Whales, Dolphins and Dorks

 My transformation to Dork Dad was almost complete. I already had a paunchy stomach. I recently purchased a man purse/fanny pack for my SPF 100, glasses cleaner and wallet. Now all I needed was an oversized floppy hat. The kind that acts as universal birth control. Elijah and I found one at a local surf shop that was a little too big for my pinhead. When asked via text for her opinion, Diana said, “I hope you don’t bring that back from vacation.” 

I was ready to go snorkeling.

Our great and lovely neighbors like to spruce up any sitting on your butt vacation with at least one adventure. Last time it was screaming across the Mexican canopy via zipline. This year, they wanted to head out on a boat and mingle among the jellyfish and stingray and sea urchin.

At 7am, we jumped into a van with the intention of catching a boat a few towns over. The driver mentioned his cousin was our captain and was actually just at the bottom of the hill, which he gladly drove us to for $20.

I had all my Dork Dad gear, plus a flannel shirt, because of my allergy to cold. As I age, I tolerate cold less and less. Especially water. Cold water on my skin feels like a million pins and needles. It’s so uncomfortable that I often wonder how far along the Autism spectrum I am. I’ve all but abandoned pools and oceans unless it’s so hot I will burst into flames.

So why did I agree to go snorkeling? My hatred of missing out on fun with Eli and Luca beats my hatred of cold.

After meeting our hilarious and charming crew (I have yet to meet a jerkface Mexican person), we set sail (vial outboard motor) to the middle of the ocean in search of whales.

I’ve been fooled before on the old whale hunt. “Oh, they were just here yesterday. Shoot. You should’ve seen ‘em. They were asking about you and everything.”

But these guys knew their stuff. We came face to face with six or seven massive beasts, who all did us the solid of splashing their giant tails or doing that thing where they shoot salt water out of their heads. We even saw some frisky dolphins who were hilariously curious about our boat. 

Luca spotted a cluster of Jellyfish and I said, “Awesome.” Our captain replied, “Not awesome.”

We then headed to a little beach for the main event. We were outfitted with the world’s oldest and ill fitting-est snorkels and flippers were told to walk the plank. The second I hit the water I strung together a set of swears that would make Andrew Dice Clay blush. My facemask decided to poop out and my sinuses got a thorough salt water treatment. 

I wondered if 45 seconds was enough snorkeling when I noticed Luca was also struggling. He was in near tears. I directed us to the beach, where we regrouped. I was plenty happy to just examine every grain of sand. Ooh look. Sand.

The captain had taken a liking to Luca and arrived with a little life preserver to help with the snorkeling. All Mexican captains, surf instructors and waiters love Luca. They love to shout, Luuuuca!” and then laugh.

Luca headed off with the captain and the rest of the group to look at Dori and Nemo and Marlin. I stayed safely on shore to continue my sand studies.

Chris, my bromance partner, arrived looking like Daniel Craig emerging from the sea. He asked how my snorkeling was going and I lamely said, “Oh. Yeah. My mask is broken. I’m fine here on shore.”

“Oh, take mine. I’ve seen enough eels.”

I tried to argue with him, but Chris has this way of convincing me to bomb down hills on skateboards or take expert level yoga classes or ziplining. 

I re-entered the ocean and after much swearing, got the hang of snorkeling and saw some fun little fishies and little eelies and some rockies. It was, dare I say, fun?

We were beaconed back to the boat for peanut butter sandwiches (courtesy of Lexa) and headed back home. I was glad for my flannel shirt and big, dorky hat, BOTH of which I am bringing home.