Almost a Bird

Mark Twain once said, "The air up there in the clouds is very pure and fine, bracing and delicious.  And, why shouldn't it be?  It is the same the angels breathe."  Similarly, Wilbur Wright once remarked on flying, "More than anything else, the sensation is one of perfect peace mingled with an excitement that strains every nerve to the utmost, if you can conceive of such a combination."

Haven't we all looked skyward some times in our lives and looked in wonderment at the flight of birds whether it is the effortless gliding of a group of pelicans above the ocean or perhaps a soaring eagle so high up it boggles our minds.  We have all wanted to take flight or to know what it feels like to be a bird gazing down at us.  Certainly, I am no different.  And, by flying here I am not including skydiving which, when you get right down to it, is merely an extended act of falling.  Nor do I refer to those who engage in parasailing when, after all, they are still tethered to the earth.  And, while I would like to include those individuals who engage in wingsuit flying -- you know, those intrepid souls who wear outfits that make them look oddly like flying squirrels -- who jump off cliffs and then try not to crash, most of us do not comfortably pursue that level of lunacy.

And, so, there we were: Jesse and Laura, Alex, and Lily and me arising in what seemed the middle of the night in Mexico City, all so that we could get to Teotihuacan, about an hour's drive northeast of the city.  There we would experience a sunrise flight of a hot air balloon that would take us above the Pyramid of the Sun, a pre-Aztec construction that dominates the surrounding landscape.  I won't say we were nervous; that would be misleading and overstated.  But, we were in a highly anticipatory mood, that's for certain.  In part, this emotion stemmed from the fact that we didn't know what to expect once we got airborne.  Would we be terrified?  Would we be ecstatic?  Could we remain calm?  Who knew?

As we walked out to our designated balloon, we could see the propane flames slashing the air inflating the many balloons around us.  They were hot those flames.  We could feel them.  We arrived at our balloon and learned that we would need to climb up into it and take our positions in the four corner quadrants of this large woven basket which, upon further inspection, seemed a bit delicate to be entrusted with the weight of eight passengers, propane gas tanks, and our pilot, Enrique.  Nevertheless, we stumbled our way over the edge of the basket and received our twelve second "safety briefing" from Enrique.  The sum and substance of this was to advise us to bend our knees upon re-entry.  Good to know.

And then, we left mother earth.  Rising so slowly, so gently that if you had your eyes closed you might be totally unaware you were now floating in the air.  But, how could you have your eyes closed when your brain is spilling over with excitement, anticipation, and, yes, a spoonful of fear?  The sun had not risen yet and so the only real light  was that projecting from the propane flames which seemed so close to my head my hair sometimes felt like it was about to burst into flames.  Enrique smiled and assured us the flames would not pose a threat to us.  When I asked Enrique what direction we were headed, he shrugged his shoulders and said the wind would take us wherever the wind wanted to take us. We would have no control over that.  Hmmm, really?  He made a stab at assuring us about this uncertainty by telling us he would try to land in an open field somewhere and avoid houses or other buildings or cactus fields.  Alrighty then!

And, up  we went.  At first, we were close enough to the ground to feel like we were a human Google Earth, focusing on buildings, trees, the headlights of moving cars.  But, then, we were too high for that.  Even the pyramids below seemed hopelessly insignificant now.  Then, the mountains in the distance took over.  And, then the clouds.  The air cooled.  At times, we were so surrounded by clouds you could see nothing else.  And, what a sensation that was.  I could say, I suppose, that we were experiencing the same view one might have gazing out of an airplane window.  But, what we saw and felt was so strikingly different.  We were not surrounded by metal or sitting in an upholstered seat.  We were floating outside in the air with nothing between us and the clouds but our ecstatic smiles.  So -- THIS is what birds see!

The sun rose and filtered through the clouds in an epic way.  There were nineteen other balloons aloft with us and each caught the sun's rays and brightened the already colorful patterns on each of them.  Seeing them all floating so easily out there made for an extraordinarily breathtaking wallpaper.  Photos were shot by all of us at a rate of about thirty per second, or so it seemed.  Enrique told me we were up  around 3,000 feet (or 10,000 feet above sea level).  It looked it.  We rose above the first cloud layer and then had the weird, but endearing, sight of nothing but the clouds beneath us, the sky above us, and our fellow balloonists all around us, seemingly miles apart.

When the clouds beneath us disappeared, the act of leaning a bit over the edge of the basket came into play.  It was here that you got the best sense of how fragile all of this seemed; how the only thing we had between us and the ground thousands of feet below us were this basket, hopefully enough propane to keep us aloft, and Enrique's steady hands at the controls.  Yes, it did give us that funny feeling you get in the pit of your stomach when facing some potential fate you want nothing to do with.  Giggling helped offset the fear that so badly wanted to take control.

After forty-five minutes or so, we floated slowly and gently back to earth.  When we got close, we hovered over a cactus field, the kind Enrique assured us would not be under our feet when we landed.  And, sure enough, we elevated a bit again and found a perfect landing space in an open field.  Within moments we were joined by a "ground crew" that would help us anchor the balloon and provide us with a ride back to our starting point.  As Lily and I got in to the truck's cab, what music was playing on the radio?  Why, "Safe and Sound," of course.  Really.

The ride back would enable us to sit back and think calmly about what we had just experienced.  Memories that will last a lifetime.  Twain and Wright knew what they were talking about.

Eat, Drink, Sail, Repent!

We called ourselves the “Haightful Eight.” We thought “Hateful Eight” might suggest a far more darkly sinister and angrier mood than was so clearly the case with our lighthearted group. No, this group would be far too merry, too mirthful to be bothered by any negative vibe. We thought “Haightful” more reflective of a  euphoric era, one now laced with unending gallons of wine, beer and rum if not certain leafy herbs of days gone by. Together, we would walk, dine, drink, swim, dance and laugh our way down the Croatian coast. Our vehicle? The 50 foot catamaran, the “Indian Summer” which somehow I kept referring to as the “Endless Summer.” No harm there.

To assist us in our journey, the wonderful Sanja (“Sah-nyah”) and, at the helm, Ivan (“E-vahn”). The former served as an amazing jack-of-all-trades: cook, adviser, guide, Croatian language instructor, and occasional disc jockey. Ivan, the steady hand at the helm, would perform his duties as easily and without fanfare as one might open a wine bottle, if I may use that as an analogy. Our group?  Eight friends associated by random streams of shared personal histories some dating back forty years and, in one case, more than sixty years. We gathered from California, Montana, Colorado, New York, and South Carolina. What a fabulous blend!

We would sail the azure blue waters of the Adriatic from Brac to Hvar to Korcula and other destinations which, I must confess, at this moment, I simply cannot remotely recall. On a daily basis we would stop at a variety of locations and experience the beaches of Croatia. And, what about them, these beaches? They are singularly beautiful, but, if I may say so, lacking in one meaningful way. It seems Croatia was near the back of the line when they passed out sand. What we have instead is a spectrum of rocky beaches some of which boast stones as smooth as a baby’s bottom and others clearly designed by the Marquis de Sade. None that we encountered were especially foot friendly. But, we didn't care.

At these beach stops, we would simply jump off the boat, take off in any direction, sometimes aiming for the shoreline, sometimes not. If we did reach the shoreline, we would mostly sit (gingerly) on the rocks, gaze out at the sea, drink in the secluded beauty, and decide which smooth stones were worthy souvenirs. We would agree to disagree whether the waters of the Adriatic were “bracing” or “refreshing” or “chilling,” but we could all agree the waters were crystal clear and “invigorating.”

One of our stops was Hvar. We would toodle around the island but finally make landfall at Hvar Town. I felt a special connection to this place because it was a decade ago that I visited this place with Jesse and Alex. At that time, we hiked up to the fortress overlooking the small city so that we got a rapturous panoramic view of the city below and the shimmering sea beyond. I remember thinking, as I looked out over the ramparts, that it was like looking at the gates of heaven and I always wanted to return here. Sanja had advised us that over the intervening years, Hvar had become quite the tourist destination.  She referred to it as the St. Tropez of Croatia. And, indeed, the place had become quite trafficked and blanketed by one cool cafe after another serving smartly dressed men and women. But, I didn’t care.  We hiked up to the fortress where I put on my headphones to listen to Per Byhring’s “Mr. Wednesday,” a tune that resonates with me like no other. Staring out at the sea and listening to this tune had been an ambition of mine for years. My bucket list is now a tad shorter.

I cannot let our Hvar visit pass without one more story line. When I was here with the boys long ago we happened upon a restaurant that featured what we all thought were the best mussels on planet earth. Mussels perfectly cooked in a broth rich in tomato, garlic and enough spicy heat to make it interesting. Perfect for being soaked up by a crusty bread. Here I was ten years later standing outside the very same restaurant. And, did I go in to re-create that epochal culinary experience? No, I did not. Why, you ask. Truth be told, Sanja and Ivan were about to pick us up and serve us lunch featuring a spaghetti carbonara with lobster crafted by Sanja. When we advised the boys that I had passed up this shot at mussel heaven, they were aghast. What? You travel thousands of miles and go to a place you are likely never to revisit and you pass up the best mussels ever created? Are you mad? Ahhh, I will never live this one down, and I will graciously accept the criticism that has not yet ceased to be piled upon me. (P.S., the carbonara was awesome.)

Back on the Indian Summer the party continued as we sailed between islands. Hours would pass as we read, swam, chatted, stared at the beauty of it all, ate and drank. And, what would we talk about? Well, we would delve into the momentous issues of the day of course like, what’s the difference between a mule, a donkey and a burro? If only males can be jackasses, would a female be a “jill ass” or a “jackie ass?” Sometimes we would delve intensely into the riveting and earthshaking ramifications of a Brad and Angelina break up. And, then sometimes it seemed the group might add to the list of nicknames for me. At varying times I was referred to as Rasputin (even though I disavowed any physical resemblance) or T.C. (trans century) for my alleged simultaneous resemblance to Rasputin, Marco Polo, and Einstein. Or, sometimes it was merely Yeff.

In the evenings, we would go ashore to find ourselves some dinner, often following Sanja's recommendations.  One such evening, we were in Trpanj, not far from Dubrovnik.  (Yeah, Trpanj is spelled correctly, I promise.  Just another funny example of this vowel deprived language!)  In a town of 871 people, it was not terribly hard to find a place called the "Tuna Beach Bar."  Here, we enjoyed epically good tuna sashimi and carpaccio among other fresh morsels.  What followed was a spontaneous eruption of dancing joined in by our whole group.  I mean, we held nothing back.  It was fabulously enthusiastic if a bit spastic, but since there were literally no other people at the Tuna Beach Bar I can't say we fell prey to embarrassment.  Michael Jackson, the Stones, the Pointer Sisters and other icons led the way with Sanja excelling as disc jockey.  Since we were the only patrons at the place, we sometimes asked the manager if he wanted to  close it down for the night.  He would shrug and tell us he was obliged to  keep  the place open until 2 a.m. anyway.  Good to know!

Poor Sanja. She was so earnest in her efforts to teach us some of the rudiments of the Croatian language. But, seriously, how does one try to learn such things when vowels appear about as often as sand does on Croatian beaches? Take the days of the week, for example. How about Monday, Wednesday and Thursday, to name three. What we have is: Ponedjeljak, Srijeda, and Cetvrtak. And, let’s not forget Sunday: Nedjelja. Really? In this vowel starved universe we were severely challenged. But, Sanja persevered and occasionally would connect with our less than graceful attempts at compliance. Sadly, whether it was Sanja’s howls of laughter or ours that accompanied these tutorials, we made little progress.

Upon arriving at the boat at the outset of our journey, Randy surprised us all with a gift of t-shirts to commemorate the occasion. On them, it said, “Eat, Drink, Sail, Repeat.” A few days in when we were threatening to consume about 15% of the world’s wine reserves, Randy suggested a slight revision: “Eat, Drink, Sail, Repent.”

He knew what he was talking about.

Jungle Rules

We were in search of a wilderness -- something wild, remote, dense and warm. Something far away from TVs, a spa, and swim up bars. And so we headed east from Quito by car, the five of us (Jesse and Laura, Maggie, Lily and me) with Jesse behind the wheel. We headed down into lush valleys, and then up the next layer of the cloud enshrouded Andes, and down again. We progressed over nice highways to bumpy roads and, finally, several hours later, to a turn off that looked like a rough hewn parking lot on the edge of a river. We pulled in and almost immediately were spotted by someone knowing our need to complete our journey. He pointed us to a covered canoe that would take us the rest of the way. We loaded our stuff onto the canoe and headed down the river yet further into the wilderness, finally arriving at our destination: The Anaconda Lodge.

Arriving at the lodge, we meet Francisco, the owner. Francisco is a story teller, and a good one. He is of Chilean descent, his father once the Chilean ambassador to England, and himself a former director of a major Spanish bank doing business in Chile. Some years ago when the economy crashed in Chile, and the banks along with it, Francisco and his wife made a command decision to journey in the opposite direction in almost every respect. They came to the Amazon basin and took over the site of what had once been the only lodge in this region. It once boasted visits by President Ford and later President Carter. But, when Francisco arrived, the place was crumbling and in disarray and in need of a complete reconstruction. Now, a much smaller lodge, the Anaconda has about 14 bungalow type units and accommodates fewer than thirty guests. When we arrived, however, Francisco tells us that we are the only guests! We are led to our rooms which have no air conditioning, no TVs, no phones, and no glass in the windows. And, a hammock. Perfect.

We are soon introduced to Cesar, our guide. Cesar is a native of Anaconda Island which boasts maybe 400 people. Francisco describes Cesar as an encyclopedia wearing boots. He knows everything about the local flora and fauna in addition to the local culture and history. We have barely unpacked when Cesar leads us into the jungle for an amazing three hour walk. The vegetation is dense here. Very dense. If you step off the rocky, dirt path you cannot venture more than a few steps without being consumed by a wall of vegetation. And, Cesar opens our eyes to things only moments earlier we could not have imagined. He shows us plants and trees, some of which you can touch, others to stay away from. We learn of the leaves of which trees we can eat (like the delicious leaf from which cinnamon is made) and those that would kill us. We learn how each plant or tree figures into the lifestyle of locals and which figure into the various rituals of the local shaman throughout history. Cesar speaks to us in Spanish with Jesse and Laura very ably serving as translators.

Cesar leads us to a home carved out of the jungle. We visit with the family that lives there. The house is up on stilts and is very rudimentary: no windows, just open air. Two impossibly cute, barefooted kids give us a cautious eye, but almost immediately resume their prancing around the house. The young boy swings wildly on a hammock; his sister almost bouncing off the walls with an over-brimming energy. We sat on a wood bench and were treated to a drink made from fermented yucca and sweet potato. Not exactly a mojito, but dripping with authenticity. And, then we are treated to some freshly made chocolate served on a leaf.

But, before entering this home, Cesar introduces us to the art of using a blow gun, not something that we folks tend to have had much experience with. There is a target, a wooden carving of an owl sitting atop a tall stick, that will be the focus of our efforts. Let me make an observation first on the use of a blow gun. First, the wooden flute-like tube is incredibly long – like about 8 feet. Picking that thing up and trying to balance it while focusing on a distant target is quite the challenge, one that I cannot say I marveled at. And, it's heavy. I felt it was a moral victory just to lift it and aim it in the general direction of the owl. Beyond that, there is the challenge of managing the dart. Cesar prepares them and tucks them behind his ear. He stresses to us the absolute importance of breathing in through our noses when preparing to shoot lest we inadvertently suck the dart down our throats! Good to know. He smilingly tells us that if any of us hit the target we will be treated to a free drink back at the lodge. Two hits would get us a dinner and drink, and three hits would earn us a drink, dinner and dessert.

(By now, Cesar, who spoke Spanish with a much greater mastery than his English, decides to give us nicknames which would make it easier for him to remember us over the next few days that we would spend with him. Somehow, while we believe Cesar meant to call me Juan, it became muddled in the translation, and I became “Iguana,” not Juan. The name stuck.)

Lifting that eight foot long blow gun was like lifting a midget telephone pole. Very hard to keep balanced and steady and not drooping. And, as I said, for god's sake don't forget to breathe through your nose. And then, blow hard!! At first, all of us missed with Lily making a credible attempt at sounding either like she was playing the trumpet or farting. In subsequent attempts, Jesse, Lily and Maggie would actually hit the target. Iguana, on the other hand, was a bust.

And so our days would go. Sometimes it would be hikes with Cesar up incredibly steep hills through jungle so thick the notion of getting lost was no longer an abstraction. At times, we would be serenaded by the chaotic screechings of tamarind monkeys apparently arguing over who was getting which insects (or, so Cesar theorized). At other times, we would swat at both real and imaginary bugs who apparently found us to be a tasty novelty. Once, we stopped for a respite and Cesar, using a local plant sap, painted ceremonial warrior faces on each of us that, astonishingly, did not make us look even a tad bit more fierce.

And, then there was the tubing down the river. We were told to bring our swimsuits with us, so when our canoe came ashore Cesar indicated this would be our changing area. We looked around. Uh, where does one change exactly? No, no – no cabanas here, just a rocky beach and a shrub or two. When in Rome.....

But, the ride downstream was epic. Riding the currents and occasional rapids, it would have been a serious challenge to wipe the smiles off our faces. “Steering” the tubes was, at times, a challenge, but we all ended up where we were supposed to. The rumors of crocodiles and snakes in the local waters quickly evaporated. And, that was a good thing.

Back to the lodge for lunch and more stories from Francisco. And a nap.

Yes!

Darwin's Hustle

We all know about Charles Darwin, don't we? You know – the Emperor of Evolution, the Grand Master of Natural Selection. We have been led to believe all these years that Charlie was a most serious sort, an academician of the greatest rectitude. But, I have another theory. I think Charlie was bored. He lusted for something a bit more exciting than the medicine he was studying, probably bullied into that by his physician father. So, Charlie dabbled in natural history a little and then hoodwinked Captain Robert Fitzroy into believing that he was a “naturalist,” all so he could hop aboard the H.M.S. Beagle for a five year fling around the globe. Who can blame him, right? And so the twenty-two year old went on the trip of a lifetime. A Spring break without end, you might say!

And, what did he find? Darwin would experience much, but it is the Galapagos Islands where he left his immortal mark. Here, in an island group of 13, roughly 600 miles off the western borders of Ecuador, smack dab on the equator, Charlie made history. As we approached the islands from the air, the Galapagos seemed so inconsequential. Just tiny brownish droplets of land so small against the Pacific you had to remind yourself that these droplets were not weightless floating things but rather the protrusion of mountains and volcanoes anchored to the bottom of the sea. And, at least the islands we saw from the air were mostly brown dotted with touches of green with slender threads of sandy beaches rimming the islands. This would not be the jungle exploding with green vegetation of a thousand sorts, but largely a semi-arid, cactus-dotted environment.

Upon arrival, our bags were closely examined to assure local officials that we were not carrying with us any alien plant or animal life that might threaten the fragile ecosystem we were about to explore. This theme would emerge time and time again as we learned of the lengths to which the locals strived to protect the local environment. No doubt the motivation for this was driven in part by the paramount need of the locals to protect their only viable source of income – tourism -- but there was no questioning the sincerity of their effort as they advised us constantly of the things we needed to be mindful of to protect the flora and fauna from potential threats to their well being. Even our plane was generously sprayed, including the overhead luggage bins, to further these objectives.

We found our way to our catamaran, our intrepid group of seven (Alex and Katie, Jesse and Laura, Maggie, and Lily and me) and were introduced to our guide, Oswaldo (who, for some strange reason, I kept thinking in the early hours was named Pablo. My bad.) We would join about eight others from Australia, England, Japan, and the U.S. and together we would begin our exploration.

And, what an eye opener! We were advised to never touch the animals which I took as perhaps a bit of over cautiousness. But, soon enough we would see that was not the case. Our daily routine was generally to do two walking tours around the various islands and two snorkeling adventures. What we discovered was that the animals of the Galapagos have NO fear of human kind. None. There were moments when I was sorely tempted to reach down and touch that blue footed boobie or that sea lion or that pelican or marine iguana or that giant tortoise. But, I didn't. None of us did. (Speaking of blue footed boobies, by the way, please forgive me if I tell you that it was just too tempting to say from time to time, “wow, that's a nice set of boobies over there!”) Since natural instincts, I would think, would give these animals some trepidation at human presence, I have to think it was because of the consistent and firm instruction to visitors over many years now not to touch the animals that this fearlessness has become so imbedded in these creatures.

Nowhere was this characteristic more amiably on display, and wonderfully so, than in the water. For sure, the multitudes of brightly colored fish kept their distance; apparently they hadn't gotten the memo. But, the sea lions....oh my goodness! These guys, especially the young ones, were more than just idly curious about us. They wanted to play! One morning, for example, while casually snorkeling in the shallows alongside a stone jetty, minding my own business, a young sea lion spotted us and swam straight at us, no doubt to personally introduce himself. He would swim right up to my mask, looking me straight in the eye. If sea lions could smile, this fellow would have one ear to ear. Without any effort, he swam within an inch or two of my face and then, in a most coquettish way, would flip himself upside down and spiral away. Moments later he would return, this time with his mouth wide open – no doubt laughing – and come within a couple of inches of my wiggling fingers. You know, the kind of wiggling of fingers one might do when talking to a six month old baby. I'm not sure whether he was playing tag, or keep away, or whatever, but this young dude was having a great time. And, so was I.

And, so it went. A wonderful flowing mix of interactions with people, both familiar and unfamiliar, and daily encounters with animals who, clearly, were on a first name basis with us. The Galapagos were a wonderful discovery for us. And, I have to say, Charlie Darwin may have bamboozled Captain Fitzroy, but I admire his chutzpah.

As Mary, Katie's mom would say, “carpe friggin' diem!”

Adam's Big Mistake

How silly of me. Here I am a citizen of planet earth for multiple decades always believing that the fable of Adam and Eve and the Garden of Eden were just that – a fable. An endearing story to be certain, but not one grounded in reality if you ask me. Written more to educate, you might say, than to have any grounding in fact. Mythical but clearly delusional. And, just then, we landed in French Polynesia and I had to rethink everything.

Like so many exotic, far away places, French Polynesia sits near nothing. It resides in the belly of the huge Pacific Ocean. Draw a line southeast from Hawaii, west from Peru, and East from Borneo and you will find it, an aggregation of 118 islands and atolls among four archipelagos. When viewed island by island, they appear on the map to amount to essentially nothing. But, if you were to draw a line around them connecting the archipelagos, they would constitute an area akin to the main part of Europe. But, the hugeness of the Pacific swallows up everything making any visible land mass seem inconsequential, even presumptuous. What it gives us is an array of islands that offer a lushness of multi-hued greens, and soaring razor-topped mountains that loom over volcanically created jungle island after island after island. It has that primeval look to it, as if you might expect to see a dinosaur pop out at you at any moment. And, the water! Imagine a blue rainbow, each segment projecting a luminescent shade of the lightest turquoise to the fiercest sapphire blue. And, a clarity so great that from fifty yards you can still clearly see the ocean bottom and the explosive colors of the coral formations below. You may call this place French Polynesia, but, if you don't mind, I will call it the Garden of Eden. Adam, you just had to go ahead and bite that apple, didn't you, and then face expulsion from this place? Huge mistake, my friend, huge.

Our travels would take us to three islands: Moorea, Bora Bora, and Vahine. In Bora Bora, we would stay at the Continental, one of those resorts that offers over-the-water bungalows. Part of the magic is that part of your living area is floored in glass allowing you a constant view of the coral beneath and the ever-present sea life that is drawn to the coral as we are drawn to chocolate. Want to go for a swim? Well...just climb down the ladder and immerse yourself in the warm, translucent waters and explore the shallow depths below in your snorkeling gear and exchange greetings with the multiple sea creatures there. In Moorea, we would go on a tour of the interior on ATVs, lurching ourselves forward up the one-time volcano's heights. We would pass dense forests of towering bamboo, arching palms, and greenery so lush it is almost an insult to refer to it as merely lush. Who knew that the color green could take on so many assorted, so richly diverse, spectrum of personalities? Up on the surrounding mountains, clouds would invariably snake around the peaks in thin tendrils almost as if to embrace them.

We would devote a significant amount of time exploring the snorkeling possibilities here in the Garden of Eden. Whether it was drift snorkeling (where our boat would drop us off and then anchor down the current allowing us to literally drift to the awaiting boat after our exploration of the coral reefs below), or an excursion where we would sample an array of different sea-life environments, the result was always the same: magic! First, the water is so spectacularly clear that you believe what you're watching is in high def. The coral reefs were often alive with color: purple, red, white, pale green. And, joining us down there would be a vastness of sea creatures. It might be the 12 foot wide manta rays who would swim at us with their mouths open revealing an impressive inner chamber that would (they hoped) soon contain an array of plankton or other micro-sea organisms. Or, perhaps the groups of black-tipped sharks who hopefully had received the memo that their diets did not include humans. Or, barracudas, moray eels, eagle rays, majestic lion fish, or box fish. At one point, I was offered a small octopus to hold in my hand and found that he stuck to me like velcro! The explosion of black ink that followed led me to believe he wasn't nearly as interested in us as we were in him. And, then there was the “aquarium.” Our guide referred to a place that was named that way although it wasn't clear to me what he meant exactly until we jumped in off the boat. As we dropped below the water's surface, we were literally surrounded by hundreds of bright, multi-colored fish who were barely inches from our face masks, and who were apparently as curious about us as we were about them. Ahh, the aquarium! I get it! Seeing this seemingly endless menagerie of fish so close to us made me instinctively giddy. Laughing actually. (By the way, have you ever tried to communicate with someone with your mouth mostly occupied by a snorkel? The emanating sounds really are quite humorous as you carry on a “conversation” with your snorkeling neighbor in a series of screeches and grunts. Tone of voice conveys quite nicely what the articulation does not.)

Then, there was Vahine Island, not just an easily overlooked atoll off the nearby coast of Tahaa, but a destination that we almost overlooked ourselves as we prepared for this trip. What we discovered as we arrived there by water shuttle was that Vahine is a private island. There is literally nothing there but a hotel with nine bungalows that hug the shoreline. There are no stores, no cars, no roads. Nothing. Well, almost nothing. There is a two hole golf course that one plays barefoot and only after consuming a suitable amount of the local Tahitian brew, Hinano beer. The bungalows offer you a deck overlooking the water, walls decorated with shells and they don't even come with keys. A sliding glass door is all the security you might want or need. Our host? A fellow named Terrence, an amiable Frenchman who, not coincidentally, is a gourmet chef. Terrence plied us with meal after meal that begged not to be eaten lest you undo the amazing visuals provided in his presentation. Whether it was his foie gras, grilled octopus, sushi, roasted duck breast with polenta, eggplant caviar and goat cheese in a tomato and basil coulis, or his crème brulee flambe or lemon tart with meringue, our taste buds and eyes swam in ecstasy. This was simply too good to be true. Our traveling friends, Randy and Cathy (but especially Randy), would start a daily chorus of “mmmmm” followed moments later with the same commentary. Lily and I would soon find ourselves lapsing into the same language. I have to admit, the “mmmmm's” pretty much dominated the breakfast, lunch and dinner conversations. But, after all, as they say, words do not do it justice. It is no wonder that this resort was voted by Conde Nast Magazine as one of the best retreats on the planet. While I suspect this resort was not around when Adam and Eve roamed these parts, Adam must nevertheless surely be shaking his head somewhere at his misfortune of not being able to stick around long enough to enjoy it.

There was an overwhelming serenity about this place. And, this atmosphere was underscored by the temperament of the local Polynesians. Almost to a man or woman, the local populace exhibited a gentleness and sweetness that was too common, too noteworthy, to be merely a coincidence. Whether it was hotel staff, or snorkeling tour guides, or shop owners, or just people you'd pass in the streets, people were soft-spoken, and quick to smile. Even one of our snorkeling guides, Roy, when whistling softly from our boat would cause, magically, a flock of terns to swoop out of nowhere to hover over us in the hopes of a feeding. And, all this with a willingness to help whether it was to teach us something about the local physical environment, find us something we needed, or just chat about life here. Terrence told me at one point that Polynesians, as a general rule, always speak softly. Except when they laugh.

Adam, baby, you gave all this up for a bite of the apple. You know you're a fool, don't you?

Floating Away. Far, Far, Far Away.

I left the planet today. No, not for long. Only an hour or so, actually. And, no, no, I was not rocket assisted. It was so much easier than that. I went to a float spa. And, right there, at a place called Glowspa, in the heart of Mt. Pleasant, I found other worlds. Or, perhaps they found me.

Up until recently, my knowledge of float spas was formed by the most misplaced of impressions, thanks to Hollywood. Back more than three decades ago, there was a film called “Altered States” in which a Harvard scientist, played by a young William Hurt, experimented with what was not so invitingly described as a “sensory deprivation chamber.” In this chamber, all sensory perception was removed: nothing could be seen, heard, or felt other than what your brain felt like composing. With Hurt's character, Eddie Jessup, fortified by LSD, his experience in the tank took on frightening, if not outright terrifying, dimensions such as his mutating into other, never before seen, life forms. Lily and I, with a group of friends, went to see this film in something of an altered state ourselves. We were so utterly fixated, indeed hypnotized, by what was happening on the screen that none of us noticed that Lily was so completely freaked out by what she was watching that she desperately sought an exit from the theater and blacked out – not once, but twice – in the aisle as she attempted her escape. Only when the theater lights later reappeared, did we turn to one another and inquire what had become of her. She still sternly reminds me of our complete oblivion to her absence until the film was over.

With that said, when our friend, Cathy, recently told us about modern day float spas where one could experience complete sensory deprivation, I was intrigued. (Lily less so.) What I learned was that the concept of the float spa has been in development for more than a half century. A fellow named John Lilly experimented with these back in the 1950's to explore the workings of the mind when it was deprived of all sensory information. And, interestingly, this experience has become popularized not just as a casual outlet for one's meditative endeavors, but also as a course of treatment for those with PTSD as well as those suffering from depression and a range of anxiety disorders.

In my case, I first stopped by Glowspa and conversed with the owner, Steve, to better understand what it was that might be in store for me. Steve told me that the tank was the size of an oversized bath tub completely enclosed to shut out the sounds of life coming from anywhere outside the flotation tank. The water in the tub would be about 10 inches in depth and would be infused with about 1,100 pounds of epsom salts, providing about double the buoyancy of the Dead Sea. You would lie in the tub which would be pitch black dark, be wearing earplugs, and have water temperature at 93 degrees so that your skin and body would have no sensory perception whatsoever other than the sound of your breath and, perhaps, the vaguest sensation of your heart beating, pushing blood around your organic self.

The day arrived for me, and I stepped somewhat gingerly into the tub. I was 90% excited and curious but about 10% apprehensive based totally on the decades old, but indelible, impressions left on me by “Altered States.” Hollywood, could not have been more wrong.

I leaned back and immediately realized that, no matter how hard I tried, I could not sink. Impossible. I was weightless. The dark was so complete that I had no sense of whether my eyes were open or shut. I heard nothing but the sound of my breathing. As the minutes wore on, I became aware that the intervals between my exhales and inhales became longer and longer.  That is the sound of relaxation.  I also realized later that the relaxation I was experiencing was no doubt the greatest I had ever felt short of sleep which, after all, we do not really consciously experience.  And, to add to the Twilight Zone element of it all, I felt nothing as the water temperature was so parallel to my body temperature that it precluded any sense of place. I might as well have been in outer space weightless as an astronaut would be. I settled back, realized that I was not going to freak out, and let my mind wander.

And the places it would take me! We sometimes refer to those situations in our lives where we are “alone with our thoughts.” Sometimes, it's when we are swimming laps in a pool. Other times, we feel this is the case when we are sitting alone on a secluded beach perhaps at sunset. Very meditative. But, even in those scenes, we have at least a subliminal sense of the world around us. Maybe it's the breeze we feel touching our skin. Maybe it's the sound of waves breaking or a seagull screeching. And, of course, there is the ever present daylight.  In the pool, maybe it's just the end of the lap or the coolness of the water that always keeps us centered with the notion that we are on planet earth; that there is an environmental context to what we are doing. But, in the flotation tank, we have none of those stimuli. We have nothing but our inner thoughts.

In my case, I took a journey into my past. I did not intend for that to happen, but that's where my brain wanted to take me. I saw myself sitting around the dinner table a half century ago looking at my grandmother, an image that has not occurred to me in decades. I saw myself toting around a 2 year old Jesse in our beach house in Rehoboth, Delaware introducing him to the artwork on the walls. I saw Lily and me on the beach in Phuket, Thailand almost 40 years ago. I saw Lily, Alex and me on safari in South Africa a few years ago watching an elephant spray dirt on our jeep while protecting her baby. I saw my father in his dressing area in our home in White Plains, New York as I looked up as a youngster in adulation. I have no idea - none - why these images came to the forefront of my consciousness. But there they were. And, while I could not be sure of this, I believe I smiled. It was too dark to tell.

I realized at some point that I had absolutely no idea how much time had elapsed. 7 minutes? 27 minutes? 47 minutes? No idea. But, at some point, as promised, soft music started infusing into the water. I knew my time was up.

And, I knew I would be back.

Con Cuidado, Senor. Con Cuidado.

Do you ever get caught up in the moment, decide to do something, and then almost immediately question your logic, or, more likely, your sanity? We all have, right? This is a bit overly melodramatic way of describing an outing we had recently in the Andean hills outside of Otavalo, Ecuador. Otavalo is a lovely town maybe two hours by car north of Quito and sits just above the equator at about 8500 feet. It is known for its markets and was a destination of our intrepid group, Jesse, Laura, Alex, Lily and myself. In anticipation of our visit, we agreed that we would indulge in a horse back riding outing at the hacienda where we were staying. Seemed innocent enough. After all, Lily is an experienced rider, and wouldn't it be nice to accompany her and share with her an impassioned pursuit she has and make this a family-filled, fun-filled activity. But, mind you, I am not an equestrian. I am about as close to having the requisite skills for such an undertaking as I do for performing brain surgery. Maybe less. The last time I was on a horse was nineteen years ago in New Zealand. Let's just say it was a bumpy ride which did not encourage me to pursue anything smacking of equestrianism bar the occasional carousel ride. (Interestingly, despite the passage of time, both Jesse and Alex remembered the names of their horses from that time long ago – Fat Boy and Tank – which should suggest to you that they were not exactly astride former Derby entrants.)

With helmets now giving us the illusion that we were well protected, we headed off with our guide. At first, the experience was actually rather bucolic. We slowly roamed through neighborhood streets, at first the cobblestoned variety with our horses clip clopping past small residences. The locals waved, the dogs barked. Cobblestones soon gave way to rocky roads and then rutted dirt roads as we headed further up into the highlands. Gazing at the humble, time worn communities and now dust-filled roadways, you almost expected Butch Cassidy or Wyatt Earp to appear, smilingly tipping their hats to us. The Andes were often shrouded in clouds; the sun was intense. Occasionally, when the clouds thinned, we could spot a volcano.

As we headed further uphill, the scenery became more wooded, more mysterious. The air felt cooler. My horse was named Ganador, which Jesse advised me meant “winner.” But, given the clouds we seemed to be entering and the steep rise of the mountains around us, I kept thinking Ganador sounded more like a name you might find in Lord of the Rings. You know, something Gandalf or Bilbo Baggins might have named their steeds. Anyway, let's just say that Ganador and I had some issues. He had his own notions of how and where he wanted to travel, and, perhaps sensing my utter lack of equine understanding, concluded he needed to be in control. He was right, of course, but that didn't prevent me from erratic stabs at “showing him who's boss” if you know what I mean. For example, Ganador would often turn 180 degrees from our intended path, apparently deciding he had a better idea of how to navigate our route. He'd wrench his head left or right and head in some odd direction or in the direction of a near-by field no doubt lured by the green “salad bar” that awaited him there. I would grab the reins and pull left or right trying to lurch him in the right direction. Sometimes we went in circles. Calls from the group would yell out, “you're holding the reins too tight,” or “you're not holding the reins tight enough.” While I would have been more than happy to get a tutorial in reins management, spinning in circles is not always the best time for that. Or, I'd hear helpful admonitions like “lean back” or “heels down” which I'm certain were the right things to say, but are hard to put into practice when one's head is spinning.

The coup de grace, however, were the body blows I endured when Ganador started feeling a little peppy. Sometimes, he decided he didn't want anyone passing him. Sometimes, when his road-side munchings would leave him behind, he would take off in spirited fashion to catch up with his buddies. In both cases, the toll one takes on one's lower torso makes waterboarding seem like a Disney funfest. Hurtling downhill in the last segment of our ride, one could hear the screeching voices and wails of the male members of our group as each endless set of bumps made us desperately wish there were several layers of tempurpedic mattresses beneath us. I was, in one spastic movement, trying to keep my sunglasses from stabbing me up my nose, trying to keep my helmet from dropping over my eyes, and trying to keep the lens cap from flying off my camera. As Alex would describe it at one point late in the ride, everything below his waist was dead. I would put it slightly differently. The only sensations emanating from any region below my belt were intense pain, numbness or paralysis. Why the folks at the hacienda did not issue steel jockstraps along with helmets is a mystery to me. I'm pretty sure I was speaking in a soprano voice as we arrived once again at the hacienda.

Despite the bumps and bruises and my brief experience as a soprano, seeing the Andean highlands through less than well traveled paths was worth every minute. It presented to us a world vastly different than the one we had left behind, one beautiful in its differences to ours. As Dorothy once alluded, we knew we weren't in Kansas anymore.

Adios Ganador!