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“Sit,” he said, extracting a towel from his backpack and spreading it out in a shady al-
cove.
I sat.
I felt better in no time.
And then the wheels began to turn. This would be my bower, my refuge, my recovery
room, for the remainder of our stay. This was where I would get well.
Our tropical haven at Playa Grande
“Let's come back tomorrow,” I said, smiling to myself. “I'll bring another book.”
Although the medicine undoubtedly played its part, to this day I credit that idyllic palm
grove with my recovery.
By Wednesday I was fit enough to wade out into the water and sit in the shallows. I
gathered shells and ocean glass and got a sunburned nose.
By Friday night, I was game for a long-delayed birthday dinner on the town.
And at sunset that night we were on our way to the Inn on the Blue Horizon, heartily
recommended by almost everyone we'd met during our relatively solitary week, including
the emergency room doctor who had engineered my slow recovery.
After six alcohol-free days my very being ached for a vodka martini. If they'd told me
there was no
Grey Goose
in the house I would have torn my hair out and wept. But no
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