My good friend, Patricia (we wore our fancy names), and I cruised to the Bahamas this last week. After navigating the Miami airport and figuring out where all the food was on the boat, my ankle started to hurt. Specifically, my Achilles tendon, which swelled up like a big goose egg, along with much pain. Pat insisted I go to the medical station on the boat, where they promptly gave me a shot of something and hauled a wheelchair into the room. Yes, I spent my vacation being pushed around by my friend. I was heartbroken, because we were on this cruise to give her a much-needed break from the care of her husband and the weight of the loss of her son. Here she was, taking care of yet another human being.
The wheelchair was tragic for a minute, then became our ticket to the front of the line everywhere we went. Everything became an adventure, meandering through the halls and restaurants. We got dropped off at Coco Cay, an island where we floated all day in a giant lagoon-shaped pool, sipping cool drinks and talking about everything and nothing. The next day, they dropped us off in Nassau, where we had rented scooters. I thought, "That was fortuitous -- now I won't have to worry about the wheelchair. I'll just scoot all over the island!" Word to the wise: Don't ever assume you're paying for actual things, if you can't see them. We were scammed on the payment of the non-existent scooters. My heart was sick, as the sweat dripped down my back and our hopes for the day were dashed. No wheelchair, no scooters, no fun. As we sat dejected on the sidewalk, a nice fellow walked by with a laminated flyer in his hand, a flyer with pictures of scooters. He looked skeptically at us, saying that he didn't recommend us renting that type of vehicle. But why?! He said the word Mama several times, in that delightful Bahamian manner, specifically stating that he would not put his own Mama on one of those scooters. For a small price, he had two of those granny-devices that you see in grocery stores and such. He was certain we would be happier on them than a gasoline-fueled accident waiting to happen. We were highly offended at first, and then thought about my pitiful ankle and so opted for the granny-mobiles. He gave us instructions, an extra battery apiece, and then we were off. In short order we were hooting and hollering at every corner. They were so small, we could navigate inside stores and alleyways. There was a fella hawking Cuban cigars and said we should follow him. You would think I would have learned not to do these things. The further we got from the main street, the more I began to question my sanity. But alas, we were not kidnapped or robbed that day. He probably took one look at us and decided we already knew about the dropping-dead tricks and were way past caring what means it would take to protect ourselves. Don't mess with Mamas who've already plowed the back fourty. We wended our way to the beach, where a golden-toothed gentleman promised to watch our granny-mobiles, then yelled at us when we touched a lounger as we climbed over the sea wall - "This is a private beach!" We floated for an hour then didn't tip the guy because he never once looked at our bikes. We tipped ourselves and howled with laughter, dripping wet and hungry. Eventually we found a restaurant full of very jolly people, where there was a shouting DJ, playing horrid and loud music. He offered free shots of alcohol to anyone who would stand on their chair. There had to be a hundred folks in that place, and 98 of them stood on their chairs. We were content to eat nachos and laugh at the crazy people. Then there was the straw market, where we found ourselves deep in the bowels of a building with a sweet vendor girl, full of the same stuff that we saw all over Nassau. The wheels of my Yaya-mobile wound around a decrepit tarp and we like-to have pulled the whole place down. There were expletives from ancient Bahamian women, but we escaped with trinkets and bags anyway, losing what was left of our cash. On the way back to the pier area, an old man sitting on the street was singing. He had been serenading me all afternoon, waved us over and asked who we were voting for, Trump or Harris? He then sang my choice as his buddy strummed a guitar. We were laughing so hard, my ribs were beginning to hurt.
I've known Patricia for around 30 years, but never knew that she was a Jedi. For the duration of the cruise, she would wave her hand and tell people what to do and they would simply do it. We encountered servers, customer service staff, strange characters on the streets and security personnel. All of them obeyed her, with a smile on their faces. We whizzed through lines and got most everything we wanted. Everywhere we went, they kept remembering our names, as if we were memorable.
The last night, we opted for showers and our room, preparing to leave the next day. There were photos to share and things to talk about, the fatigue took over. Lights out and alarms set, then the quiet... One of us, in the dark, started talking about the trip, about all the absurdities and foibles we had encountered. Before long, the cackling started. I was concerned about making too much noise, but the mirth was overwhelming. You only get so many of those nights, where the windows open and the gales of laughter make the troubles fly away like giddy seagulls.
Yes, there was some money spent, some troubles had, some sweat spilled, some tears shed. Life is short. Laugh when you can.
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