Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
In my present condition the thought of dragging my aching bones the thirty feet separ-
ating my present location from the bathroom seemed like a marathon. The most energetic
thing I'd imagined doing before bedtime was coughing up a pound or two of lung tissue.
“I'm not kidding,” he said, his voice dead level. “Let's go.”
Okay, that's one of the things about Michael. In general, he's a loving, thoughtful and
all-around great partner, but inexplicably he believes that movement, under any and all cir-
cumstances, trumps indolence. Even in cases of illness.
I well remember the day he insisted we go for a bike ride a few hours after I'd had a
colonoscopy. When I questioned the wisdom of parking my backside on a hard narrow bike
seat, shortly after having a five-foot tube poked up my rear, he brushed aside my concerns
with a wave of the hand. And of course, blessed with the will-power of a new-born kitten,
I acquiesced.
As I lay there shivering under my summer blanket, I could tell from his expression that
he meant business this time too, not because he was uncaring but because he honestly be-
lieved that rousing me from my death bed “would do me good.” Clearly, resistance was
futile.
We bounced down the rutted hill in our rented Vitara and cruised along one of the is-
land's narrow twisting roads towards Isabel Segunda, the larger of Vieques' two settle-
ments.
The town itself struck me as shabby and disappointing. We passed row after row of
boarded up businesses and deserted-looking houses. The whole thing had a bombed-out,
apocalyptic air to it.
But then we turned a corner and there before us, at the end of a long broad street lay the
ocean, turquoise blue now, choppy and glistening, and altogether beautiful.
Suddenly everything clicked into context and the town seemed quaint and charmingly
run down. And I loved it.
We had no idea where we were going. From our balcony Michael had spotted a strip of
beach in this general vicinity and was navigating us towards where he imagined it might
be. This was no easy task since the roads became extremely circuitous after we passed the
ferry terminal.
In no time, we found ourselves hopelessly lost—until we drove right up onto the little
beach we'd been looking for and got stuck in the sand.
It wasn't altogether a bad beach. More than anything it reminded me of Smathers Beach
in Key West, a narrow strip of trucked-in sand punctuated by prickly bushes and a couple
of anemic palm trees. Here the palm trees looked healthy enough and the sand was clearly
indigenous. But even so, this couldn't be one of the four-star beaches we'd read about on-
line.
Michael, slightly crestfallen, got out and walked around the car.
“Oh yipee, I think we're stuck.”
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