If that glazed knot of a crispy delight wasn’t good enough, the fortune cookie manufacturers went and jammed a strip of paper with nice words and lucky numbers inside. This Chinese afterthought came to mind while snorkeling in the turquoise waters of Mangel Halto.
Through peek-a-boo places under rocks and coral, I spied orange, sunset-colored crabs, the eerily long needle points of sea urchins, and the quick, darting bodies of tropical fish escaping the current. At times, the ocean floor was moon rock-like, dusted white with what seemed like bone decay, perhaps dead coral. The stillness underwater, the quiet, felt like death itself—silent and heavy.
Several flipper kicks and full arm pulls later, life sprang up. Schools of six-inch, white-and-yellow-striped fish, and larger ones with sharp, cut tails and mouths propped open, gnawed at the coral—angled like a coyote stripping meat off a bone. The wave sounds above were like teeth being ground together, punctuated by a mechanical metallic sound every so often, which sent me immediately surfacing, fearing a boat.
The fear wasn’t valid. The water was too shallow, and the various other snorkelers—tiny bodies bobbing against the sky-blue water—were too obvious to miss.
It was when I surfaced one time, adjusting my mask and spitting out saltwater, that I found myself face-to-face with a full-on parade of ladies’ bum bums. Brightly colored swimsuits—or sometimes barely-there swimsuits—stretching across glowing, sun-kissed skin. I didn’t know whether to feel secure or insecure in their presence. They were so confidently displaying their assets that it made me wonder if I should be a little less restrictive with mine. Maybe there’s something a little freeing about not worrying so much about hiding, even when it feels easier to do.
Enjoying myself far more than I’d expected led to a deep gratefulness—for the vitality and ability of my body, for the extra-large suitcase and snorkel gear Dave’s parents offered to us the night before we flew out. Sometimes it’s the small things you don’t plan for that end up being the sweetest.
Earlier today, I was writing with the sliding door propped open, waiting for a white and cream street cat to exit. I turned for fifteen seconds to jot something down, and in strolled an Oreo-colored one, plopping itself stubbornly onto the cool tile floor. With the side of my foot, I gave it a little nudge, but it remained glued to the spot. So, like tapping the inside of a soccer ball, I brushed it across the floor, reopened the door, and off it skittered. Now you’re up to the minute.
Currently, I’m tucked underneath a thatched hut-like structure in the back garden area of where we’re staying. Out here, the two cats take turns rubbing their backs into some invisible scent on the concrete before running off, tails high in the air.
I’ve taken numerous pictures for later inspiration—from the dinosaur-sized palms and banana plants in terracotta pots, to the hanging wicker egg chair swaying from a tree, to the chandelier-sized wind chime with hollowed wooden clanks singing in the constant breeze.
This is the vibe I want: the kind that says, Sit down. Stay longer than you expected. Relax and just be.
The weather helps, too. Aruba is a desert island, I learned, with only January and February receiving significant rainfall—the other ten months are bone-dry. A tropical desert island—who would have thunk?
I’m equally inspired to rent a car. Arikok National Park and the hard-to-reach beaches on the east coast are calling, and the $150 investment for the week seems well worth it. The ease of visiting Oranjestad, Aruba’s capital, to see a museum or sightsee at a slow, lingering pace is also starting to pull at me. Since I likely won’t travel this way again, I want to soak every bit of marrow out of this island’s bones—and I’ll need some zoom-zoom tires under my feet to do it.
And then there’s the palapa. I’m obsessed with this thatched “tiki hut” I’m sitting under. Its base is screwed into the concrete and it handles the endless wind like a twelve-round boxing champ. Understandably, it won’t fit in my suitcase, so I’m already dreaming up ways to piece-meal one together back home. The thatching looks like real palm leaves, and its strength and perfect shade make it a dream setup. I’m in love.
Vacationing like this is spectacular. I think I’ll do it again tomorrow.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 