Down Under

I had every intention of continuing to travel in the Caribbean. It was close. It was affordable. But I’d also become a scuba diver and I wanted bragging rights. I wanted cool stamps for my dive log. Grand Cayman was supposed to be the crème of the crop of diving in the Caribbean, so I had my heart set on it. There was also Belize, Cozumel, and a whole host of other fantastic places to dive, but for whatever reason, I’d become fixated on Grand Cayman. Until I was informed how much it would cost me to go there. There was no single supplement in Grand Cayman. You know what single supplement is, don’t you? It’s where singles have to pay extra for a room that was intended for double occupancy. That might make sense in all-inclusive resorts, but not in a pay as you go resort. At that sort of resort, a room is just a room, so a single supplement is just a cash grab. And in Grand Cayman I was expected to fully pay double the cost for not being married or travelling with another.

“I could probably go to Australia for that,” I said at the travel agency, remembering how that New York backpacker had told me that I needed to get off the reservation.

“Let’s see,” she said.

She crunched some numbers. Long story short, I could go to Grand Cayman for one week for $10,000, or I could go to Australia for three weeks for $7,000, most of that being my flights. Sold! I opted for Australia. I was giddy with excitement. The Great Barrier Reef! I’d be the envy of everyone I knew.
The flights were long, longer than I’d ever had up till then. Ten and a half hours to Honolulu, landing there at about 1 am. I didn’t sleep. I tried to, but rest was illusive. I was far too excited by this adventure to relax. I read. I closed my eyes. I ate. But I didn’t sleep. I disembarked into a sweltering open air terminal. The Leafs were playing. That surprised me. Then I considered the time zones. Exhausted, but having to remain awake, I grabbed a beer and settled in until my next flight was called. Another ten hours to Sydney. I slept on that flight. I couldn’t stay awake. Four hours to Brisbane. One and a half hours to Proserpine. With layovers in each and every terminal.

Needless to say, I was a little jetlagged when I arrived in Proserpine. I booked into my hotel, a place called the Club Crocodile Resort in Arlie Beach, and was able to stay awake until about 9ish, before crashing for about ten hours. I barely remember it. There was a central pool, a cabana bar alongside it. I showered and shaved as soon as my door was closed and my case hit the bed. I needed it. I stunk to high heaven. I ate. I had two beers at the bar before an overwhelming fatigue swept over me.

I was picked up the next morning. It was hot by all reckoning by 8 am when the shuttle collected me. The driver talked my ears off, wanting to know all about tornados, like I knew anything about them. I tried to tell him that I’d never actually seen one, that I might have experienced one once, but I was hidden behind a building and had only seen the wind shear along the ground, but he persisted, so when he asked me how fast the wind was in one, I made up a number, saying the wind inside a tornado was 700 km/hr, a number that both awed him and satisfied him. I boarded the 60-foot catamaran, found my stateroom in the starboard nacelle, and settled into the common room for induction as we sailed out to the reef, an ordeal of about four hours. I watched the horizon pitch in and out of sight through the porthole, growing more nauseous by the minute. Induction complete, I stumbled out on deck to Captain Dave’s, “You must stop drinking!” It’s an old joke, common on dive boats. Land lubbers have heard it time and again. It’s all in good fun. I hadn’t touched a drop for over twelve hours.

It was too much. I was exhausted, growing sea sick with jetlag, so I begged forgiveness, saying I was going to bunk down for a few minutes.

I made it as far as my stateroom, opting to hug the head for a few minutes, deciding that my breakfast was not to my liking after all. Once I’d expelled by diaphragm into the bowl, I collapsed on my bunk, exhausted, in pain, my head awhirl. I was too sick to climb under the covers, so I fished out a towel and threw it over me. Darkness descended.

I came to about two hours later, weak, but thinking I could stand some fresh air. I rose from my bunk, climbed the gangway to the common room, and came face to face with a platter of prawns. They were a roasted red. Their beady little eyes stared me down. They smelled as you’d expect, like I was going to puke again. I made it back down the ladder and into my head again, without a moment to spare.

Two hours later, I was awakened again. We’d stopped. The boat rolled gently. Water lapped against my hull. I climbed to the deck again. I staggered back out into the sunshine. No one teased me this time. Seasickness is a serious thing when you’re about to spend the next week away from sight of land.
The crew were fussing with gear. The dive master, a burly Aussie named Gordo, looked me up and down and said, “Hey Dave, up for a dive?”

“Fuck no,” I said, the prospect raising my gourd again.

“Seriously, mate,” Gordo said, “you’ll feel better when you hit the water.”

I shook my head, no.

So, Gordo picked me up and threw me into the sea, shorts, shirt and all.

I hit the water flailing, and almost managed to keep the brine from my mouth.

But you know, Gordo was right. Once I was in the water, I felt perfectly fine. The crew fed me ginger pills for the next few days to calm my innards, but I gained my sea legs in no time.

“C’mon up,” Gordo called down to me, gesturing for me to swim back once I righted myself and was trading water. “Hurry up,” he said, “we got to get you suited up and weighted down. We dive in 5 minutes.”