pirates, beads and other things

Apparently, most pirates aren’t as lovable as Johnny Depp. Yesterday we went sailing on a catamaran owned by an Italian man named Ryan. Ryan has his own story to tell. His catamaran, bought with his retirement fund, was stolen by pirates last year. It was missing for months, then he had to spend a month in Belize proving it was his boat. He still looks over his shoulder.

He and his son took our family, two Italian couples and a couple of young Italian women who were clearly a bit distracting for Ryan’s son. You just wanted to cheer for the poor guy when he finally managed to hook us up to the buoy before our snorkeling. It took him a few attempts with his Dad barking instructions, and these things matter a lot, I presume, when you’re a young guy being watched by girls in teeny bikinis. It was painful to watch.

Our kids loved sitting on the netting on the front of the catamaran, especially when they were engulfed by rough waves as we pounded through the water. So rough we turned around and headed for a calm cove earlier than planned. Erik gave me his glasses to hold so he wouldn’t drop them. So, I dropped them overboard instead. After we anchored, our guide, Ryan’s son, led us snorkeling through another set of beautiful reefs. He did a little bit of Show-Off Snorkeling for the girls, shooting down to the ocean floor then drifting slowly back up. The effect was actually a bit frog-like, which probably wasn’t what he had been going for. But it was still fun to watch.

The water on the surface was choppy and rough. But just under the surface all was serene, colourful and fascinating. I felt more in control when our heads were under the water and I could forget how far we were from the boat, and how rough the waves were. It’s best to just focus on the beauty. That is almost always true.

Last night Brent had his last Bible Survey class for the youth. He did the entire New Testament in one night. Which seems admirable. I feared for him that he would have to deal with yet another birthday cake, cut into huge slab like pieces like we have been contending with all week. But, thankfully not.

Holly had her hair braided this morning. We went to Wendy’s house. She is the wife of one of the students who took Brent’s preaching class. We sat on her porch, surrounded by kids coming and going and a puppy that gnawed on my foot most of the time. Wendy’s great grandmother was a Scottish woman who came to Roatan and fell in love. She had 11 daughters, one of whom was Wendy’s grandmother. She was a black woman with long, straight hair whose eyes got bluer the older she got. That became a family trait. Eyes that got bluer the closer you were to death. None of the kids ended up “clear” though. Clear means white.

Wendy’s cousin came half-way through and pitched in with the braiding. One of my favourite things is to sit around and listen to woman-talk. Of course, this depends on which women are doing the talking, but that goes without saying. These women talked about their kids, their husbands, slipped in and out of English and Spanish and other dialects. It was surface. Then it was deep. Then it was surface again. That’s usually how women do it. I joined in a bit when I could, otherwise, I just let the breeze drift over me and watched the waves in the distance. Holly is now a beaded, click-clacking wonder.