. What else lurks below?
Hours pass. I resign myself to the only bathroom option. I leap overboard. I surface, tread water wildly, and grab for the boat before I bob out to sea. I try not to think about the eel.
The afternoon’s sunburn finds relief in early evening. Is this not a planned tour with a scheduled end? Finally, we inform our now surly guide that we would like to return. This time he acknowledges the hand gestures.
The boat swings from the sheltered chain of islands to open water. Land is a speck in the horizon. The gentle swells morph into something far more sinister. They crash over the bow. We are drenched. A massive field of jellyfish clusters around the boat. Do they sting? Was that mentioned in the guidebook?
Finally, Halleluiah, we grind into shore! A spat worthy of both an orchestra and fireworks erupts between the other couple. The guide glares at the dueling duo with every ounce of his long repressed hostility. We dodge the combatants and leap for shore. Dusk settles as sand shifts beneath our rapidly retreating feet.
We end the day alone, the feuding pair and hostile guide dispatched to a bad memory. Ice cubes clink in glasses of rum and coke, more rum than coke of course…much more.
Until later.
Dream big and travel safe.
Ryshia
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