I’m going to refer to this as Part Two of the birthday travel log, as it’s basically a continuation of last week’s column.
(See what I did there? If you didn’t read Part One, now you’ll feel compelled to do so. Marketing 101.)
As you may recall, dear readers, my best friend Lynne, her niece Sharon and I were booked on a madcap cruise adventure through the Caribbean, stopping in the Bahamas, Puerto Rico and Sint Maarten. When last we left the intrepid travellers, Vicki had made the hard decision to not swim with the pigs at the first stop.
In fact, in the end, we didn’t get off the ship at all at CocoCay. The privately owned island was managed by Royal Caribbean, and so everything was specifically designed to cater to cruise passengers. I did briefly consider going to the water park, but the idea of getting wedged in a tube slide – like a cork in a pipe – didn’t really appeal. Besides, when you stay aboard on a port day, you get to enjoy the venues without queues and the passengers on pool loungers, row after row of them. Sardines, baking in the sun.
The main plans we had made revolved around Puerto Rico and Sint Maarten. I had been to old San Juan on two previous cruises; we wanted to do something different this time around. Sam from Barefoot Adventures was the contact a friend gave me, and after a bit of back-and-forth on WhatsApp, the booking was made. He would meet us in the port and take us to the rainforest area. Sounded fabulous!
Not long after the captain put out the word that everyone could disembark, we stepped off the ship with our bags of towels, clothes, sunglasses, sunscreen … and an invisible banner that shouted ‘CRUISE TOURISTS’. We were all three also wearing swimsuits under our T-shirts and yoga pants, as a dip in a refreshing natural pool had been promised.
We found Sam and his F-150 truck pretty easily, and instantly liked him. A young man of 25 – yet an old soul – he was chatty, enthusiastic, and waxed poetic about the bounty that Puerto Rico had to offer. The views of the island were pretty spectacular, as we wound our way up roads with impressive gradients. I had wondered about the truck being the vehicle of choice for a tour, but after 30 minutes of riding on everything from freshly tarmacked highways to narrow, gravelled byways, I was grateful the Porsche had been left behind.
Our first stop was to see a waterfall that ran down the side of the mountain, into several pools below, on its journey to ground level. Thanks to us being on a private tour, there was only one other car around. We weren’t in crowded hotspots, flanked by big buses – this was where the locals preferred to go. Exactly how I had wanted it.
“We can hike up here to get a closer look at the waterfall,” Sam chirped, jumping neatly out of the truck and trotting comfortably barefoot over pebbled ground like it was Egyptian cotton.
“Oh, okay,” I replied, stepping down gingerly in sneakers and still feeling unstable.
As we got close to what I presumed was the starting point, I looked in vain for the trail.
“Where do we go?” I asked.
“Just up here,” he answered, pointing at set of boulders and climbing up them, spider-monkey style.
Well, how difficult could it be?
It actually wasn’t that bad at all, but months of sitting in front of a computer with my Apple Watch questioning its existence had not prepared any of my joints for this relatively simple ascent.
Sharon went on ahead, with me in the middle and Lynne pulling up the rear. Probably not the best lineup, in retrospect, as if I lost a handhold or couldn’t put my knee through 90 degrees, my bestie’s last view would have been my bum blocking out the sun as it hurtled towards her.
By the time we got to the main pool, and met the quizzical looks of locals who were taking an afternoon swim, I found I was more flexible than I had realised. Yeah, I could do this. I was officially an explorer.
Of course, getting back down was another matter, but we managed it without any cuts or bruises. On to the next ‘hike’ – a term of Sam’s we now recognised as meaning anything short of free-soloing Everest.
As we drove on, I marvelled at the beauty of Puerto Rico’s lush greenery and houses perched on the hillsides.
Pulling over at the second stop, there were no vehicles anywhere. Again, we were greeted by the sight of a steep waterfall running down into a large pool that – on the face of it – appeared much more accessible than the previous one.
“Hey, ladies,” Sam started, brimming with enthusiasm. “Who’s up for a swim?”
With that, Mowgli threw off his shirt with abandon, bounced like a ping-pong ball off the significant rocky outcrops leading into the pool, dipped a toe in, shivered, said, “Oo – cold”, and proceeded to jump in.
That announcement, and the sediment in the cloudy water, was enough for Lynne to bow out of going in. Sharon, ever up for anything, stripped down to her swimsuit and began trying to find a path down to the water. It was slow going. There was no hint of what had worked for others in the past – no smooth paths created by ancestors over generations, etc. – and between the rocks was rocky. Us city gals with our virgin underfeet needed dive booties or similar.
Sharon was not to be beaten, however. It was going to take more than slippery moss and sharp edges to keep her from that swim.
Once she was within spitting distance, she stuck a toe in as well, and more than concurred with Sam’s initial assessment of the temperature. But the work it had taken to get down there, plus the fact that she was now hot and sweaty from the effort, was enough to motivate her to jump. A loud “WHOOP!” was followed by a sigh of relief as the blissful, cool waters enveloped her.
Well, I couldn’t let that go. I couldn’t have her be the only one of the three of us to chance it.
Let’s just skip ahead to half-an-hour later – the time it took me to clear the embarrassingly short distance – when I finally plopped in, elegance personified. It really was worth it. The cold pool felt downright luxurious, and I doggie-paddled around with Sharon for a while, fancying that I looked like something right out of a perfume commercial in my neon pink one-piece. That was, until I had to emerge.
Sharon had already made it out with few setbacks. I, on the other hand, was going to be A Challenge. Sam, sensing the task ahead, assured me that he could help me out.
“I dunno, I’m pretty heavy,” I said, gasping, as a cruel, hidden pebble found the soft belly of my big toe.
“I can bench press 280, I got you,” the wiry lad announced proudly.
So. Young.
Lynne has the video, and she is under orders to NEVER share it, unless it raises significant money for charity. I’m talking big bucks.
What followed was 15 minutes of groaning, yelping, snapping at anyone trying to help, near-resignation that we were going to have to get the authorities involved and, finally, relief when we discovered that some kind soul had left behind a pair of Havaianas flip-flops that I could use. They were probably a large toddler, based on the size, but it didn’t matter. They gave me the protection and grip I needed to make it out onto dry land.
Here’s news: When you are trying to clamber out of an awkward spot, sucking in your tummy is the last thing on your mind.
BIG bucks.
After the ‘Cocoon’ episode, we made a final stop at the beach and visited some local vendors. I bought a meat-stuffed potato ball that I might have enjoyed thoroughly, had it not been for the soulful eyes of a stray puppy. Judging by its shape and healthy sheen of its coat, that animal was doing a roaring trade on the waterfront.
We hugged Sam goodbye at the port. It had been such a fantastic tour. We had avoided the crowds and had some real adventures – what more could one ask for? Cannot recommend him enough.
The video? Get out your chequebooks …
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