Fox the fox
Rat on the rat
You can ape the ape
I know about that
There is one thing you must be sure of
I can’t take any more
Darling, don’t you monkey with the monkey
Monkey, monkey, monkey…
I monkied with Monkey today. I took him snorkeling hoping his fear of water would end up with either Monkey drowned or on life support. Not a good swimmer, he curled up inside my head and looked at the sea from his hidey hole. I was tempted to grab an eel and stick it in my ear to ferret him out but the eels were too big. I tried to terrify him by swimming with sharks. Tried to appease his insatiable appetite for new things by showing him rays and sea turtles and swarms of fish swimming within in fingertip reach, fish playing in a coral haven, more heaven than haven. We swam in the midst of fish with large black eyes, eyes that held light with the ferocity of a black hole that, if stared at for too long, would have pulled my soul into its depths leaving me as much of a shell as the massive lobster we feasted upon for dinner at Ajit Bistro.
Barracuda kept a distance, predators are wary of other predators, as did the emerald green Moray Eel safely tucked in her lair until coaxed to emerge a few inches by our guide. Swimming with the fishes, dropping into their environs, shows one how ungainly are we children of the Apes, we hairy creatures flopping beneath the surface while the quicksilver, the quick blues, the quick angels, the quick rays, the quick everything glide about more graceful than the most accomplished ballerina soaring to the song of a violin crying under the sustained pressure of the resined bow.
Rather than satiating Monkey even for a little while, he became invigorated. His silence under water gave way to chatter as I was climbing into the boat and went on incessantly while we cut across the waves in the boat heading back to dock. The jokes on me because Monkey monkeyed with me.
Monkey: Wacha gonna do next? Let’s snorkel again. Wacha gonna do? Wacha gonna do?
Me: I am going to sit in the shade of a tiki hut, do some writing, and get lost in my book while sipping tropical drinks.
Monkey: No! No!! NO!!! Wacha gonna do? You want to snorkel again. Mexico Rocks is a calling…the siren sings to thee. ‘Sweet, sweet David, come to me.’ You can’t waste a day writing and reading while in a tropical paradise. Who reads anymore anyway? Losers. That’s who. And your writing sucks! Such a waste of time.
Me: But, but…I want to…need to connect with my soul. It’s been ignored for too long.
Monkey: No! No!! NO!!! We goin’ snorkeling again tomorrow. Wacha gonna do?
Me: I’m gonna shock the damn monkey!
Monkey, Wheels keep turning
Monkey, Something’s burning
Monkey, Don’t like it but I guess I’m learning
Shock! Shock! Shock! – watch the monkey get hurt, monkey…
Shock! Shock! Shock the freak up for while!
A year ago, almost to the day, it was 05 Feb 2017, I was in a mental state where I was able to hear the lumbering gate of Ant marching across the white, wooden deck of our casita. The porch opened to the sea. My soul opened to the moment. Many hours I sat on the porch enjoying the breeze, the aroma, the sight and sounds in what felt like our own little haven, more heaven than haven. We, Irene and I, sat in togetherness speaking love without words, speaking love in the warmth of our linked hands while sipping red, red wine while our souls basked in the tropical aura. It is amazing how much better any bottle of wine tastes when sipped in paradise with a lover.
Red, red wine
She so fine
For the past two days, our most important decision was where to sit on the beach. In this lounge chair or those lounge chairs or the Adirondack chairs? How about the hammocks on the dock where the softly murmuring waves of Ocean would lull us to sleep as our cradles swayed in the refreshing breezes?
Those two days were vital to shed our city scales and start the evolution toward Island feathers. We temporarily exchanged feathers for fins and mask to experience life below the horizon line, life ‘neath the silver waves, life in the realm of shark, ray, turtle, eel, coral, and more types of fish than my paltry imagination could conjure up in two lifetimes.
Oh I was scarcely seven year old
When my mother she did die;
And my father married the worst woman
That lived twixt the land and the sky.
For she’s turned me into the laily worm,
That lies at the foot of the tree,
And my sister Maisry she has turned
To the mackerel of the sea…
Having sampled the sun and the sea on one island, tomorrow we will head out to Caye Caulker. It’s an island I have heard described as a drinking island with a fishing problem or as a hippie island with a reggae vibe. We will ferry across the turquoise which feels like the proverbial slow boat to China and spend the afternoon exploring at a leisurely pace. The activity should appease Monkey for a few hours…hopefully…
To be continued…