The Optimistic Traveller

Rolling, sloshing, sucking me in. At first, as sensitive as I am to sound, I only thought to open the door with the beach right below to drown out the sound of my sister talking in strange, baritone voices in her sleep. The cool salt air was an added bonus. At home, we are three blocks from the coast, and it’s a rare treat when the wind shifts or the tide is particularly high so you can hear a distant, comforting rumble.

Stephanie had generously offered me a trip for my 50^th birthday. She wanted to go someplace warm, which I certainly had no problem with, though I needed to negotiate with myself about traveling with her. We were having a giant failure of communication. And then, of course, there was the sleep-talking. And yelling, and moaning.

But hey, a free trip! And I was personally going through a bit of a challenging financial time, so it was even more compelling. Since my yesteryear obsession with the 80s YA series Sunfire romances, and one particular story of an immigrant from the island, I had always wanted to go to Barbados. It was a no-brainer to select that destination. On the heels of the worst of the pandemic, though, we did have to provide proof of negative COVID testing prior to travel and before returning home. Due to some mix-up, I had to test again upon arrival to the tiny, dilapidated airport; had I not been negative, I would have had to quarantine for the duration of our stay. In fact, we learned of others confined to the tiny, dilapidated (repeating this phrase intentionally) all-inclusive resort for their visit – though I suppose it could’ve been worse; as mentioned, the beach right underneath our windows at least provided a magnificent vista and plenty of fresh air.

Barbados’ coasts are along the eastern Caribbean Sea and the Atlantic Ocean, and the island is considered the easternmost in the Caribbean, while officially “in” the Atlantic Ocean. It really is at a zenith of both waters, with the southwest coast being the calmest as it is the most Caribbean. That area, Christchurch and Bridgetown, is where our taxi pulled up to the adults-only Soco Hotel. An unembellished place, but the room was large, and it couldn’t have been more ideally situated to the water. The food was also simple, like going to your Barbadian granny’s, and the alcohol included was far from top shelf, but I was quite comfortable, especially when I began leaving the balcony doors open at night.

Walks into town in either direction gave us a glimpse into extreme poverty and, understandably, a dependence on the tourism industry which had likely suffered immensely for the past two years. We met a shaman of sorts at a tiny market; he and I had an interesting conversation which resulted in my purchase of oils and tinctures alleged to get women in the mood (or some such). (I didn’t ask for them, mind you. He claimed I needed them. They remain sealed almost four years later.) We patronized an interesting café, shopped in a couple of tiny, dilapidated (repeating this phrase intentionally) clothing stores, and took lots of photos of crumbling walls and murals; otherwise, every day of the short week was spent at the slightly rocky but incredibly beautiful beach, where we were approached daily by fellows hyping tours and marijuana. Only my sister was interested, and she ended up flushing half of her purchase when it was time to go.

Up the road a bit was a surfing company that advertised lessons. I decided it was time to fulfill my long-held goal of at least attempting to surf. I had been reading books about it (which, as you might imagine, isn’t quite the same) and had even met a former pro surfer and retired Senator in Hawaii. He was a Republican, but still, I thrilled in the meeting.

Having learned to “fly” already as an amateur trapeze artist, I wanted to fly on the water, too. Stephanie, her unconquerable fear of the ocean subsuming her even at the edge of the beach when she very obviously goes out to pee, was not interested in the slightest, but she accompanied me on the adventure and took videos as I “trained” and paddled out time after time.

And time. After time.

Unlike lessons in the United States, where you first learn balance and technique before “diving right in,” so to speak, the surf “lesson” in Barbados meant more or less immediately attempting to catch a wave. My first attempt wasn’t horrendous, because ignorance, after all, is bliss. I managed to get up on the board for a couple of seconds before losing my balance, toppling over, and heading back to shore only to paddle out once again, with a degree of optimism. After my fourth or fifth effort, however, I was completely exhausted and behind all the others in the group. Let me elaborate: I was faint, I couldn’t feel my arms, and I began to wish the Lord would take me.

Time was passing. I knew the next attempt would be my last. Unfortunately, I’d fallen so far behind and was, in fact, floating off to sea, my head clouded with thoughts of a relief that only death would bring. Finally, the very attractive leader of our group, Matthew, noticed (I can only assume) my (relatively) small head bobbing in the distance and came back for me. I still had to paddle, mind you, but at least now I wasn’t drifting to Guadeloupe – though I have always wanted to go there, too. I’d prefer to arrive alive, however.

Matthew encouraged me back into the line and yelled things I didn’t hear but hoped were positive reinforcements and not warnings of imminent calamity. Magically, I surfed a long and glorious line straight back to the beach, until about five feet away when I looked into the clear water, saw rocks, panicked, and jumped. Obviously (to everyone but me), I was supposed to ride the board right onto the sand. I guess I’ll know that for next time.

I collapsed on the beach not unlike Tom Hanks did in that movie with Wilson. I may have been hallucinating. My body felt like a rubber chicken, and the squawks coming out of me were certainly compatible. I was shaking and crying, and when Matthew joined me on the sand, I thanked him for giving me my first surfing orgasm.

No, I didn’t have a real orgasm, but I thought it was a pretty good joke for a 50-year-old woman to make to a fit and much younger Barbadian Black dude that had made my dreams come true. Maybe, in retrospect, it was a little gross. (Sorry, Matthew.) He didn’t laugh very much, but pish posh. 

It was, in fact, a good analogy. That surf had provided a similar feeling of being lost inside oneself, melting into nothingness, blissful, limp, barely conscious. 

And, since if you don’t get it on video, it didn’t happen, Stephanie’s recording of it made the gift of the trip even better – and real!

On the last night, she hooked up with Grady from Sanford and Son – an aging security guard. No, it wasn’t the real Grady, silly. This one was less humorous and older. Meanwhile, I was up in the room with a glass of wine, reading. The waves churned me right into a deep, thankful sleep.

Before the trip, any miniscule sound, even the patter of a cat’s feet on carpet, would keep me awake or wake me. Ever since that trip, the only sound I can sleep to is that of water – rain or crashing waves. Thank goodness for earbuds, since I’ve even started to become dependent on rolling in the deep. 

I guess we all have our vices.