If you want Brent to relax, it's best like Kootenai to take him on a long run, don't feed him well and keep him awake... having done that for nearly two weeks, relaxation came easy.
We got up late. We lounged under the palm umbrellas. We played in the surf. We hung out at the pool bar. We ran on the beach together. We dined in the evening and danced at the nightclub. It wasn't until the third day of sybaritic laziness that I started getting restless.
I told Shelly I was going for a stroll. It started innocently enough, but before long I felt the siren call of a village I could just make out on the horizon down the beach. It looked so close and the miles passed easily with the constant visual stimulation of near-naked ladies lining the beaches of one resort after another. Take this story as a cautionary tale, beware of the power of the Caribbean sea, sand soccer games and topless oiled lass, after thong-clad ass.
It was nearly an hour before I reached the village, after which, realizing my tardiness, I sprinted the whole way back. Despite my speed I couldn't help but notice how much attention I was getting. I returned to the resort over an hour later to Shelly's arm folded stance which quickly changed from rebuke to concern long before I made it within ear shot. Arriving she exclaimed in horror, "What happened?" Not understanding, I followed her gaze downward to see the entire front of my shorts covered in blood. Aghast, I ran into the sea to wash off and survey the damage. Too bad neither one of us thought to stop and take a photo. It was an alarming amount of blood.
I discovered the velcro closure on swim trunks - which I must admit had caused some minor chafing at 27 Charcos, had attacked the end of my manhood. The wound wasn't hospital worthy, or even bandage-able, but it was certainly below-average for my honeymoon. It was time to put on the not-in-service light and self-medicate at the beach bar.
Later that evening we dressed up in the finery that we'd schlepped for two weeks just for the occasion. Shelly wore her white bicycle getaway dress and I a suit and tie for our "special" honeymooners romantic meal. I'll spare you, my readers, my diatribe on human psychology I have in mind for resort management and summarize only with, if your resort is looking to save money, don't do so by promising your guests special treatment only to deliver buffet leftovers and service so poor that the new groom is forced to serve his own drinks for himself, his new bride and other forgotten honeymooners sitting in seclusion at their tables in the far corner of the restaurant.
Despite my injuries including: sunburn, a chaffed crotch and a badly bruised rib from a poor boat exit snorkeling - Shelly and I were both up for adventure by our fourth day. In the morning we rented tandem sea kayaks which we took out in the surf and reef. Afternoon brought catamaran lessons. The guide was not bilingual and judging by Shelly's translations, lingual may have been a stretch. But through the international system of grunts and hand gestures he managed to translate the intricacies of sailing. Well, maybe not the intricacies but I was able to tack into the wind and return with the wind before handing the rudder off to Shelly who repeated my movements with the use of words. He was quite the guide. Now that I mention it, quiet, somewhat unfriendly guides were a theme of the trip, though in compared to Buco at 27 Charcos, this guy was Julie on the Love Boat.
Sailing was incredible. If I ever live near a large body of water, I will have access to a sailboat. It was so liberating to harness the wind and glide across the water - sometimes nearly directly into the wind. Like skiing is to snowmobiling, sailing is to boating. There is a smoothness, a oneness and fluidity to it I had never experienced before on water. I loved it.
We dined our last night at the buffet, shaking our heads at the variety and quality of the food and left wondering why we bothered with the "gourmet" restaurants or the "special bridal dinner." The ceviche and fresh grouper pan-fried to order were outstanding. Not to mention the mangu, one of many varieties of plantain dishes, but by far the most memorable. We capped off our last evening with a Presidente, a chi chi and a barefoot stroll on the beach under a clear sky in advance of the coming storm.