A Close Call; Way Too Close.

We hear it all the time: how would you really react in a moment of crisis? Would you react sensibly or would you do things that you would heartily scoff at in a calmer, more deliberative moment? Are you really prepared to act in a rational, constructive manner when all your instincts are flailing around in total chaos? I remember a few years ago watching in abject horror as Mojo dove into the ocean to confront a shark as the saner dogs and people scampered in the opposite direction. As Mojo mounted the shark and rode on the back astride the dorsal fin, I found myself marching into the water armed with my “chuckit,” the device I use to hurl tennis balls far out into the ocean for Mojo to retrieve. In that moment of crisis, I foolheartedly concluded the chuckit was the ultimate anti-shark weapon and went into the surf to do battle. Stupid, ill-conceived, not helpful. Fortunately, the shark was as freaked out as I was and made haste to return to deeper waters leaving Mojo behind wondering where his ride went.

But, Saturday morning presented a different sort of events. For a couple of weeks, Lily and I had been hearing odd, loud puffing noises coming from the kitchen. For some totally inexplicable reason, we both attributed these noises to a new device we had which makes club soda with the assistance of a bottle of compressed gas. These air gun-like sounds were surely emanating from this new fangled kitchen gizmo. On a couple of occasions, we even went so far as to take the device outside thinking that if it were to explode at least it would be outside where the harm would be less traumatizing. Sadly, we were mistaken, and hugely so. The club soda device had been improperly accused and was blameless. At ten past seven, when even Mojo is still asleep, the loud puffing noise re-appeared, but this time in earnest. It awakened me with a start. Why? Because the now more urgent puffing actually blew open our bedroom door! In a stupor, I went to the door thinking that maybe it was our guest, young 6 year old Marley – our niece – visiting for a week from Florida. Maybe Marley had gotten up early and had opened our door just to see if we were awake yet. I went out of the room and, thinking I was looking for Marley, headed to the kitchen. There, everything changed. As I stumbled into the kitchen, still half asleep, the smell of gas was overpowering, and it was not the kind that emanates from a club soda making machine. It was the gas cooktop. How did I know? Even in my stupor I could see that the cabinet doors below the cooktop had been blown open and there, underneath, were large blue flames shooting out left and right from the junction box like some kind of demonized, blue-haired Medusa.

What to do? They say that the mind sharpens in its most trying moments. I'm not so sure. Coming out of my stupor at warp speed, my first instinct was to go for the fire extinguisher which, naturally, was buried somewhere in one of our kitchen closets. Hadn't seen it in years let alone have any notion of how to operate it. As I turned toward the closet, seemingly a thousand micro-thoughts crossed my brain: do I immediately awaken everyone in the house and get them out; do I put in a quick emergency call to the fire department; do I just try to blow out the arching flames; do I try to smother the flames; do I have time to read the fire extinguisher instructions should I find the damn device; how many seconds or minutes did we have until the house exploded; do I scream?

Somewhere in the midst of this frenetic exercise in weighing my options, my mind screamed at me, “turn the gas off, stupid”!! Of course, kill the problem at the source. The source in this case is a propane tank that sits outside our house, seemingly miles away in those frozen seconds that I thought could spell the difference between life and death. Clothed in nothing more than my underwear, I sprinted for the door, threw it open, descended the steps and ran around to the side of the house to the tank. I opened its lid and – not having much experience with this mechanism either – looked quizzically and impatiently at the various knobs on top in urgent search of the main shut off valve. I figured which one it should be, turned it viciously, and then spun around to make my way back into the kitchen. Bursting through the door again, I saw instantly that the flames were still having their way, snaking their way around the kitchen cabinet beneath the cooktop. Why, I thought. Had I turned the wrong valve? Do I run out there again? Do I hunt for the fire extinguisher this time?

Don't ask me why, but I decided the better course was for me to dive my head into the endangered, flame-filled cabinet and attempt to blow the flames out. Maybe the flames were still thriving solely on whatever remnants of gas remained in the lines and could be subdued as one might blow out a match. A very large match. I dropped to my knees, stuck my head into the inferno and started blowing. Only later did I reflect on this strategy and, as I have in the past, said to myself: stupid, ill conceived, not helpful. Certainly, this would have been the case had the system decided to explode in my face in that moment, but, then again, I wouldn't have been around to hear the scorn heaped upon me for making such a misguided judgment. Once again, we never know how we're going to react in those moments of crisis. One tries to be level headed, but being level headed is often a function of dispassionate analysis – a luxury, methinks, at times.

As luck would have it, my efforts at a manual solution worked. I got the flames to stop. I stared at the junction box certain it would ignite again. I waited. And, blessedly, nothing followed. Just the sounds of my gasping for breath, something I believe I had neglected to do in the previous minutes.

At this point, I returned to the bedroom where a still sleepy Lily listened in horror to my little drama. Marley, in the next bedroom was wonderfully oblivious to all that had transpired. Mojo wondered what the hold up was in heading for the beach.

I walked to the beach with Mojo still shaken, still wondering what might have happened. I second guessed almost everything I did.

Upon our return from the beach, I found the fire extinguisher, found a readily accessible place for it, and read its instructions. Now, that's something smart, well conceived, and helpful.

Music To My Ears

Bob Marley once said, “One good thing about music, when it hits you, you feel no pain.” The man knew something. Is there anything that soothes without physically touching like the tones, rhythms, and lyrics of music? Is there anything that transports you a zillion miles from wherever you are and yet, at the same time, paradoxically, drives you to live in the moment? I readily acknowledge that arguments can be made for other artistic expressions whether it's poetry, a movie or even a breathtaking work on canvas. All of these have the potential to strike us in a way, at both an emotional and even visceral level, that is disarming, revealing about our inner natures, and a source of wonderment. But, music – at least for me – is a cut above other art forms in its ability to move, to turn on the emotional faucets. It stands alone. Many have said over the centuries that this is man's greatest gift – the ability to move one's soul through a progression of notes that, in the abstract, are just random sounds that, when laced together in a certain order, create the ability to have one experience the deepest joy or sorrow, energy, euphoria, reverie, or love.

And, so it is with me. As with most folks, my yardstick for musical magic is a fluid one. What drove me to run five miles once or to dance with unabashed abandon years ago doesn't necessarily do that for me today. I'm not sure why. Have I tired of the old classics; have I heard them too many times? Greatness is greatness, right? Whatever the reason, it is an unending joy that there is seemingly always something new to transport us, to lift us to new heights, to make us want to get out of our chairs and just move. I say these things knowing that what strikes a responsive chord in me is likely musical gibberish to others. Or worse. Just like tastes in food, clothing, friends, or soul mates, we all march to our own drummers that often bear simply no resemblance to another's tastes in the same things.

Take “Red Hands” by Walk Off The Earth, for example. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1bt-FHaFVH8). Here's a tune that no doubt goes unnoticed by many barely raising an audible ripple to the casual listener. Or, just as likely, the song falls on almost deaf ears and disappears as a thousand other forgettable songs do. But, for me, I hear the first few bars and my head is already nodding, my shoulders almost imperceptibly start moving up and down, my fingers unconsciously tapping. If I'm running, “Red Hands” makes me feel like my feet are moving perfectly in time with the music. My feet are transformed into metronomes. I feel I am moving forward effortlessly. Whatever fatigue I might have been experiencing vanishes. For three minutes plus I am transported, flowing with the music forgetting where I am. If I'm cooking, “Red Hands” unconsciously leads me to wave, baton-like, whatever spatula, knife, or tongs I may be wielding in those moments as if I'm leading a phantom musical ensemble or hitting those drums with a fervor that anticipates every beat. And, whether I'm running or cooking, I'm glad I'm standing because I could not be sitting down for this one. No way.

In a much deeper way, I am seriously awestruck by Per Byhring's "Mr. Wednesday."            (https://soundcloud.com/perbyhring/mr-wednesday). Perhaps like no other piece of music in my memory, “Mr. Wednesday” takes over my soul. Completely. I'm not sure where it takes me, but I know it's not where I am. It is evocative; it is uplifting; it allows me to think back in time over my life and ahead to wherever it is I might be going. It starts slowly, softly, hypnotically. But, at the two minute mark, it opens up with brassy pronouncements and, if you close your eyes, it does not take great imagination to see the gates of heaven or to imagine an epic moment in one's life filled with all that is important. Indeed, I often say to myself that when I listen to “Mr. Wednesday” I feel something important is happening. For others to whom I have introduced “Mr. Wednesday,” this piece of music often strikes them as slow, repetitive, even boring. I get that. I'm okay with that. Maybe I would react to their own choices in similar fashion; that's not important. And, I also feel that, although it would be interesting to me, I believe it is irrelevant what Mr. Byhring had in mind when he wrote this piece. I know what I'm getting from it, and that's plenty.

And, for crying out loud, if you listen to these musical moments, turn up the volume!

A Brush With Reality

Much to the disdain, dismay, and even disgust of my family and some friends, I have been a devotee of certain reality TV programming for the last decade or so. The eye rolling and tongues in cheek of these loved ones is so exaggerated at times in reaction to this foible of mine that, I fear, could lead them to permanent disfigurement.  Yes, truth be told, I have been a huge fan of Survivor, the Amazing Race, American Idol, Top Chef, and others for years. And, yes, I have often been forced into seclusion to give full vent to my fandom or risk expulsion from the family Golland/Matheson, but I have done this without flinching, without complaint. Sacrifices are sometimes necessary. After all, I have even applied and auditioned for more than one of these shows. My devotion is beyond reproach. But, let me be quick to say that I am, I believe, selective in my viewing choices. Kim Kardashian and her ilk will never cross my TV screen, nor will the unhappy housewives of Beverly Hills, Atlanta, or Mongolia, for that matter. I will not indulge former football players or over the hill entertainers as they prance across the stage as dancing “stars.” 

But, watching these reality programs on TV and being there in person to bear witness are two different things, however. Which is why I lunged at the chance to attend a screening of The X-Factor, the johnny-come-lately to the singing competition universe, courtesy of erstwhile American Idol judge – Mr. Simon Cowell. I saw this as a way to immerse myself in the experience, to have my own brush with reality, you might say.

The lines were long at the North Charleston Coliseum. While I got there an hour before they recommended, the place was already crawling with sun-dressed young ladies replete with fancy sandals and the ubiquitously displayed cell phones, sometimes in the company of an occasional adult chaperone. The male species was represented too, but with only a slight sprinkling throughout the lines. A very slight sprinkling. Hazarding a guess, I would say the median age of attendees was maybe 16. Folks of my ancient ilk were few and far between. Let me just say that there weren't a whole lot of folks who could lay claim to being born in the first half of the last century.

After standing outside the arena for more than an hour, we were blessedly ushered into the arena away from the searing sun and the avalanche of Facebook traffic, where I took my seat seven rows back from the stage, about 15 feet from where the inestimable Mr. Cowell would be seated along side his fellow judges. The host of the event – a very able and amiable fellow named Frank – guided us through the pre-program do's and don'ts, encouraging us to boo what the judges say, but not to boo the contestants who were, after all, already exposing themselves to public ridicule to millions of viewers. Frank also directed us in a walk-through of how we should execute our standing ovations, which, he enthusiastically intoned, would be done in waves depending on one's birth date. Who knew? We were also advised never to stare into the camera and warned us that cameras were everywhere – that nothing would go unnoticed. A nice lady named Amy – one of the crew – came out to test the sound system while simultaneously getting the crowd warmed up through a rousing rendition of “Rolling On The River.” Her skills were passable, but would never pass muster with these judges were she a contestant, but you had to give her props for her energy and enthusiasm.

The tension mounted. When would the judges appear? The pre-pubescent teens would scream whenever they sensed the judges' appearance, and, through the cacophony they created, they could get the entire audience to swivel their necks at all manner of awkward angles – much like the Linda Blair character in “The Exorcist” – whenever they thought the moment of their arrival was at hand. And, finally, an hour after being seated, they did arrive amidst all the fanfare normally reserved for national heroes or epic pop icons. In they walked to swirling lights and deafening screeches: Demi Lovato and new judges, Kelly Rowland and Paulina Rubio (apparently a mega Latina star). But, wait. No Simon? No, no Simon. Where was he? Demi announced to the crowd that Simon was “running late” and would arrive....uh...."soon."  In the meantime the three “awesome” ladies, as Demi humbly described the lady judges, would carry on. And, so they did. For an hour, performer after performer marched on to the stage trying to look their perky best and sound the most professional they have ever sounded. Some had success, some did not. Country singers, hip hop artists, church singers, groups, you name it. Judges got booed, contestants did not. One husband and wife team performed, and it was clear to the judges that the husband had a terrific voice while his spouse most definitely did not. When the husband was asked whether he would consider going on as a solo act, he said “in a heartbeat” whereupon the judges passed him on to the next round. I'm thinking, my oh my, that should make for an interesting, if awkward, ride home for the two of them. One lady, a professed hip hop artist, said she was 38 years old, but I wasn't buying it. Notwithstanding her metallic mini-skirt and stiletto heels, she was 50 as sure as the sun sets in the west. She didn't get the judges best wishes although the crowd tried its best to convince them otherwise to send her on as they chanted her key lyrics and stomped their feet to no avail. As was true for all the contestants, as they sang, you could watch the judges for their attempts at seeking a conspiratorial consensus off camera. Their smiles or frowns, their nodding heads and winks spoke volumes as they tried to minimize their own embarrassment at appearing fragmented and without support.

With an hour left, Simon Cowell entered the fray appearing in his traditional white t-shirt. He blamed his late arrival on Demi's erroneous advice that the afternoon session began at 4 rather than 3 hours earlier. Right. Simon's apparently been eating way too well and seriously needs to consider upping his shirt size which, given his outsized ego, may be hard to do. But, I must say, his one line zingers to the contestants were vintage stuff, and he very quickly asserted his dominance over the panel.

After almost four hours in our seats, Simon announced the afternoon session was over. A break would be taken and the evening session would begin. I would not be there for that. I couldn't wait to get home, pour myself a nice helping of rum and put my feet up. I had no idea this day would prove to be so taxing.

The X-Factor season on TV is coming this Fall. Plenty of time to perfect my couch potato credentials.

And....so much for reality.

 

In the Hothouse

For many years, folks who know me well sometimes refer to me as the reptile. While I have not encouraged this nickname, I have come to understand that it is not wholly inappropriate. I don't tend to sweat very much. I tolerate very warm temperatures without great effort. While others are swimming in body soaking perspiration, my body tends to dampen only slightly even during intense physical activity which has prompted my friends – out of jealousy I am quite certain – to liken me to a lower strata of animal life. Which is why I was curious how I might respond to a taste of Bikram Yoga. Bikram is that version of yoga that requires you to spend 90 minutes in a room heated to 105 degrees and 40 to 50% humidity while you twist and turn and bend your body in ways that make you feel like a first cousin to a pretzel. Its benefits are legend ranging anywhere from stress reduction and enhanced flexibility to a sense of well being and injury repair. This is, of course, if you can steer clear of blacking out, crumpling over from dehydration, or succumbing to fits of nausea. I'm just sayin'.

I confess to being a bit wary of this experience. Lily has done it for a long time and, while she returns from class looking like she's been for a marathon swim, she swears she feels like a million bucks afterward. Since I have all the flexibility of a telephone pole, I concluded my time had come to turn over a new leaf and get my body to do things not previously witnessed by humankind.

We arrived at the bikram yoga studio and Lily, perhaps sensing my less than robust confidence at what would follow, generously found me a spot for my mat at the rear of the room where I could do my contortions in relative anonymity. And, as a bonus, there was a slight leak at the rear door that permitted the merest suggestion of cooler air to extend to my ankles. The room filled with persons that I immediately concluded were seasoned veterans of this discipline. I announced for all to hear that my goals were limited: don't die, and try beyond all measure not to leave the room, no matter how close to fainting you might be, no matter how nauseous. That latter issue is sort of an unwritten rule.

Our instructor was Amy Lane, a petite and energetic young lady who does several of these classes daily: a pro's pro. Amy Lane speaks at a pace that would shame an auctioneer. She belts out direction and helpful guidance at an alarming clip which, at first, seems so at odds with the uber-tropical atmosphere. But, Amy Lane is monitoring everyone with an eagle eye and a finely balanced sense of humor. Sadly, for me, I am so focused on just breathing and trying to bend my body in oh so unfamiliar ways, that I find myself watching other classmates to see what it is I'm supposed to be doing. I'm just trying to keep up here.

As my body swoops and stretches, bends and creaks, I find that I only feel like blacking out every now and then. My lightheadedness comes and goes. Man, it's hot. The trick is to stay under control keeping your breathing even and slow and not give in to open-mouthed gulps of air which, let me tell you, can be very tempting. Amy Lane says it's far better to suppress this urge for open-mouthed breathing lest your body lunge into a panicked fight or flight mode. Comforting. And, I find that whatever reptilian habits I may have inadvertently developed over the years are briskly out the window. Gone. I am shvitzing as I never have in my life. Even my ankles are sweating. When I reach down to grab them in one pose, they simply slide off my already liquified hands. Sweat is flying off me. My shirt, once a light gray when I entered this place, is now almost black and drenched. I reach for my water bottles and gulp what I can without losing the rhythm of the program.

When the clock strikes twelve – the moment when the 90 minute session is reportedly over – I suppress my almost overwhelming drive to urgently advise Amy Lane that she can stop now. But, I swallow that urge and melt into shavasana or corpse pose where you can lie still on the floor giving full surrender to your exhaustion. Amy Lane passes out chilled washcloths which, when resting on one's forehead and eyes, provide a sort of outsized pleasure that, in that moment, is pretty much what you want in life above all else.

I have survived! I am not dead; I did not black out. I am not nauseous. True, I am wondering what the quickest route to the North Pole might be, but I am more than relieved; I am energized by my modest success.

I will return! Isn't that what reptiles do?

The Final Curtain

It was our last full day on what had been one of the more amazing adventures of our lives. We had returned from the Philippine wilderness to the mayhem of Manila. Our flight out would be the next day, but first we had an afternoon to wander through this city and we got to do this with Jesse and Laura. In the considerable heat and searing sun, we walked through city parks and gardens, ventured up to the old walled city, and headed back in the hopes of catching the sunset. We took in the beauty of this place and tried to make sense of it against the ever present backdrop of poverty that punctuated the scenery. With every lush promenade came the homeless sleeping wherever the shade permitted. Beautiful monuments and charming horse-drawn carriages were balanced by small, naked children wandering with no apparent connection to anyone or anything.

We headed toward Boulevard Raxos, a broad avenue teeming with life both from the crazy quilt of suffocating traffic and the ubiquitous vendors selling whatever might catch your fancy. We thought how cool it would be to watch the sunset from a rooftop bar in one of the shining towers dotting Raxos and, just steps beyond, Manila Bay. Our search was fruitless, however, and we went to Plan B: find a 7-Eleven, buy cold beer and snacks, and head to the sea wall that runs along the promenade overlooking the Bay. With our cocktail supplies in hand, we sat four abreast atop the wall, our legs dangling over the edge, and stared out over the armada of fishing boats as the sun slowly set. Cold beer, pringles, oreos, and pizza flavored chips. Perfect.

Pictures were taken, memories were rehashed: three weeks, 11 flights, 22,000 miles covered. Swimming, diving, snorkeling, hiking, adventuring. The happy hour supplies vanished, and the Bay turned from blue to orange. We would have an absolutely delightful evening that night in Chinatown with Colin and Shanti, but it seemed as if the curtain on our trip fell as the sun did over the Bay. The orange and red sky and the now orange streaked sea were not unlike our own solar fireworks display – a wonderful exclamation point on some everlasting memories.

Off the Grid: The Tao Experience

How do you know when home is far away? I mean, really far away. Distance is important, for sure. But, it's not all about distance, is it? It's also about a taste of alienation and uncertainty; it's about a culture shift and a departure from all the sensory benchmarks we have in our day-to-day lives. It's something that transports us far beyond the realm we know and take for granted.

Such was the case for us in the Philippines recently as we ventured not just out of Manila, but further and further up the west coast of Palawan, a slender reed of an island southwest of Manila in the lower region of the South China Sea. To get here, at least for some of us, required six flights, one van ride, and three boat rides. To the ends of the earth, I'm telling you. The boat rides were courtesy of the “bangkas,” essentially narrow wooden boats with bamboo outrigging and two wooden benches facing each other to carry their six or seven passengers. The sounds the bangka engines make are not unlike those of a 1994 Camaro whose muffler has long been missing – only louder. From Puerto Princessa to Sabang to Port Arthur to El Nido. And, all this was merely by way of prelude to our jumping off point to lands that, for all we knew, had been officially mapped for the first time just yesterday. There were no people along the way. No towns, no cars, no planes. Nothing. All we saw en route was the occasional flying fish rocketing across our bow earnestly in search of something. The landscape was primeval: small, heavily treed islands, some with jagged cliffs jutting out of the sea. It would not take much imagination to feel like you were back in the Mesozoic era. I would not have been shocked to see a dinosaur lurking on the shore.

Our hosts call themselves Tao Philippines, a group that takes hardy souls beyond the resorts, the restaurants, the conveniences and creature comforts that satisfy most tourists. We would climb aboard their own much larger bangka that could accommodate two dozen guests and a small staff and head generally north through virtually uninhabited islands in search of good times and memorable stories.  As the Tao literature openly suggests, this trip is not for everyone.  I mean we're talking no toilet seats here, no towels, and electricity as a novelty, not a given.  We're talking sleeping in open air bamboo huts with pads for beds and mosquito nets to crawl through.  And, hot water?  fuggedaboutit. 

 

And, our guide for all this? An irrepressible fellow named Ollie, a former fisherman from the area, now transformed into part jack rabbit and part entertainer. Relentless energy and good humor flow through Ollie's veins pretty much the way blood flows through ours. Ollie could leap around the boat in hair raising fashion whether over and around the outriggers or from lower deck to upper deck. Gravity is not his enemy.

Our shipmates were an apt assortment of just the kinds of folks you might expect to find on a venture like this one: Brits, Germans, South Africans, French, Dutch, Norwegians, and one Filipino. Everything from teachers, to business managers of various sorts, to IT systems or sales personnel, a TV producer, and one former prisoner. Eclectic. Most of us intermingled to trade personal histories and travel experiences, and share commentary on what we now all faced. Given the fairly limited space available to us on the boat, we would get to know some of these folks far better than your typical fellow hotel guest.

Our days were awash in leisurely amblings about the Palawans, stopping for snorkeling or strolls around empty beaches, as we meandered through our 150 mile course to our end point, Coron. Snorkeling was without fanfare or ceremony. When we stopped for snorkeling, you would just find some fins, mask and snorkel and jump overboard. And, what you might find was amazing. Take Secret Beach, for example. Aptly named. From the sea all one could see was what appeared to be a very small island ringed with tree-covered towering limestone walls. What you did was swim to it from the boat and find a small tunnel to squeeze through and then swim your way to the bright sunlight beyond. Emerging from this darkness revealed a place that many could justifiably mistake for the Garden of Eden: a rounded interior surrounded by the same towering walls we saw from the outside, but with a level of quiet inside at odds at with what we had left behind moments before. Raising your head, you could hear the echos of your voice and others'. There was no breeze, no sound, just a pristine beach and placid water with a wild assortment of coral formations underneath.

Other times, we would find ourselves snorkeling in distractingly shallow water seemingly barely escaping the beautifully colored, but razor sharp coral beneath us dotted with the gorgeous but deadly black spiny sea urchin with their sharp needles unmistakably aimed at our bellies. We would slide by holding our breath, afraid to breathe lest we invite painful scrapes and stings.

Back on the boat, the time would pass with reading, dozing, or chatting, with everyone finding their own comfortable niche on the boat. Lily would find endless inspiration for painting. Chef Toto and his staff, working out of a cramped walk-through kitchen in the rear of the boat, would ply us with three meals a day and mid-day snacks. And, Toto did not disappoint. We're talking squid adobo, fried calamari, curries, beans, rice, watermelon, suckling pig (with its incredibly crispy skin), all washed down with a spicy ginger tea or a cold San Miguel. Other times it might be carved out coconut with papaya, mango and porridge or an amazing assortment of vegetables and fruits. The succulent and sweet mango alone was worth the trip. Whatever we might not have in the way of creature comforts was quickly forgotten when Toto's dishes were wheeled out for us.

Civilization did make an appearance every now and then, mostly in the guise of tiny fishing villages that would appear sporadically. When we would stop at these villages, the boat would get close to shore, and we would either swim or get ferried ashore. At one such place, we were greeted by groups of young, impossibly cute children who would flock to Ollie as kids might to the Pied Piper. When their attention turned to us, they would giggle and swarm to see their images shared with them from all the photos our group would take of them. For the younger ones, these photos were like magic. They don't see too many of these. At another site, we were invited to play in a volleyball game in which the young ladies of the village were on one side and us on the other. Alex, sensing damsels in distress, gallantly took their side. When his spikes won points for the girls, the girls would start chanting, “handsome, handsome” at their new hero with equal parts squealing and laughter. Later, in a basketball game on a rough hewn court, every time Alex scored a basket, the same chorus would break out from the sidelines. I have a feeling Alex won't let us forget this any time soon.

On our last night, in a fitting burst of craziness for this adventure, we were treated to a homespun disco complete with karaoke. They had a book so weathered you'd swear it had been through wars and countless typhoons that listed thousands of songs you could choose to cause you maximum embarrassment. And, select we did: No Woman No Cry, Don't Stop Believin', Viva La Vida, I Want It That Way, Wonderwall, and, of course, Sledgehammer. The ensuing cacophony – and, really, there's no other term that better describes it – roared through the night in a manner worthy of frightening all but the most intrepid children and cats. All of this was nicely fueled through a heady mix of rum and pineapple juice. Nothing was held back. It was great fun and only embarrassing the next morning.

Karaoke aside, what Tao Philippines offered us was special. What we lacked in creature comforts was made up in full measure by some astounding sights, tastes, and, best of all, memories. We were far from home, for sure. As Dorothy once so indelibly remarked, “Toto, I have a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore.” I thought of that line more than once on this adventure.

We were off the grid, alright. But, there was no place we'd rather be.

Swimming With The Jellies

I don't know who created the notion of the “bucket list,” but I love the idea. It says so much about us – our dreams, our idiosyncrasies. For many, it's the pursuit of an experience that is so at odds with our daily lifestyle that we think of certain goals as almost unattainable. Maybe it's a trip to an exotic location or an epic meal at a world-class five star restaurant. Maybe it's getting onstage and starring in a community theater production. Maybe it's learning to play the piano or, for others, skydiving. At the risk of over dramatizing it, a bucket list provides, in its own way, a tiny window into the soul.

In our case, a shared bucket list item for Lily and me has been a visit to Palau, an emerald green bejeweled set of islands that sits millions of miles from everywhere in the western Pacific Ocean. Why Palau? Because it is the home of Jellyfish Lake, a volcanic lake up in the hills that is home to millions of jellyfish – the non-stinging variety. The idea is that you jump off a pier with your snorkeling gear and find yourself surrounded by teeming, pulsating jellyfish which create a tickling-like massage experience that may be unique on planet earth. That's what we had read anyway.

For the life of me, I don't know how I came to become so enamored with this idea. As a kid, my family would travel to south Florida from time to time. It was here that I was introduced to the Portuguese Man O' War, a beautifully translucent blue jellyfish with, what I led myself to believe, was an excruciating and mortal sting. My father and I would walk along the beach, he with a piece of sharp driftwood in his hand and me with a look of abject horror, as we went out on a mission to kill these outwardly beautiful creatures – to literally pop them like a balloon – before they got us. Later in life, both Lily and I would experience the painful, red striations that are the universal tattoo of the jellyfish that just added to their legend as things to be avoided at all costs. Kind of like the plague. And yet, despite this uninterrupted history of freakish fear and terror at the thought of all things jellyfish, I not only begrudgingly tolerated Lily's idea, but I embraced it with a passion. Life is so strange sometimes.

When we told folks of our plans to swim with the jellies, the reactions were both amusing and predictable. Most folks would instinctively curl their lips and wrinkle their noses and let out an extended “eeuww!” Others would hurl epithets like “weird” or “creepy” or some colorful combination of both. Our neighbor, Jan, said (with just the slightest hint of exasperation), “Why don't you just fill your bathtub with jello and jump in? Why go halfway around the world to do this?” Okay, okay, I get it. It's not for everyone!

Our visit to Jellyfish Lake was part of an all-day excursion to the southern region of Palau. It would be our boat with a guide and just the two of us. We would visit three or four snorkeling sites, apply soothing (and comical) ocean-bottom mud at what they call the “Milky Way,” and wander secluded beaches. But, in our minds, this was just prelude to the unchallenged star attraction of all this, Jellyfish Lake. To get to the lake, we needed to hike up steep steps, climb over some volcanic rock, and then do the same down the steep path to this mysterious and secluded lake sitting in a totally uninhabited primeval jungle environment. When we arrived, we were the only persons there. We got our snorkeling gear straightened out, and we jumped in.

I expected, of course, to be immediately engulfed in a blizzard of jellyfish. But, we weren't. The water on this day was bathtub warm, but seemingly without any visibility beyond our noses. And, no jellyfish! Joe, our guide, had told us that the jellies move around and are mysteriously affected by changes in the lunar cycle. He urged us to press on and swim to the center of the lake. As we neared the center, everything changed. At first, it was just the spotting of a jellyfish and then two or three. The water cleared. And then, it was as if the curtain rose and we were permitted to enter a region of planet earth reserved for a select few. The handful of jellyfish we had seen now turned to hundreds and then thousands. They were everywhere. And, they were so beautiful. With the sun's rays reaching down well below the lake's surface, it was as if some of these jellyfish were in a celestial spotlight eager to perform. There were different sizes, none much bigger than the spread of the fingers on one's hand. They were domed on one end with their thick tendrils laying underneath. Imagine a large mushroom cap with stunted multiple stems reaching down below it. But, instead of the mundane earthiness of the mushroom, see instead a translucent figure that lets the sun shine through and which gives it a most definite feeling of lightness, delicacy and grace.

I was giddy and I was awestruck. I felt stoned. I would reach out and gently touch these marine life wonders or cup them in my hands. They were soft, softer than a baby's cheek. They were tinged in a brownish orange, but you could see right through them. And, when we found ourselves surrounded by thousands of these lightly pulsating life forms, I felt like we were in the midst of an incredibly choreographed ballet that, in that moment, was just begging for a soundtrack.

Did we ever get so invaded that we felt the massage-like experience we had read about? Sadly, no. But, what we saw and what we felt was nothing short of magical – even spiritual -- that will forever be hard to replicate.

We'll have to dig deeper into our bucket list for that.

The Skinny on Eleuthera

Eleuthera is a topographical string bean. Achingly thin, it stretches its long, green crescent self north and south in the heart of the Bahamas, about 70 miles east of Nassau. With its arched northern end, complete with an extended skinny “nose,” and its flared and curled tail at the south, Eleuthera conjures up a seriously anorexic seahorse – if you can imagine such a thing. It is so narrow in width, one is tempted to conclude that not just a hurricane would make this place nothing but a memory, but that a modestly robust high tide might do the same.

Like everywhere, I suppose, Eleuthera has a rich and picturesque history. Folks disagree whether Columbus actually did anything more than a drive-by, but what is clear is that for centuries the island was the home to Arawaks. This was, of course, until the Spanish came, decimated the population and sold whoever was left into slavery – mostly for the mining operations in Hispaniola. Shortly after the American Revolution, British loyalists fled here along with their slaves. As a result of what became a rather insular population, Bahamians who live here derive their last names from the slender roster of those who survived – almost everyone here shares about a dozen names, almost all derived from their British slaveholders.

Eleuthera is really a land divided into three parts: north, central, and south. It's not so much that the three areas are so distinguishable from one another by geography, culture or lifestyle, but rather because the 100 mile long island has pockets of civilization at those various points, like Harbor Island in the north and Governor's Harbour in the middle. The former is a place where money is making its mark. As some have said, it is in jeopardy of becoming “Nantucket-ized.” Elle MacPherson, Mariah Carey and Penelope Cruz apparently wander about here, but we did not see them. Perhaps they didn't get the word we were coming. (Or, actually, maybe they did.) In between is a vast nothingness dotted a bit by tiny settlements or a pineapple farm or leftover concrete observation towers from WWII, or, of course, some amazing beaches. Most notable among the beaches are those that revel in their star-like quality as pink sand beaches. Imagine not sand. No, no – that would be far too easy and would render a sensible description of what we found far too mundane to capture its essence. No, imagine instead walking on a surface that has the same tactile sensation one might have by walking barefoot on a TempurPedic mattress: spongy, dense and almost indescribably soft. The granularity one expects to get back from sand on contact is practically gone, especially as one approaches the water's edge. Here, the sand is liberally sprinkled as if with cinnamon powder, but which is instead the remnants of red animal life – formanifera – whose legacy is to create a stunning visual and tactile experience for the ages.

Not all beaches here are like this. It is just as likely you will stumble across a rock-filled beach or one filled with sharp-edged coral. Among the latter is the famous spot nearing the north end that sports what they call Glass Window Bridge. Eleuthera, which is never at risk for being called “wide,” narrows itself to the extreme where the island is essentially a few feet from “coast to coast” if I may use that term here. The bridge spans the meeting of the Atlantic and the Caribbean: the sapphire, roiling, wavy Atlantic to one side and, literally a couple of feet away, the iridescent turquoise calm of the Caribbean separated only by a mass of coral heaving out of the water. Depending on the tide, you can picture yourself laying down under the bridge and having your arms span both bodies of water. But, the beach here is not one to be traversed barefoot. Not unless your feet are made of steel – and maybe not even then. The coral is jagged and unforgiving. When climbing the rocks here – in flip flops, of course – it was tempting to occasionally reach out or down to keep from tipping over. Not wise. Unless, of course, you're wearing the kinds of gloves normally found in cooler climes, which we were not.

A word about the roads here. As narrow as the island is, there are not many. The heart and soul of the road system is Queen's Highway which, like a virtual spinal column, threads its way from the north end to the south end. It has two lanes. A very narrow two lanes. For ninety percent of its length, there are no lights. So – should you happen to find yourself out at night to dinner, let's say, you must work your way back to your hotel or house hoping your windshield is reasonably clear while all the while watching for feral cats, clueless dogs, folks who tend to walk inches from the road in dark clothing, and the oncoming brights of the occasional car that leaves you momentarily blinded. All this while trying to remember to stay on the left side of the road. A bit challenging. There are other roads, some of them actually paved. But, the Eleutherans seem to have a love affair with the pothole, some of them crater-like. I'd love to have the monopoly on automobile shock absorbers here. And, the signage. Ha! With the exception of signs for the airports, which are plentiful, any correlation between the map you're holding in front of you and wherever you happen to be is purely whimsical. To be fair, however, I did consider that in the U.S., where we have an instant and unceasing need to know everything right now and often, it is possible that we have become way too accustomed to an overload of signs whereas our more laid back Bahamian neighbors are apt to be pleased wherever they happen to be even if they don't know exactly where that is.

One last word, this time about the food. We have found over the years that Caribbean cuisine is often not the best. Maybe a bit too tilted to the black bean or the heavily fried whatever, I'm not sure. But, we were practically ecstatic over what was laid before us in our stay on Eleuthera. Yes, there is an entire culinary universe based on the conch: conch chowder, conch salad, fried conch, grilled conch, and, of course, conch fritters. I am surprised there is no conch marmalade or a conch-tini on the cocktail list. But, there is so much more. The place we stayed, the Sky Beach Club, had a kitchen that killed. Everything from vegetable risotto to barbequed pork ribs and an array of fresh seafood dishes, including lobster and crab. Other places had sumptuous salads for lunch and tapas for dinner. Very elegant and very varied and very professional, I must say.

You can go to Eleuthera for the snorkeling or diving or fishing or surfing. Or, like us, you can go for the beaches, the sunshine, the Cuban rums (Ah, Matusalem) and an escape from the crowds. You decide. There is no wrong answer.