It was on my recent flight to San Salvador, El Salvador, with Javier Bardem, while enjoying a clearly healthy breakfast, I was reading this month’s Outside magazine.
Sure, Lindsey Vonn posed near-naked for the magazine cover, but, I’m happily married; so just like I used to tell the wife-person when I “read” Playboy, I was only looking at the articles.
And, just like those “professional models” in Playboy, we guys tend to lust over things that are out of our reach.
For me, that includes my longtime burning desire to take in all the sensory pleasures of Cuba. As I mentioned in our last visit, that would include the,
“…fine cigars, aged rum, magical music, and classic cars…”
Notice, I did not mention the incredibly hot, sexy Latinas that inhabit those dimly lit cantinas of Havana, since as I just mentioned, I am happily married and those voluptuous women wearing threadbare half-shirts and skintight shorts that barely cover their…well, I hardly think about them at all.
A while back, I reported that during a scuba trip to the popular destination island of Cozumel, given a similarly simple connecting flight to Cuba, I supposedly skipped the temptation to visit my mysterious mistress of desire.
In other words, I would like to say that I did not go to Cuba when I had the opportunity on that occasion. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it!
After my recent week of incredible diving in
Cuba Roatan, I needed to avoid any underwater forays the last day, which all divers must do for 24-hours before flying home.
That is either to allow my body to purge any remaining excess nitrogen in the bloodstream—which could go to my brain and possibly kill me—or to make sure I have time to polish off that large bottle of Flor de Caña rum that I purchased when I got there—which could go to my brain and possibly kill me.
Such are the risks that a global adventure humor writer takes, all for your amusement and reading enjoyment.
So, it was that last day of the trip that I decided a kayak paddle would be a good way to while away the time; unfortunately, I forgot my place.
Things were going peachy, just until I noticed I had garnered the attention of the locals and obtained a navel escort of sorts. Needless to say, I began to paddle towards shore with just a little bit more urgency.
It was then that I remembered that I had left my passport in the room; the passport that would have made it clear that I had strayed a little off-course.
Could I claim that I really thought this was Honduras? After all, it was only a few nautical miles to the southwest.
The actual distance was just under 900 kilometers, which we Americans do not really understand, but when converted to nautical miles, given the prevailing wind and current directions, it was only just mostly an inconceivable distance to paddle in a morning jaunt.
I could plead cluelessness; that sometimes works with the wife-person (actually, almost never).
As I approached the malecón, I could not help but notice that I might have a problem claiming that I thought this was the Honduran city of Coxen Hole (which would be a great name for a porn star).
But, then it came to me.
It is not this government that minds me visiting and spending copious amount of American greenbacks…it’s OUR government that minds, as if somehow my purchase of a few cigars and bottle of rum might help prop up the régime of some ancient revolutionary on his deathbed.
But, mind they still do, and that might explain the noise I heard coming from just over my head.
When I looked up, there was this strange skeleton of a flying object that was…HEY, it was one of those small drones that I had read about in the latest Outside Magazine—once I got past the pictures of the near-naked Lindsey Vonn.
Cool, I thought. Must be some guy out playing with his new toy. Basically, these new personal drones are kind of like those old radio-controlled airplanes. And, as the Outside article pointed out, these things are easily obtained; you can even buy one from Amazon, which you can control from you iPhone.
That was just until I saw the long, narrow object with the trailing smoking plume, apparently headed my way.
WTF? I thought. Who would be firing upon me, an American citizen in mostly good standing, just because I was paddling in the wrong neighborhood?
That was until I made it closer to shore and caught two guys red-handed—and by “red” I am not talking about their political affiliation. Check out their matching government issue, logo shirts (although I never did see their stinking badges).
And, while this was nowhere near the Bay of Pigs, after a week of sans showers or shaving, I was beginning to look pretty sloven.
Maybe this scuba diver I met on the shore won’t mind the smell.