“Uh oh, when did that happen?” Dave said, sliding open the door to our Airbnb. The orange-and-white cat we’d seen lurking earlier was sprawled luxuriously on its left side, now at home. I had been so worried it would slink away before I grabbed my phone for a picture—but clearly, I had underestimated its commitment to napping. The subreddit #notmycat lives for moments like these.
Not only did it stay frozen in place while I snapped the photo, it also refused to move when we tried to shoo it out, flopping even harder, like a protest.
Now, onto bigger bonds: please believe me when I tell you I fell into a full-blown, intimate relationship with a spotted trunkfish. This inflated, triangle-bodied, big-lipped, black-spotted-on-white stunner swam right up to me, flapping his little fins to hold himself perfectly still. I stretched out a finger, wiggling it like a worm. Inches from contact, he made an abrupt about-face. I flipper-kicked twice—and like a shy lover circling back, he turned around and approached again. We stayed there for a moment: suspended, curious, quiet. Teetering right on the edge of cross-species intimacy.
A fish, you ask? Go watch My Octopus Teacher or find a trunkfish of your own, and you’ll see.
When I finally lost him to the current, I floated back to our coral bed. And just like getting ghosted by a flirtatious Tinder match, I was left with a bittersweet mix of gratitude…and hunger for more.
This magic happened at Baby Beach…in our rental car. You heard me right—we got a car today!
The whole quest to get it felt like something straight out of The Goonies. Two street dogs appointed themselves our guardians, walking beside us for two miles to a shipping container where we grabbed arepas for breakfast. From there, it was a matter of dodging traffic on Route 1, buzzing a locked gate, and dealing with two Rottweilers the size of tanker trucks launching themselves at a fence that rattled like a shopping cart at 40 miles per hour. Think Rowdy Roddy Piper rebounding off the ropes—except way, way louder.
I gave my best shot at Spanish—which was quickly, and firmly ignored by the woman at the gate. With her hands and her handful of English words, she walked in a wide circle, which I enthusiastically interpreted as “snail.” Dave, who apparently speaks fluent human charades, realized she meant roundabout. Even after snapping a photo of the business card and setting out with clues—dogs barking, arepa crumbs flying—my dreams of securing a rental car were swirling straight down the existential drain.
But that’s the thing about good adventures: defeat and its deep, ridiculous despair? They’re stitched from the same cloth.
Please remember: we didn’t have data on our cell phones. No navigation. Just a picture on Google Maps and stubbornness.
Finally, finally, we spotted the glass shop she had given us as a clue. And just beyond it: a muffler place. It didn’t advertise rental cars. It didn’t advertise anything, really. But Dave, in eternal optimist mode, led us over anyway.
A portable trailer sat baking in the sun, and when inside, a woman asked a guy. Yes, he said, they had one car left.
One.
It felt like a miracle—the kind that comes half-covered in dust and smells faintly like brake pads.
We signed the papers without even pretending to haggle, happy just to slap our names on a set of keys and drive away.
Tomorrow, we’re planning a snorkel float, letting the current carry us, before setting off for Arikok National Park to explore a natural pool and caves. I read a review that one of the caves is currently closed to visitors, the park ranger blaming an overpopulation of bats. But the reviewer seemed suspicious, suggesting the explanation didn’t add up. Looks like we have ourselves a mystery to solve, Scooby.
See you tomorrow!
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 