fire season

nose runs, as do I, shutting the windows.
eyes itchy, red, like the sun setting hazy hills.
wheezing, as do I, the air filter comes to life.
we pray for rain, but get thunder caps bouncing off sierra walls

coughing, as do I, out clouds of smoke to fill the air

Nasal Passages of Life

I learned about the physics of milk in relation to nasal passages at a very young age. I remember being in the 3th grade sitting in a classroom at one of four desks that were pushed together to form squares of students. It was snack time. I remember watching Jonathan Cohen and Scottie Hawkins chug chocolate milk to see who could finish faster. They had 3 or 4 cup-sized milk cartons open and ready to swallow one after another in the race of the century. Milk ran from the corners of their mouths as they rushed the beverage down their throat. I too was sipping on a carton just laughing away at Jon and Scott as they wiped their milk mustaches and tried to catch their breath. I was laughing and laughing when suddenly it happened. I had laughed myself into milk a tizzy. Milk ran out my nose and for the life of me I couldn’t figure out what was happening and my friends certainly had the last laugh. It was then that we realized there was a connection. A connection between mouth and nasal passage and everyday for the next few weeks we tried to make someone laugh hard enough to spew milk from their nose.

I learned about the physics of salt water in relation to nasal passages just recently. I remember kneeling 15 feet below the sea’s surface on the sandy bottom of Half Moon Bay in Roatan sucking on my regulator trying to demonstrate to my Dive Master that I had what it took to be SCUBA diver. I was taking a SCUBA refresher course and the sandy bottom of the bay was my classroom.

I needed to be able to show the Dive Master that I could do an emergency sharing of air with my buddy as well as demonstrate that I could clear my mask of water should it become accidentally kicked off by a fellow diver at 70 feet below. I mean you can’t just pop up to the surface and empty the mask, not unless you want the bends and a decompression chamber awaiting you at the end of your dive. It was these skills I had to prove before being let out on the boat for the afternoon dives. It was the reason we had come to Roatan

Now I have no problem sharing air with a buddy and gladly showed off my tremendous skill of faking being out of air and grasping for my buddy’s secondary for dear life while on the safe white sandy bottom of the bay. My mother always said I did a good Sandra Burnheart. When done I got the ok sign from the Dive Master. Next I had to partway fill my mask with water. With much tribulation and hatred for this skill I broke the seal of my mask from my face and let the Caribbean waters seep into my dry eye pocket. I then tilted my head up towards the surface to allow a clear passage for the water to be forced out by exhaling air through my nose. Taking a deep breath in I could feel the salt water hit the back of my throat. I must have swallowed half the mask of seawater up my nose and down my esophagus when I took the deep inhale to push the water out. Rather then inhale oxygen through my regulator and exhale though my nasal passage I inhaled through my nose and spent the next few minutes choking and coughing while desperately trying to maintain composure and not drown in front of the Dive Master. I wondered to myself at what stage in my life did I learn that I could not only spew milk from my nose in laughter but that I could most likely drink from my very same nose as well

Believe it or not I got the ok signal.

Later that day Steve and I proudly did our first real Open Water Fun Dives post certification. It had taken months of practical classroom work, pool training, failed trials in cold water Monterrey, and a trip to Maui to certify but I had finally accomplished what I had set out to do. I had become a SCUBA Diver.

Gliding over the reef I was overwhelmed by the beauty that surrounded me. Elk Horn Coral, Sea Fans, and Barrel Sponges, home to Yellow Tail Snapper, Sea Anemone, Parrot Fish and Striped Angels past under me as I dived now certified. And there was nothing that was going to ruin this moment for me. Not even the stomachache that was beginning to manifest itself within. I must have drank a whole cup sized milk carton of saltwater up my nose in my underwater classroom that morning and I thought back to my childhood and of milk and of laughing at Jonathan and Scottie as well as my future as a SCUBA Girl.

Maybe somebody was trying to tell me something

Maybe somebody was trying to tell me something. After months of financial stress in a work place destined to implode upon itself before too long, I was totally burnt, as was Steve who had spent too many hours lately running dispersion models for some project or other. He was sick. I was tired.

Maybe somebody was trying to tell me something because it was more then the six hour red-eye from San Francisco to El Salvador, followed by the one-hour puddle jump to Roatan, Honduras that left the unders of my eyes looking like abandoned, soggy, teabags. Steve's nose ran incessantly. We'd been running hard.

After luggage retrieval and customs we hopped a $15 taxi for a short ride to Posada Las Orquideas, our lodgings for the week; both of us were twitching bundles of nerves. We arrived at 10:00 and tried to check in, but were told check out was at noon and they still had to clean the room. We could leave our bags with them but would have to wait until 1 o'clock to check in. Thoroughly exhausted we checked out of our winter Northern Californian clothes and checked into shorts and t-shirts before heading into West End proper, the SCUBA centric village we had come to immerse ourselves in. We had three hours to kill.

Dragging ourselves into "town" through the slow, humid air we walked past a fence full of heady red hibiscus and a small, canopied area where green banana's hung from the trees. Further on we came across a few pink-washed cabanas on stilts, as well as a few other places to rent on the outskirts of the village. Walking on we read the signs of dive shops Native Sons & Coconut Tree, the shop we would dive with. We passed the sign "Go Deeper" advertising the yellow submarine you could rent for an afternoon to take you down the sea wall to depths of 1500 ft. We walked past motels such as Posada Arco Iris & Half Moon Bay Cabins, and restaurants Sundowners, Argentinean Grill, and #2 Bakery we had read about while researching our trip. One after another these places lined one side of a white sand, pot-holed road, the Caribbean lined the other in a beautiful blue curve called Half Moon Bay. It was third world meets paradise. It was there in the bright blue Caribbean that we intended to spend a week doing 2 dives a day but not before having something to eat, a few naps, and a good night's sleep. We were exhausted.

Maybe somebody was trying to tell me something when Steve woke me up at 8am the next day for our SCUBA refresher course because my soggy tea bagged eyes had turned to cement. Drool from a heavy night of sleep kept me clung to my pillow. Oh I was sleeping so hard. "Boy it rained really hard last night," he said while wiping his nose and clearing his throat. I was wondering if I could find a translator because I couldn't comprehend simple sentences and his cold was sounding increasingly horse and bronchial, but we were going to dive today so I bucked it up and started to walk to town.

It wasn't more then 500 yards before I experienced the rain of which Steve spoke of from the night before. I tried to take cover up against the hibiscus fence, but Steve looked at me like I was nuts, which of course I was because there was no way in hell that the hibiscus fence was going to provide any such cover. I was instantly soaked. Steve slung the SCUBA gear over his back and hightailed it to Coconut Tree Divers about a third of a mile away while I trailed behind him wondering why I was dragging myself from bed in the rain to refresh my diving skills. Weren't we supposed to be on vacation?



Once safely out of the rain's giant drops on the porch of the dive shop we were greeted by P.J., the Brit Expat working behind the desk and then introduced to Tim, the guy who was going to freshen our barely used diving skills. Maybe somebody was trying to tell me something because as we talked the rain poured down as it only can in the tropics. Thick drops poured from the sky. We could see the beautiful, crescent, Half Moon Bay fill with white sand, runoff silt and there was some mention of being able to do the class in the pool which the dive shop guys joked was cold, 75 degrees. This of course made us laugh after trying to dive at Monterrey, 55 degrees, but dive shop guys were used to the 81 degrees of the blue sea waters before them and I could tell they were secretly not into the chlorinated pool out back and neither was I. I wanted a refresher, but not bad enough to do it in a pool in the middle of a downpour while suffering from sleep deprivation. Shrugging and sighing heavily Steve and I looked at each other and sadly decided to put off our diving a day in hopes of clearer and warmer waters. Leaving the shop we avoided the rain filled potholes and retired back to our room by 10 am.



We read for a bit. I fell asleep on Steve's chest briefly but clearly I wasn't adjusted to island life. I felt the urge to do something; an unnatural need to accomplish something the first whole day on vacation. If I couldn't dive because of the stupid rain there must be something else I could do on Roatan. So we made a plan. Emptying a backpack and stuffing pockets with Lemprias, the national currency and tissues we decided to hop a dollar fifty "Collectivo" mini van to Coxen Hole, the city where the cruise ships come in, to do a little shopping.



The "Collectivo" made me stunningly aware of the fact that we were in a 3rd world country and not just a diver resort town. Steve and I were the only white tourists in a van filled with over a dozen of the locals who were conscientiously being picked up and dropped off on our journey. When the van seats were full, people stood bracing themselves against the ceiling and windows. We left the main road briefly and drove into the real Honduras where families lived in small, colorful yet drab shacks not much bigger then my living room. The power was out again on the island, something that happed several hours each day randomly, so most people were relaxing outside to escape the stale, fanless air of their houses on that Sunday afternoon. No lush gardens of hibiscus here like where we were staying; rather clothing lined fences separating the view from one's neighbor. Garbage littered the muddy runoff ditches and I wondered if it was randomly tossed there or washed there from one of the storms over the last day or so. These people were poor and I wondered where they worked and how they lived since many of the people who worked in West Bay were clearly Expats. I felt kinda sad.



Eventually we made it to Coxen Hole, but someone was trying to tell me something because everything was closed. All stores, restaurants, tourist attractions, everything closed. We had to laugh. Perhaps the journey was the adventure of the day because the destination sure as hell wasn't anything more then a dirty barrio ghost town. We hailed the next direct 5-dollar cab back to Posada Las Orquideas but not before stopping for gas and watching from the back of the taxi the gas station guard walk around with his sawed off shot gun. This sure was an interesting day.



I have to say, all this unnatural, forced running around wasn't my fault. I'm conditioned. Conditioned to accomplish tasks in a regular and steady workflow. A creature of habit and yet here in the tropics I was the mouse in the maze, led without cheese. Without direction.



When we went to Jamaica 10 years ago the Rastas chased us down the beach yelling after us that we were going too fast. "In Jamaica mon, you go slow". And in Caye Caulker, Belize last year they had a sign when you landed at the airport that read, "Go Slow" but here in West End, Roatan, Honduras there were no signs. There was nothing to tell us to go slow. That we only needed to be and not be somewhere. Only after a series of mishaps did we get what someone was trying to tell us. Slow down! Get some rest. Get over your cold. Roatan will wait. The reef will be there tomorrow.



Maybe somebody is trying to tell me something and it only took a day for it to sink in and many failed touristic attempts before I got it. I was asleep by 9:00.

Rate MY Picture Travel Contest

Hey Kids,

I just entered a picuture of our trip to belize last year in a travel contest. If you have a free minute why not send a click my way and rate my picture

tinyurl.com/22xng2

Jumping into the cool water at the mouth of the cave was worth all the workouts of the previous months. We swam, crawled and scrambled our way through a maze of waterways and rock passages with hard hats and miner⿿s lights to a high rock ledge where we were now told to remove our shoes and climb to the top where the Mayan Ruins of Actun Tunichil Muknal lay. There we saw calcium-encrusted skulls and ceremonial ceramics left after human sacrifices dating back to the first millennium, just inches from our soggy socks. It was thrilling to be so close to these ruins without having to view them through a museum window. At one point our guide, one of only 18 licensed in all of Belize to guide the tours, had us turn off our headlamps. The absence of light was the most alone I⿿d ever felt.

Maui Day 3: Compound Bound

Maui Day 3: Compound Bound.

“Red Beans and Rice.
I said Red Beans and Rice.
Wait a minute……
When you're compound bound you don’t ever want to go to town.
When you're compound bound you don’t ever wan to go to town.”

~Keller Williams
Callalloo and Red Snapper

“5:30am. If you want to come with us to the top of Mt Haleakala we’re leaving the parking lot at 5:30am.” I was firm in my direction. My voice held authority. I wanted to make myself clear.

“If you want to see the sunrise tomorrow from the top of the volcano bring all your warm cloths and be ready at 5:30” And with that we all agreed to meet in the parking lot. All 8 of us in agreement, we were committed to see the sunrise.

Shortly after, one by one, we all bowed out. Now who didn’t see that coming…..

Day 3 on my vacation to Maui and I was finally given the opportunity to sleep in so I took full advantage by getting up at 8:30. Damn it’s hard to adjust to the time zone when you’ve been getting up at the crack of dawn all along, but I made the best of it and found others awake as well, all hanging out in the two hammocks and chairs under shade of the Mango Tree near the loft studio. We smoked hard and declared a day of rest. We were going to take full advantage of what Bamboo Gate had to offer and decided to stick around the compound all day.

Some rented surfboards and attempted to hang ten on the local beach. Some walked to town to shop and have their first or second meals at The Pa’ia Fish Market, a number-calling counter restaurant with some of the freshest cooked fish I’ve ever had. Some napped. Some did homework on laptops in paradise or tracked .wav files on new Dells for future upload. Everyone did their thing and we were all so relaxed. Everyone glistened with suntanned skin and the sparkling smiles of island life. There certainly could be something said about the whole compound-bound kinda lifestyle and secretly many of us wished we could trade places with Grey, the compound caretaker.

Later in the day Brian and Jenny Butler arrived, as did Patrick McCoy, Eileen Snow and Arizona Steve. Our compound residents now totaled 13 and after pitching in ten bucks apiece we were able to go into town and have a fresh 3.5-pound ahi tuna roast cut to order at the local market for a BBQ later that night.

Potato salad was made. Ahi,marinated in tangerine juice, fresh squeezed from the trees on property. Mixed Green Salad prepped and ready to go. Compound fresh, football sized, avacado’s sliced and mashed. By 6:30 the roast was on the large outdoor BBQ. Steve and Arleen Mathews (Zac from HBR’s parents) came bearing gifts of brownies and mahi-mahi. The Deadesqs joined us after spending a day on the Hana Highway in celebration of their 14th anniversary. And there the Butter Family began their Maui bonding, compound bound and all.

Steve and I left the party early that night. We had important business the next day and with that we bedded down with dreams of turtles and the hopes of completing our SCUBA Certification.

Maui Day 2: The Road to Hana

I awoke at 6:30am to the sound of sprinklers going off in the yard behind the Rustic Cottage at Bamboo Gate. Why in the tropics where it rains several times a day would someone set a timer to run sprinklers is beyond me, but just the same I awoke to them. It wasn’t like I hadn’t had a full night’s sleep after passing out around 9:30PM. The day before was large what with SCUBA and Drum Circles.

Rolling up my sleeves I began preparing a picnic lunch for the day ahead. Soon others were up making coffee, eating breakfast, packing coolers and twisting phatties. We were on the road to Hana by 8AM. All the Maui guide books touted this as the highlight of island activities and we wanted to get a jump on the some 1,500-2,000 tourists that drive the 37 long and winding miles each day.

Driving with Steve as my co-pilot, who read out loud from the guide book looking for possible stops, and Shawn and Tree shooting both video and digital pictures in the back, we made our way along the lush rainforest roadway yielding for one lane bridges and slowing down on curves to catch glimpses of waterfalls, bamboo forests, and ocean views.

Our first stop at mile marker 7 was to see the Psychedelic Eucalyptus Trees. The trees were beautifully painted by nature. Greens, yellows, oranges and reds painted in places where the bark had peeled down fascinated us. We have a lot of Eucalyptus in the Bay Area but I had never seen trees like this before. So far our journey was pretty cool.

Jumping back in to the car we continued towards Hana stopping next at a 25-foot waterfall that cascaded into a cool pool you could swim in. None of us were that hot but we waded in for a photo opportunity before returning to our journey.

We had all read in our guide books that the “Halfway to Hana” road stand had the best banana bread so we stopped to buy a few loafs and a jar of home made Passion Fruit Jelly to take home with us. Steve was offered some Maui Wowie by some “punk in a sideways baseball hat stumbling around”, but what with being prepped by harvest in Northern California we were all good. Obviously we weren’t the only ones who thought the Hana Highway was one giant bone cruise.

They say the journey is sometimes better then the destination and it was hard to believe the views could get much better, but they did. A few miles a head we pulled out and walked down a 4-wheel drive access only road, wading through small pools of muddy water to accomplish the goal of seeing an outstanding view of a surfer’s beach.

Back on the road again the mile markers ticked off 10, 15, 20, 25 miles of jungleicious eye candy. During our travels we had seen a few roads heading left and right off the “highway” but something about a stop sign on the left triggered the memory of reading about a small town between Pa’ia, where we were staying, and Hana, called Nahiku. I guess calling it a “town” would be generous. At most it’s a rural road lined with breath taking flora. The guidebook said it was “where flowers came to die” and we could see why. Lush growth and decay scented the humid air. Brilliant reds were off set by greens and yellows. Huge flowers. Elephant ear size leaves. All along the road were houses that had honor fruit and flower stands out front where you could buy huge bouquets of ginger, psittacorum, anthurium, heliconia, and birds of paradise for five dollars. Bouquets like these would run one fifty to two hundred dollars back in San Francisco. Avocados, Passion Fruit, Pineapples, and Bananas all ranging from twenty-five cents to seven dollars lined the stands to be taken without watchful eye. Money was pushed into little locked boxes which we gladly paid. Every minute or so someone would shout out, “Yeah Road Least Traveled!”

When we reached the end of the 2.5 mile road to Nahiku we couldn’t believe how lucky we were to have made the left hand turn. The view was simply spectacular. The road dead-ended at a small grassy park overlooking a rugged shoreline. Azure waters with contrasting black lave crags jutted up randomly from the sea. Crashing against the crags white wave spray looked like professionally timed fireworks display. SPLASH! CRASH! BOOM! Ssshhhhhhh! The breakers slammed into the rocks in front of us from left to right sending up cascading wave crashes one after another against the jet black lava finger, then spilling into a confused sea at the cliff’s end. Someone mentioned this was their new “Happy Place” and we devoured Roast Chicken and Herbed Cheese Sandwiches and ate cured olives, speechless save for a few mutters of “Wow” and “Look at that big wave coming in”. Before we knew it we had spent an hour there.

Our next stop was Waianapanapa State Park, home of the black sand beach. First we walked a short loop that led us to a fresh water cave where we saw a few people with wetsuits and flashlights getting ready to spelunk. After our caving experience in Belize earlier this year I would have loved to jump in and give it a shot. There’s always next year!

Soon we pressed on to the black sand beach itself. The ebony sand was soft and shiny. The retreating waves left stark white streaks of bubble and foam. It was a striking contrast to the aqua waters. I could have stood there forever watching my bare feet get more and more buried with every wave.

We had one last stop before the day was done just past the town of Hana, which we must have missed while blinking the black sand from our eyes. The instructions in our guidebook were fairly vague. Turn left. Turn right. Drive to the dead end. Look for the vacant lot where the city placed no trespassing signs, ignore them and follow the trail that leads to the left at the end.

Once we found the lot and subsequently the trailhead we walked along with the ocean to our right and an ever increasingly step wall of red lava to our left. The trail thinned to a footpath and started climbing. Each step we took we lost a bit of ground by sliding on more and more gravel. At one point we climbed over a large rock and turned the corner to reveal a step down hill loaded with gravel and the best beach of the day. The red sand beach was stunning. A huge 100-foot wall of red lava encased the small ocean cove like a concave natural amphitheater. At first we thought the waters were calm as we made our way down the hill to the beach. The only part of the ocean we could see was a small pool of bright blue. I even planned on taking my first swim of the day. But our view was extremely limited and soon appeared an ocean of unrestrained nature. Churning water and sand beat the beach. A torrent tempest raged against a huge red lava reef, which lay out in the cove about 20 feet off shore. The lava reef also protected the small pool we had thought of swimming in but on second glance looked like a mistake seeing how hard the undertow could be. Nature: beautiful and deadly.

The drive to the Red Sand Beach took roughly seven hours. The ride home in tired, happy, silence took one and a half. Once again it was about the journey and not the destination. The description. Not the narrative.

Pulling into the driveway back in Pa’ia Michael Scott and Greg Yost greeted us with beers and warm smiles. Soon Alison & Dave Randle joined us on the lawn outside the Rustic Cabin and the 8 of us spoke of their recent shows in Oahu and the upcoming Butter shows later in the week.

The party at Bamboo Gate was just beginning to warm up and I hoped with the continuous sight seeing and scuba we’d be awake enough to enjoy it.

Maui Day 1: Breaking the Surface

I awake in the joy of knowledge that today is daylight savings and my vacation has been extended by an hour. And boy do I need it! After only getting 4 hours of sleep before flying home to Oakland from Maui I am exhausted. Happy, but exhausted, and I am looking forward to a day filled with naps to recover from a most amazing trip.

We landed in Maui on October 27th and just as we were picking up our luggage Tree Plant and Shawn Fierro landed completing our Rustic Cottage quartet. After a quick bite to eat we drove our “premiocre” Dodge Charger off to Bamboo Gate, the estate in Pa’ia we rented with Alison and Dave Randle, Brian and Jen Butler, Mayor McYost, Michael “Secret DEA Agent Spork” Scott, Jennifer Gass, Eileen Snow, Arizona Steve, Patrick McCoy, and The Emersons, Chris, Kelly and Baby Amanda Lynn.

Turning in to the drive at 343 Hana Highway we punched in the secret code and the bamboo gates opened providing just a glimpse of paradise before us. Lush tropical gardens came into view as we drove to the parking area. Green grasses, palm trees swing in the breeze with ease, tangerine, banana, hibiscus and an avocado tree big enough to feed everyone guacamole for a year lined the driveway. It was better then expected. A tour of the grounds revealed outdoor showers, picnic tables around a bbq area complete with bathhouse, a split-level tree house, Jacuzzi, laundry and a tiki-torch lined pathway connecting it all. High fives all around.

Our quartet arrived 2 days before the rest of the tribe so we quickly made the most our stay by going to bed early for our Sunday adventures, but not before having visited the local boogie board beach and having Crispy Duck Salad for dinner at Café Mambo. Yum!

We woke up at 4:20 AM for our Sunday outings. That’s right, 4:20 am. I’m not sure I’ve ever gotten up that early and before the end of the trip I would have gotten up and/or gone to bed at that hour several more times. Tree and Shawn had planned for a day of snorkeling with the Pacific Whale Foundation, while Steve and I went with B&B Scuba to continue our efforts in SCUBA Certification.

Just a week before we had tried to get our certification in Monterey, California at Breakwater Beach, but between the 14mm of Neoprene I had to wear and 40 pounds of weigh on my hips so I would sink with the added buoyancy I just couldn’t crawl out of the surf and failed my first opportunity at certification. Not only was I heart broken but had a week of anxiety to contend with before getting on the boat in Maui to try again.

The sun was rising as we left the dock and we got a briefing on the Molokini Crater where we would be doing the first dive of the day. The water was a bit rough as I did a giant stride off the boat into the waters below. The short swim over to the descending rope left me wholly out of breath and frankly panicked. Last week’s failed dive attempt left me badly shaken and as the dive shop owner tried to first coax then manhandle me under the water’s surface I started to cry and called off the dive. This sport was just simply not for me.

Climbing back on the boat was a challenge. Although I was now wearing a 5mm wetsuit shorty and not the full 14mm from the week before and now 20 pounds lighter in weight I still couldn’t muster up enough strength to climb the ladder and was slammed in to the boat repetitively before the captain finally pulled my gear off my back and I crawled to safety. Bruises quickly appeared across both thighs. Through tear soaked eyes I announced I was never doing that again.

Shortly after Brad, the owner of B&B SCUBA surfaced with Steve who had gone down below to continue his check out dives. Brad climbed on board and looked at me and said, “That dive never happened. Clear it from your mental dive log” and we took off for the second dive site. The whole trip over I cried on Steve’s shoulder and told him I was sorry. That he could dive all he wanted but I lacked the physical strength and wouldn’t be diving in the future.

Arriving at the next site, 5 Graves, Brad asked, “Beth are you ready?” and strangely enough I said yes. I spent a whole month of Tuesdays and Thursdays training for this certification, both book work and pool work and if I didn’t try at least one more time, could I really say I tried my best? I needed to be able to do this for me. I didn’t think I could take another day of tears and failure.

Once again I took a giant stride off the side of the boat and plunged in to the calmer ocean while watching my mask and snorkel pop off my head. This wasn’t working. Brad quickly retrieved it and fit it on my face while I tread water on the surface. Then we swam together over to the descend line where he wrapped his legs around me and proceeded to pull me under. At once I began to kick and freak out. Down I went below the waters surface and began to breathe. Breathe with ease and instinctively equalized the pressure in my ears as we descended just as I had learned in class. Soon we were swimming horizontally, perpendicular to the ocean’s floor. Hand and hand Brad and I glided through the real life aquarium. Fish and coral filled our view and then overhead swam a shadowy figure blocking the direct sun’s rays and as it descended the outline of a huge turtle swam into view. WOW! Smiling Brad let go of my hand. Training wheels removed I SCUBA dove on my own and I was elated. This was simply amazing.

Brad led, while Steve and I followed and we all toured a lava finger that housed formations and habitats for countless sea creatures. We even swam under a sunken arch before kneeling on the ocean’s floor to demonstrate a few skills. Regulator removal and retrieval and out of air emergency ascent procedures. Once back at the surface I felt an amazing amount of pride. I had completed my first dive and even though the whole future of diving seemed unnerving I had for a few minutes forgotten the fear and swam weightlessly in the ocean blue.

Later that day we celebrated with the hippies on Little Beach. On Sunday nights at sunset the nude beach in Makena hosts a drum circle and fire dancing, mostly locals. Walking across Big Beach you couldn’t tell there was anything special going on. At the end of Big Beach is a lava wall you need to climb up and over. Just turning the crest of the wall we could hear the music. I turned to Steve, Tree and Shawn and said, “These are our people” and we walked down the step path to the beach toward the center ring around the drum circle.

There were people of all types on beach. Some naked, some clothed. There was a clear definition of hippie and tourist. Hippies and locals sat around the drummers on the rise on the bluff. Tourists sat in the outer rings and although we were white skinned tourists we put our towels down around the bronzed hippies. I kind of got the vibe from a couple behind us like “who are these people and why are they invading this space?”; Inquisitive yet not hostile.

Shortly after a woman came up to us and asked, “Are you Alison”. I said no, but took a shot in the dark and asked if she meant Alison Randle? “Yes!” Jumping up I asked if she was Eileen Snow our future roommate at Bamboo Gate. Indeed she was. Looking over her shoulder as I hugged her I could see the couple behind us smile and felt a collective sigh from the Locals and Hippies around the Drummers. We may have been pale in skin but we were true in heart and were what I felt was spiritually welcomed to sit and stay where we were because these were our people.

Hugs all around as we excitedly exchanged introductions and welcomed each other to Maui and spoke with great expectation of the upcoming Hot Buttered Rum shows later in the week.

We didn’t make it to sunset being thoroughly tired from our day and as we drove back to Pa’ia we were all completely satisfied with our first full day on the island.

Lesson 2: Remember to Breathe

SCUBA Lesson 2:

“Remember to Breathe"
"Remember to Love"
"And don't forget your Camera"

This my friend repetitively howled late into the night hours after taking a hit of some hallucinogen I wanted no part of. We were camping out in the wilds of the Trinity Alps, one of the least visited areas of Northern California and who really cared that he was
screaming anyway? We were the only people in the Hell's Gate Campground, we hadn't seen a ranger in the 3 days we had been there, and the closest town was 25 miles away, so unless we feared an adverse reaction from his potent potion then his desire to scream at the top of his lungs had little effect on any of us besides give us something to tease him about the next day. So we let him scream.

On and on he screamed. “Remember to Breathe, Remember to Love, and don’t forget your camera” I we couldn’t help but laugh, “What the hell is he talking about”?

The next day sitting around the morning campfire sipping cups of coffee I asked, “So last night you kept screaming, “Remember to Breathe, what’s up with that?” A smile came over his face and he explained to us that the method of delivery for the hallucinogen was smoking it. He continued to tell us that the rush after 2-3 puffs is sometimes so strong you kind of forget to breathe so he wanted to remind himself, not wanting to take it for granted that he would remember in time. I could certainly see the validity in the first sentence of his mantra.

“And how about the “Remember to Love?” A twinkle in his eye appeared and he tried to describe the trip; the initial rush, the fractal colors, the feeling of being one with it all. He said it can be a bit scary at times so if he reminded himself to love perhaps he could guide the destiny of his trip. I could certainly see the validity knowing full well that a positive self-prophecy can change your whole outlook, be it sober or high.

Finally I had to ask. “And the camera?” Turning his gaze down he blushed slightly and said, “Well I kept loosing my camera so I wanted to know where it was”. We all had a good laugh over that.

Years later we still joke to ourselves about that evening, often mimicking his theatrical howls. “Remember to Breathe, Remember to Love, and don’t forget your camera” has become apart of our household’s lexicon and I couldn’t help but think of the explanation of his chant while listening to my dive instructor in class 2 of our SCUBA certification course.

Of course the natural question would be what the hell does my friend’s hallucinogenic recreational activities have to do with my SCUBA lessons? Well I think he made some excellent points that directly correlate with the very basic foundations of the sport.

The first rule we learned about SCUBA was to never stop breathing. Never hold your breath. Keep it smooth and steady. We learned we must keep breathing even if the Primary Second Stage Regulator drops out of our mouths at the shear awe beauty of the reef or wreck we are diving. We must remember to keep exhaling until we tilt slightly to the right, swing our right arm back, touching our oxygen tank and then sweeping our arm out to hopefully catch either the Primary or Alternate Air Source, returning it to our mouths, purging the diaphragm, and breathing in once again the canned air. Yes, I could certainly see the validity of remembering to breathe.

Remembering to breath correctly was another important part of the instruction, a lesson I learned as I inhaled a large amount of water up my nose while trying to clear my mask. I did as my dive instructor told me to do and flooded my mask from above and then held the top of my mask while I tried to blow the water out by the shear force of my nasal exhalation. The first exhale didn’t sufficiently clear my mask and instead of breathing properly in through my regulator I took a deep inhale through my nose, practically drowning myself in 3 feet of water. If I had only remembered to breath properly I wouldn’t have been choking up water embarrassed in front of my classmates.

The second rule we learned was to always know where your buddy was. Your dive is dependant on your buddy. Your buddy can help you gear up and do a systems double check to ensure your equipment is functioning, “All Systems Go!” A buddy helps plans dive strategy. And most important is your lifeline in times of trouble. Total trust in your buddy is a faith, a love. “Remember to love.”

But there is more to remembering to love then just knowing where you buddy is. It’s about being aware of your surroundings. Knowing how you will affect them. It’s remembering to love the ocean blue. Are you leaving only bubbles and not damaging the reef with fin prints? Are you loving yourself, giving yourself enough self-confidence to tackle the skill set needed for your future journeys beneath the sea. Are you embarrassing your dive instructor in front of other dive masters during your Open Water Certification? Its all about love……

And well what about the camera you might ask? Well you certainly wouldn’t want to leave it on the boat.

“Remember to Breathe"
"Remember to Love"
"And don't forget your Camera"

Lesson 1: Yesterday I began my life aquatic.

I can remember childhood pets of goldfish swimming in various bowls on the nightstand next to my bed. I remember longingly looking into bowls personifying thoughts of friendship between me and my fishes. Starved for interaction I would rap upon the bowl.
“Here fishy, fishy, fishy” But never did my fishy friend oblige my calling, so inevitably I would stick my hand into the bowl grasping for the poor creature and then ripping it from its Zen-like harmony in the bowl out into the deathly air where it would flop and flip gasping for breath. I would spend several seconds petting the fish before thrusting my hand back into the bowl and freeing the fish. Often the periled Carassius auratus would swim sideways as if drunk, round and round the bowl, until either it recovered to live another day or to float belly up and end up in the big flush.

Yesterday I began my life aquatic.

I can remember kicking hard, bobbing up, taking in a deep breath before plunging myself into the pool and exhaling my life into the Buoyancy Compensator. Up and down, bobbing and blowing, hoping not to swim sideways or belly up. “Good! Now back to the blackline”, my dive instructor directed, but all I could think of was that poor fish out of water and how I had become a human in water trying to breath as just as desperately as my fish from long ago.

Learning to dive has been a life long desire for me and taking that first class yesterday was a small step in that goal. We swam 250 meters to prove we could. We trod water for 10 minutes. We did the diver’s wiggle and encased our skin in neoprene. We practiced diving under the water with our snorkels in mouth, only to spit them out at the surface to quickly bob and fill our BC’s.

I take great personal satisfaction in trying my hand at this endeavor. I see many challenges to over come as a plus size diver from poorly fitting dive suits and BC’s that require extra cummerbunds to not having the physical stamina as someone else who is in better conditioning, or to those nasty ass leg cramps that have left my calves screaming for mercy this morning but all in all I have to give myself a few props for doing what many fear and to keep reminding myself that no one learns to dive in their first lesson.

Here’s to my future life aquatic and the hopes to never feel like a human in water.