Sarah E. Moffett

After all, I am from D.C.  And yes, it is true, lawyers and sharks do mix.

All jokes aside, losing one’s lunch in a “resort” outhouse 55 miles from the nearest continent was not the highlight of my Belize adventure vacation. Snorkeling in crystal clear Caribbean waters, watching sunrises and sunsets on a nearly deserted island, and making a host of new Canadian friends occupy that highlight reel. Admittedly, said highlight reel was on pause while I addressed my sunstroke-meets-sea-sickness-meets-migraine issues. Only after the wooden floor stopped swimming, did I allow myself to appreciate the level of premeditation necessary to get myself into this position.

After surviving two trials and D.C.’s winter wonder land of neurotic snow and perfectionist sleet, I decided that a vacation was in order. Preferably somewhere sunny. And warm. And with sand. Never one to do things the easy way, I drop kicked relaxing resorts in favor of checking out REI Adventure Vacations, which showed pictures of a cheery chap with a healthy glow lazily gliding over turquoise waters in his sea kayak off some vision of paradise in hither untouched Belize.

Three months later, I sat where the cheery chap had been, only I was paddling for my life against vicious waves, over previously and violently encountered coral, baking under a nuclear sun that had turned my SPF 50 into baby oil, and wondering if my parents would miss me when I was gone.

Actually, it wasn’t that bad, but at the time, it felt like it. It was the third day of our stay on Half Moon Caye, a breathtaking island largely untouched as a nature preserve. We were sea kayaking across the channel to Long Caye for an afternoon of snorkeling. As soon as my kayak landed, I pulled a Columbus. (Read: I dropped on all fours and kissed the sand.) That wasn’t how I ended up in the outhouse though. No, that came from eating Phillip the genius cook’s carefully prepared lunch and then going for a snorkel in the “aquarium.” Which was fine, and cool, and awe inspiring, until we drifted over the atoll’s drop off and exchanged perfectly good, visible coral and fishes from 20 feet above for a 1000 foot drop into blue, impenetrable darkness. As we floated with the hurricane size swells, I caught myself reaching down into the water to hold onto something. There was nothing.

Ever been afraid of heights in the water? You would be if you looked down into an impenetrable abyss and your mind kept projecting Jaws barreling out of the blue to eat you.

But it wasn’t Jaws that got me. It was those bloody waves. And the sunstroke. Followed by the mother of migraines. By the time we got back to boat, I was sitting as still as humanly possible and praying for land. Or an apocalypse.  Whichever. Twenty minutes later, I was pulling myself out of the boat and power walking down the path towards the previously discovered “resort,” a lovely model building erected by a land baron attempting to lure buyers to purchase lots on the private island. Blessings on that man and his hammock in which I fell prostrate on to recover after the outhouse encounter.

Aside from this lovely experience, the vacation rocked. (Yes, I’m being serious.) The words “peaceful” and “happy” have been applied by colleagues and friends to my current appearance. I just haven’t bothered to explain it is because I have come to appreciate D.C. after my little jaunt. After all, if one must choose between contentment in an outhouse while experiencing sunstroke-seasickness-migraine-hell 55 miles from medical help or being next to DeafCon One, it’s an easy decision.

Almost.

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