The Dutch Know How to Run an Island

OR

WHY I FRAKKING LOVE CURAÇAO!

You start the week with a gorgeous sunset:


Add nine non-native lionfish found during six separate dives:


A scorpionfish who doesn't know jack about camouflage:


Since it's close to Halloween, you also need some brains, BRAINS, BRAINS!


Mix in some gorgeous Dutch architecture and blue skies:


Give in to the awesomeness of Caribbean color schemes and WTF is an HOA?


Add a kiss from a dolphin named Annie:


Don't forget some discordant dolphin singing courtesy of Annie and Caiyo:


Throw in a five-person research sub courtesy of Substation Curaçao:


And a healthy pinch of Ty-man who saw the ocean at 441 feet:


All for the love of a deep shipwreck called the Stella Maris:


Look out Robert Ballard, here she comes!


Yep, it was an awesome week. Fill you in on the details as the days progress. Let's just say that I'm one happy scuba diver!

Giving Up

Just give it up to God, Heather. If you allow Him to take on this problem, He'll give you an answer. You just need to give it to Him.

I can't tell you how many times I heard that during my struggle with infertility and I can't even begin to tell you how many times I just wanted to strangle the person uttering those words.

How can someone like me "give it up to God" when someone like me believes that God doesn't give a shit in the first place? So, who'm I supposed to "give" it to? WHO?!?

I would rail and cuss and shout at the carpet, the furniture, the television, even the cat. Because I didn't (and still don't) believe in giving up my problems, my issues, to an omnipotent entity who, I believe, is more concerned with manipulating the black hole at the center of the Milky Way than with the state of my girly bits. Besides, if God is listening and paying attention to little ol' me, he'd get annoyed pretty quickly since I'm like a toddler when it comes to getting answers. Have you thought about it? Have you? Can I have a zygote? PLEASEPLEASEPLEASE? Just one tiny little puny fertilized egg? CANICANICANI?

My aunt-in-law, who also had fertility issues during her childbearing years, noted that when she and the uncle-in-law were having difficulty conceiving, they turned the planned nursery into an office. And WHAM! they found themselves pregnant shortly thereafter.

Hm, I thought, giving it up to the office. I could do that. Put my mind on something that is tangible, physical, to get my mind off my ovaries. I get this. I can do this.

It was then that I decided to give up my problems to the fish. After years of putting off volunteering at the Tennessee Aquarium, I signed my name on the dotted line. During the six months between my fourth failed insemination and the fifth try that resulted in Miss-Miss and Bubba, I scrubbed algae off fake rocks, fed bonnethead sharks, and was molested by sturgeon (don't ask). I didn't think about my ovaries the whole time, I just had fun. Hummed, even. I played rock-paper-scissors with kids on the other side of the tank and tried to convince them, using hand signals, that they could somersault better than I could scuba front-flip. It was the first time in years I wasn't bitter toward the parents standing before me with their sweet progeny.

That picture up there at the top of my post is of my windshield. Even though I gave up my aquarium post after the twins were born, I kept the parking sticker on my windshield because it reminds me that I do have the capacity to shut off my brain every now and then. Which is a blessing because there are times when my own inner chatter would drive a six-year-old crazy.

Are you there shark? It's me, Heather.

Scumbag!

Three weeks ago, I was commiserating with Rob, my scuba diving mentor and my kids' swim teacher.

Rob: Jim (fellow scuba buddy and co-owner of Atlanta Scuba & Swim Centers) is in the Caymans.

Rob and Me, simultaneously: Scumbag.

Me: When does he get back?

Rob: Sunday.

Me: Total scumbag.

Rob: Yep.

Doesn't matter if I had been scheduled to fly to the Great Barrier Reef the day after the above conversation, Jim was still a scumbag and I, of course, would have shared the title the next day. The week before, nextdoorneighbor Jodi's teen son was diving in the Keys. Yep. Scumbag.

Where am I going with this? I'll tell you. Even though this has nothing to do with scuba diving and even though I chose not to attend BlogHer and instead decided to thumb my nose at the whole thing from the comfort of my suburban-Atlanta home? You're all scumbags. (You, too!)

In a loving, caring sort of way, of course! HEY! It's tradition!

And when I go scuba diving in Curaçao in October, you may all scream SCUMBAG! in my Inbox. Pinky-swear.

The Vacation Photo Essay You've Been Pining For

OR

I HATE THIS BITCH BECAUSE SHE WENT ON VACATION AND NOW SHE'S RUBBING MY NOSE IN IT


So, yeah. Bonaire. It's this tiny scrap of land 50 miles north of Venezuela. The island is 28 miles long and 7 miles wide and shaped like a boomerang. The land is arid, scrubby, and populated with cacti and nothing resembles the tropical vegetation we all think of when we imagine exotic islands. But it's this dry, scrappy land that gives the reefs a chance for bounty. Bonaire's reefs are so special that they are protected as a national park. As far as I know, there are no HOAs. I mean, come on! People paint their houses pink, aqua blue, yellow, and purple, sometimes all at the same time! All of this put together makes this island my second-favorite place on Earth.


The marine life is rich and diverse. Sharks? Never seen one. Fish? The reefs are positively teeming. Seahorses like the one above? All over if you know where to look.


One of the best dive sites on the island is known as "1,000 Steps". The steps that take you down to the shore, from which you enter the water, are built into the cliff face of the island and even though there are 63 steps down, it feels like 1,000 when you're climbing up with your scuba gear (and tank) on your back.


See the baby octopus? Right there? Squished in the coral? It was trying to nap and not at all pleased that I was hovering above it, taking pictures, blinding it.


This is the Windward/East side of the island. There are a few dive sites on this side of Bonaire, but the current is rough and you really need to be in shape. Maybe I'll try it in a few years. The locals like to frequent this side of the island for their late-night bonfires and they build funky shrines out of driftwood and garbage. It's like a cross between the Neverland Beach of Lost Things and a Caribbean Blair Witch Project. Can't decide which.


That bright blue thing? It's a Lettuce Sea Slug. No, you don't put it in your salad and no, you don't put salt on it to get it off the reef.


The friggin' iguanas are everywhere. When you drive down the road, it's like a messed-up version of Frogger. But that's OK. I get back in my own special way:


That's right. Iguana soup. Yummy! But look out! Little tiny iguana bones are waiting for you...



Bizarre Foods with Coal Miner's Granddaughter!


There are wild donkeys on the island, left over from the 19th-century salt industry. When cars came to Bonaire, the donkeys were set loose and are now feral. So, I was rather surprised when this one let me walk right up to her. She even sniffed my hand.


Ah, eels. They're my favorite underwater animal and I love drifting over a reef and seeing one poke its head out when you least expect it. These are gorgeous animals that flow over the reef, sinuous and quiet.


Did I mention the Bonaire salt industry? It's still going strong! The entire south end of the island is taken up with evaporation pools. The salt melting the snow on your highway or the gourmet salt on your table could be from Bonaire.


And as a fitting end to this photo essay, I give you the biggest lobster I've ever seen on any of my dives. This one was hiding under a coral shelf, 60 feet down.

Sex-Crazed Underwater Bad Ass*

Some truths about scuba-diving you may not know:

• There are two types of divers: those who pee in their wetsuits and those who lie about it. People, I'm here to tell you... I pee in my wetsuit. I pee in my wetsuit for self-defense. First, I chow down on breakfast and suck down the coffee. Then? I'm on the dive boat before my first dive, loading up on water. During my surface interval? It's fruit juice. And I'm doing this because I'm a cold-natured wuss and peeing in my wetsuit helps keep me warm. Everyone does it and that's why you never rent a wetsuit. Ick. If you dive with me and see me suddenly go still in the water? It's because I'm peeing and creating my own personal thermocline. Either stay away or come on over and share the love.
  

• Wanna be sexy underwater? Wanna be in demand as a scuba buddy? Then control your air consumption. If you suck on the air like a freight train trying to get the mail to Louisville by 9AM, nobody will want to dive with you. Who wants to spend a shit-ton of money on a Caribbean trip and only spend 20 minutes in the water per dive? Not. Me. So, slow down your lungs and everybody will want to be your friend.

• Nobody gives a rat's ass how deep you've been and how many sharks you've seen. See the guy who's sitting off to the side, not saying much, quietly nodding his head? He's probably an ex-Navy SEAL who sat at the bottom of the ocean on a closed-circuit rebreather, deeper than you'll ever dream of, and tracked subs off the coast of Russia. He probably also had his leg gnawed on by a Great White. And most likely had sex with your girlfriend last night. Just shut up already, 'kay?

• Yellow-tail snappers will gorge on Ramen noodles until they pop. Much more satisfying than feeding sea gulls Alka-Seltzer.

• Scared of sharks? Whatev. Just be glad damsel fish aren't bigger than a couple of inches, because if they were? These ostentatious little f*ckers would eat. You. Alive. I can't tell you how many times I've been on a reef, innocently taking pictures, minding my own business, and a damsel fish has nipped my hand or fin because I was too close to its home. They are easily upset and have no qualms about drawing blood. Chum+Damsel Fish=Underwater Apocalypse. You have been warned.
  

So, yeah! The Ty-man and I had a great time down south. I waved to MommyCosm 60 miles West in Aruba and I flipped off Hugo Chavez 50 miles to the South. Ty snorkeled, relaxed, and chilled while I swam with the fish.



It was a break we definitely needed and we're glad to be home!

* The true meaning of the SCUBA acronym. Just FYI.

Scuba Diving Fool

I love to scuba dive.

I started diving in 1999 when the Ty-man gave me scuba lessons as a gift for Christmas, 1998. At that time, I loved caving (call it spelunking and I will cut you) and I decided I wanted to learn to cave dive.* In March, 1999, I dove 12 feet into Atlanta Scuba's pool and began my love affair with the underwater world. A year and two months later, I found myself 25 feet deep in the sludge known as Lake Lanier working on my scuba instructor certification. For six years, I certified more people than I can remember and had an amazing time doing it. I was underwater constantly, whether I was in the pool, the freshwater springs in Florida, the Atlantic, or the Caribbean.

As an instructor, you need to be able to commit numerous weekends every year to either work with students in the pool during confined water scuba classes or to travel with students for certification dives. Now that I'm a parent, I really don't have time for that. And so, my last, honest-to-goodness dive trip was a Turks & Caicos liveaboard in March, 2008.

I miss it. Terribly.

When our trip to Mexico was canceled, we luckily purchased trip insurance and got a refund. That's when Ty said Pick, hon. Mexico or Bonaire. I instantly picked Bonaire because it is my favorite island in the Caribbean. It's small, not crowded at all, and the diving is amazing. And after a six year absence from the island, we've returned.

On my birthday, we flew south to Bonaire and I hope, as I write this on Friday, February 5th, that today, Monday, February 8th, is a day I'm conquering the waves.



* I never received my cave diving certification. In November, 2000, I was diving on a wreck off Panama City Beach, Florida, using a semi-closed circuit re-breather. I nearly drowned. After that afternoon, when I was able to shoot straight up from that wreck to sweet air, I realized that if what happened to me in open water had happened to me in an underwater cave, I would have died. My caving and my diving will always stay separate.

The Other Shoe Has Landed

Remember a few months ago how I was lauding Karma, calling her a "fairly nice gal" and all that hogwash?

Little did I know she was lying in wait, sitting there with her legs crossed, bouncing her Manolo up and down on her perfectly manicured toes, grinning like an idiot while I walked toward my next visit with her.

A number of years ago, while in the throes of my immature mid-20s, I came across a friend of a friend and excitedly asked her Oh my goodness! Congratulations! I didn't know you were pregnant. When are you due? She wasn't pregnant. Yeah. See, I had yet to learn the lesson of You don't ask a lady if she's pregnant, not even if she's in active labor and the head is crowning. If that's the case, then avert your gaze and calmly ask if she'd like a Motrin or a some Pepto for her tummy ache. And then begin talking about the weather.

Oh, I was mortified that day. The offended party tried to make me feel better, but I knew she would get in her car, drive home, and cuss me, cry, shake her head, shake her fist at the heavens, or all of the above. Me? I just wanted to climb into a hole because I couldn't believe I had said anything, that I had been so very mistaken, and that I had probably just destroyed the ego of someone I didn't even know.

Well, Karma has finally had her day on this one. As I excitedly walked into my old scuba shop last Thursday, arms loaded up with regulators and a BCD needing service before our Mexico trip, my good friend Jim exclaimed, Heather! It's so awesome to see you! It's been forever! Is that a baby bump I see?

And my first thought? Well, at least the wait is over. Karma's other shoe just dropped. Now to start that 500-sit-ups-a-day regimen.

I hope the heel broke on Her shoe. Bitch.

Dive! Dive! Dive!

Note: I'm finally getting around to writing on the blog about my dive experiences two weeks ago. This is an article I wrote for my sorority alumnae newsletter. I know it's a bit long, but I hope you all enjoy!

Live-aboard diving is not for the faint-of-heart. You are living, with 19 other divers (24 if you count the crew) for one solid week, on a converted yacht, with a schedule that looks like this:

7:00 – 8:00 AM – Breakfast
8:30 AM – Dive
9:30 AM - Snack
11:00 AM – Dive
12:30 PM – Lunch
2:00 PM – Dive
3:00 PM – Snack
4:30 PM – Dive
6:00 PM – Dinner
7:30 PM – Night Dive

Most conversations on a live-aboard involve talk of safety stops, PO2 levels, nitrogen loading, nitrox mixes, underwater camera F-stops, and all the different types of marine life encountered on the previous dives. There is also the telling of old dive stories, stories to make us all laugh about the time a diving friend of a diving friend was accosted by a reef shark. No, he wasn’t bitten, but the shark thought he was a nice-looking mate, if you get my drift. It is generally accepted that eagle rays, though beautiful, are out to kill every diver they see by leading them down the reef wall and into the depths below. Sharks couldn’t care less about the average diver but those pesky eagle rays, they’ll be the death of us yet.

The typical thought-process of a diver – before, during, and after a dive – goes something like this: (Pardon the stream-of-consciousness, but this is literally a diver’s inner-dialog - well MY inner-dialog when on a dive.)

OK, I need to analyze my air. 32% oxygen – gotta log it. Now, set the computer…. done. I need my skin and my full 3 mil suit. Halfway on, time for booties. Whoops! Sean’s giving the dive briefing. “Elephant Ear Canyon” is the site name. We may see batfish? Cool! OK, get my skins and suit on the rest of the way… booties… mask… get my BCD and tank on my back. Excellent. Where are Sam, John, and Stacey? Oh, they’re heading down to the platform. Time to move. ‘Scuse me, Robert! Gingerly make my way down the stairs. Falling would not be a good thing. I’ll park myself on this bench and put on my fins. Is the ladder clear? Time to jump in ‘cause the pool’s open, baby! Woo hoo! In the water, cold water down the neck! Let the air out of my BCD and slowly sink. Looking around. There’s Stacey, OK, Sam’s over there, and John is on his way down. Look at the compass, there’s west, OK, heading over to the top of the reef. We’re at 50 feet, holy crap! There’s a hawksbill turtle! That’s the fourth this week! He’s just cruising over the top of the reef, divers surrounding him like the paparazzi, snapping pictures. He disappears around a corner at 80 feet, John trailing behind. OK, we’ll hang and wait for John’s return. Oh, look! That’s the biggest lobster I’ve ever seen! Wow. I don’t know how he fits under that coral head! OK, John’s back – let’s cruise. Around the corner, the coral is so abundant! Wait, what’s that? Move closer. Dang! That’s a Spanish lobster! Those things look like underwater cockroaches. Sweet! Move in for a picture – click – move out for John to get a snap. Glance at computer – WOW – I’ve already been down at 70 feet for 30 minutes. Sam is signaling. Oh, OK, he wants to go back to the boat along a shallower depth. Cool. Slowly swimming back, there’s a hermit crab! Just a little guy! Hauling ass toward the reef wall. Cutie! Picture-time! OK, let him finish his travels. Turn back south and wow! A stingray just laying in the sand. Signaling Stacey and John, cool, John’s on his way. We’ll hover while he gets the shot. Turn around and there’s a sandy-field of garden eels, poking out of the sand and weaving in the current, bobbing up and down as we swim by. I guess we’re pretty imposing. Oh, look! Conch all over the place with little trails behind them, marking where they’ve come from. More stingrays, smaller, and tangs everywhere. Time to ascend! Slowly making my way up the water column, no faster than my smallest bubble. Don’t want to get bent! Stop at 15 feet, look up, there’s the boat! Cool. Waiting for three minutes, check out the bottom of the boat – Tim has written “Disco is God!” in the algae scum attached to the hull. Laughing hysterically through my regulator! Whoops! Current is pulling the boat away from us. I’ll just wait it out. Seven minutes later, the boat makes its way back. That was a long safety stop! Finning as quick as I can to the ladders. Give Sean my camera, hand up my fins, wait for the swells to pass by. Riding the ladder like a wild mustang! OK, it’s calmer. Climb up the ladder and make my way to the bench. Take off my mask and take a deep breath. WOW! What a great dive!

So, any of you care to join me on the next trip?

I'm in Love...

... with the other woman!

That's right. I've crossed over, come out of the closet, and professed my love to a woman who loves the water as much as me, has beautiful brown eyes, and uses a little too much Botox on her lips.

Who is this dastardly dame, this hussy, who stole me away from Ty-man and the kids?

Meet Loretta...

(OK, seriously? Keep the "Damn, she would make a great sandwich!" comments to yourselves! Please!)

Loretta is a very friendly Nassau grouper who lives on "The Gully" dive site off of West Caicos. And she? Looooooooves divers.

She parks herself on her patch of coral, right on the top of the reef wall next to the gully, and waits for divers to arrive and pay their respects. And me? I paid my respects three times. I got down on the sand and talked to her through my regulator. She swam right up, got in my face, and nearly planted a big one on my lips after I took the regulator out of my mouth.

Damn, she knows how to show a girl diver a good time. I'm formulating the Dear Ty-man letter now:

Dear Ty-man,
I love you, but I need a change. A change of sex. A change of species. A change of location. Turns out, I like girls. In fact, I like girls with gills. Now, I know, I know, she can never leave the sea, she doesn't talk much, and she would never appreciate a good "Star Wars" movie, but those eyes *swoon* and those lips *faint*.

Please tell the children I love them. And please send my extra dive gear, bathing suits, and money for air to:

Heather
"The Gully" dive site
West Caicos
Turks & Caicos
Atlantic Ocean

Thanks!
Love, Me :-)

So, what do you guys think?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

And? If you missed it? Check out the archived Pointless Drivel Big Honkin' Duet II Show here. Download it! Get all of your friends to download it! Rate it! Love it! Live it! (BTW, my duet with Fab was the last one. I don't sound too bad!)

Top Ten Signs You're a Lapsed Scuba Diver

10) You look at your kids and wonder if you could get enough money for them to pay for a South Pacific dive trip.

9) You fantasize about diving in Lake Lanier, Georgia. Wow! I love collecting beer cans, fishing line, and dead bodies!

8) You start wearing your old dive t-shirts every day. Even on date nights!

7) Instead of telling people you're tired, you just say, "I'm narced!"

6) You read and re-read your dive magazines until the pictures are worn off.

5) You get aroused looking at dry suit ads.

4) The news talks about a Hollywood personality getting arrested for a DUI and you wonder, "Why would somebody get arrested for buying a dry suit?"

3) Sea Hunt re-runs just aren't doing it for you anymore.

2) You stand in your driveway, fully geared up, whenever it rains.

1) You rent an air tank just stay underwater in your bathtub.