I’m no closer to deciding and I don’t even think I’m any closer to relaxing. But maybe an encounter with wildlife will dothe trick. I’ll try anything at this point and a swim with sea creatures is first up.
We reach our stop and the excursion director shuffles us off the bus and onto a wood dock where a boat waits for us. The tour boat is white, with one deck that looks like it will just about seat everyone in our group. There’s a canopy over the seating area to shade us from the brutal June sun, and a covered area in the front that must be for the captain. The boat wobbles as we load up, the captain and the excursion director helping us climb from the dock into the boat. Our modest-sized group settles in on the benches along the edges of the vessel.
Once we’re all in place, life vests secured, we’re shuttled out to what feels like the middle of the ocean, but there are no big waves. The water is calm here, slapping against the boat rhythmically as the captain anchors us near a few other tour boats, groups of people already scattered around the area where the stingrays are. Gasps of delight and squeals of surprise come from all around.Ooohsandaaahsresound as people reach out to touch the sea creatures. The water glows in the most beautiful shades of blue and turquoise, and it’s clear enough that when I lean over the side of the boat, the sandy bottom and stingrays are plenty visible, gliding through the water, their fin-wings rippling like they’re underwater birds.
I’m so mesmerized by the stingrays and how beautiful this area is that I don’t realize the excursion director is talking to us until the boat has started to rock and I look up to find people standing and starting to climb down the small ladder attached to the end of the boat.
Oh god, I hope I didn’t miss any instructions.
It looks like I’ll be one of the last people off the boat, and I secretly hope everyone offloads as slowly as possible. I pay attention as everyone descends the ladder, trying to pick up on any behavior or mannerisms that might hint at the director’sinstructions, but nothing really gives anything away. I do realize that everyone has shucked their life vests, so I do the same, leaving it on the seat before shuffling toward the ladder.
I wasn’t nervous on the bus or the boat ride here, but now I’m worried I missed some vital information. What if I get hurt because I was so enraptured by the pretty blue water?
Oh god, Abby. Way to go.
Once it’s my turn, I descend the ladder slowly, looking out for any stingrays, but when I don’t see them, I let my feet touch the sandy ocean floor.
I huddle close to the boat, trying to avoid the sea creatures I’m here for, feeling silly and out of my element.
“I was told they don’t bite,” a voice to my left says. An older gentleman, easily in his late seventies, maybe even early eighties, also huddles close to the boat. He’s wearing a long-sleeve rash guard and purple swim shorts, and his crumpled-paper skin is tan, like maybe he’s been at the resort and hanging out in the sun for a few days already. My skin is more sun-kissed than it was four days ago, but I was pretty pale before, so it doesn’t take much.
“They do sting, though. RIP Steve Irwin.”
“Oh, I loved him. He had the first Australian accent I’d ever heard,” the man says.
“I’m Abby,” I say and hold out a hand.
“Walter,” he says, a wide, friendly smile stretching over his face.
Neither of us moves from our stingray-less spot despite the ticking clock on our excursion. It’s just as hot here as it is at the resort, but the water makes everything feel a bit cooler, a bit more bearable to stand out here in the sun. The sky is clear, not a cloud in sight, and the air is thick and salty.
Except for the occasional squeal of laughter, most of the sound is absorbed into the vast, open space, and given the number of people, it isn’t too loud.
“Did you get dragged here by someone else?” I ask.
“No, no, I chose this of my own free will,” he says around a laugh.
“Me too.”
“The idea of it seemed so exotic, but in practice, I’m not sure how I feel about petting a sea creature that could end my life. I’m too young to die,” says Walter. He gives me a sneaky smile and winks.
“Maybe they’ve been de-barbed. Or they’re not the dangerous kind of stingrays.”
“Are there more than one kind?” He sounds shocked and curious, and it elicits a laugh from me.
“I think so, but marine life is not my specialty. I bet one of them would know.”
I point to an excursion guide not too far from us, one of the handful of people in a blue shirt talking to some of the guests.
“Oh, I’m not going to go out and ask them anything. What if I get stung on my way out there?” Walter says.
“A very valid point. It’s probably best if we spend our two hours standing right next to the boat.”
“I quite like the sound of that.”
A few seconds of silence pass, and it’s less awkward than I expected it to be. Like Walter and I are old friends and we don’t need words to fill the conversational space.
“Don’t you have some friends to meet? Maybe a new husband?” Walter asks.
