Darling it’s better > Down where it's wetter > Take it from me

Roatan, Honduras is all about Scuba diving. Our Scuba certification course cost $250 and lasted four days (and three not-so-crazy nights of completing chapter reviews). Our instructor, Tim, was a cheery chap, and his British accent made his quips 1.5 to 2.5 times more comical. I am now a card-carrying, PADI open-water certified recreational diver. This is a major boost to my sex appeal. Ladies, please— don’t crowd me, form a single file line, you’ll all get a turn.

The underwater life was spectacular. To help us appreciate it, the Lukoff-Harder team acquired an all-star free agent: Katie Freakin’ McLean, the Michael Phelps of Scuba diving partners. Katie, who studies biology at Lakehead University in Ontario, Canada, routinely found and identified fish us amateurs would have overlooked.

We saw lobsters, octupi, Moray eels, shrimp, turtles, and enough colorful Parrotfish to feed a small Japanese village. To my delight, the water was as warm as the kiddie pool, but for more sanitary reasons. Roatan was truly our Isla Bonita, a charming tropical escape. Down here all the fish is happy.

I had my brush with death when we rented mopeds. Hurtling along at up to 60 MPH along pockmarked streets was at once a harrowing and exhilarating experience. If you fell at that speed, the pavement would skin you alive. What Yamaha bike’s lack in safety, they make up for in fuel efficiency: 100 MPG. Of course, if you die, you use less gas too.

While cruising, at moderate speed, out of the island’s one town, Coxen Hole, I noticed a plastic blue ball rolling down a driveway and into my path… mental alarm bells started ringing. Sure enough, a small Honduran boy followed an instant later. I swerved to the right, since he was already far into the street, and narrowly avoided turning us both into road kill.

Finally, to protect my eyes from the many bugs, I had resorted to wearing my Scuba goggles (having lost my sunglasses earlier). This, I regret to inform you, did little for my sex appeal— a Garifuna village was rolling with laughter at my get-up.

Alas, all good things must come to an end, except for Pixar’s absurdly long string of quality movies. Fortunately, Josh and I ended our romantic tryst on an up note: his parental unit put us up in a nice hotel in downtown SF upon our return , which was 45.2 times more luxurious than our “hotel” the previous night in El Poy, Honduras. It was there, while watching the cooking channel, that I learned the three rules of grilling. They are also rules to live by: keep it clean, keep it hot, and keep it lubricated.

CLICK to check out my S. and C. America trip photo album!