Perspective Shift on being a DD

In Honduras, right and wrong take on new meaning. For instance, it's not necessarily wrong to show up an hour late to work and pretend you're on time. It's not necessarily wrong to start drinking green beer for breakfast either. Nor is it wrong to drive after drinking large quantities of green beer

Alex was a really good driver intoxicated or otherwise. I know, since I use to often ride with him into the main port town. He would be drunk at eight in the morning; Andrea and I would arrive at the shop at seven or seven thirty, get a list of supplies needed if any and Andrea would hang around the shop chatting or reading while Alex and I would take off in his little red pickup. I just went with the flow. Years earlier, I had been in Tegucigalpa, the capital, and went to the hippest bar in town, a parking lot where kids would sell liters of rum and cheap vodka to drivers. Not only was it legal, there were M-16 toting police in the lot guarding the patrons from potential carjackers.

Anyhow, I would buy Alex’ gas with my boss, Justus’ money and we would fill up at a little roadside shack. There wasn’t a gas station on the west end side of the island, but rather an entrepreneur selling gallons from milk jugs. Each milk jug had a slightly different color. My unproven hypothesis is that the roadside salesman peed a little in each one to make it go further. Alex and I would cruise to town at ridiculous speeds picking up every hitch hiking island laborer along the way. By the time we made it to town, fifteen to twenty large men would be riding in the back and sometimes in the front with me. They would pay Alex what they could and jump out without any communication at various stops. It was the Island’s short bus for the crazy kids and I always enjoyed the ride. We never did wreck but had many close calls. What a thrill.

I'm not blaming this experience on my most recent run in with the US policia, but it sure didn't help me survive in our strict .08 drunk driving world. Back in Colorado, one night living the bachelor life, i.e., Andrea being in Seattle and myself staying behind in Eldo, I had a nice little nightcap at the local burger joint before heading on home five miles down the road. It was a Wednesday night and I had been out climbing with friends. I hadn't had a bite to eat in six plus hours, and with the kitchen closed at the Southern Sun, had decided that one calorie is as good as another and opted for a pint glass of Perl Street Porter. Then another and finally one more on the house, by a smiley bartender offering love, happiness and free beer.

I was in my car with flashing lights behind me before I realized that this might be a problem. Needless to say, I failed my intoxication test by blowing a .19 and headed to the police station on the North side of Boulder in the back of the car. I had the option of repeating the blowing exercise or a nice pin prick for a blood test and went with the latter. With my blood drawn, my photo taken and my finger stained with ink, I had nothing to do but sit shoeless in a plastic chair watching info-mercials for the rest of the morning. The cop was nice enough to not tow my truck and at 5:30 I was released. The police called me a cab who delivered me safely to the point where this whole fiasco started and I drove the remaining three miles into Eldo.

Ok, a needed perspective shift, I get it. Learned my lesson well, no more drinking and driving when outside of Honduras. However, this is where it gets confusing. Two months later, at a friend's house party in Denver, I had another run in. A female police officer came to the door and let us all know that the party was over. We needed to go home immediately. This seemed strange to me as it was only 10pm and the party was only beginning to liven up. Nevertheless, everyone was exiting the house and I followed suit. Andrea and I walked around the block and returned via the backyard. In the backyard stood a huge police officer with a big fast food belly and a booming voice. "You!" he yelled across the yard, pointing in my direction. "You, need to get in your car and go home!" Well, I'd had it. What was it, was I supposed to drive drunk or not?

Confused, I took the most logical option. I didn't drive, and I didn't leave. Instead, I brilliantly yelled back, "**** you, I'm drunk, I'm not going anywhere!" I then had that awesome cataclysmic feeling of complete weightlessness, the kind you get when you're rapidly leaving solid ground and falling into the abyss. The cop, prepared for such a chess move, had put me in check mate and before I knew it, my hands were behind my back and his sour breath on my neck. I remember my friend's voice pleading with the police man in her sweet southern manner, "awe, he didn't mean it. He's silly like that, says **** all the time."

The police man, ignored her pleas, pushed me to the ground and warned everyone else, that they too could take a ride in his Chevy. Everyone cowered, and I sat there in the wet grass carrying on about how unjust this whole thing was. How I was being arrested for not driving drunk. I kept asking if everyone was seeing this, as if not watching a train wreck is an option for anyone with a pulse. Thinking back, I guess that was a dumb question, but at the time, seemed very appropriate. Anyhow, we took a nice ride down to the detox center, all the way arguing like teenagers. I informed him, that he failed to read me my rights. He agreed, countering with "I'm not arresting you." Man, this threw me for a loop. I asked him to let me go, but he ignored me. I then told him that he was endangering me, as he hadn't fastened my seat-belt and in fact he was causing me to break the law. In fact he was an accomplice to my lawless act and could be prosecuted. He ignored that one as well. I carried on and on, thinking about how I could go on Democracy Now, write a book and speak at nation wide rallies. You see, I was drunk and all this made perfect sense.

Finally, we got to the detox center, where I was processed and once again got to watch some info-mercials. My number came up, I blew in a little machine, that confirmed yes, I was inebriated, but and this is the best part. I was just .001% over the legal limit to drive. So, I was released immediately, hailed a cab and met my friends at a local bar.

Dealing with the Unwanted Visitor

Staph is common in the ocean waters surrounding Roatan. This is a short story about my exposure to this unwanted visitor, that affects roughly 10 out of 10 dive masters and instructors living on the island.

I too felt the wrath of staph one sunny optimistic morning. I ignored the first few blisters. Hoping they would just go away, I told myself nothing was wrong and my world was the same as the day before, green beer would be served, Bob Marley would sing and bubbles would be blown. After few became many, spreading from my armpits to my nether region, I realized that I was up against a serious test of manhood. I couldn’t ignore this enemy and I faced it head on.

I had heard that urine would cure the infections, so I diligently popped each little pimple, reaching between my legs with dirty fingernails and squeezing as best as one man can. I wanted to be sure and thus grabbed a keychain flashlight in one hand and popped with the other. I couldn’t really see too well, so I proceeded to get on my back arching my head up between my legs for better lighting. I was alone in the communal bathroom at the time, but as luck would have it hadn’t locked the door. With my head inches from my pimply bottom, my left hand holding a little flashlight and my right hand nervously close to my sorest area, my beautiful calm wife opened the door. I had been caught in humiliating acts before, bringing shame and embarrassment to both my wife and I, but this took it to a whole new level. The expression on Andrea’s face was horrifying and I knew that without quick words our marriage was on shaky ground. I thought fast and hard and with confidence explained my plan, "no, you see baby; I need you to pee on me." She replied, "and, I need you to put your pants on and never ever do this again." She left me on my back, door slightly ajar with my shorts around my ankles.

I pulled up my pants and ran out the door chasing her down and explained that I really did need her help. I showed her my blisters forcing her to watch the train wreck of me bending at the waste and spreading my naked bottom. "Here right here," I exclaimed pointing to my most humiliating body part. Only after my desperate pleading did she agree. We returned to the bathroom and stripped out of our clothing, I assumed the position curling up at the bottom of the shower and she peed. A day later the blisters were worse. Urine was not the answer.

For my next attempt, I went to the West End pharmacy. An old white man with a Caribbean accent set at the counter, his shirt completely unbuttoned, a plump belly covered in gray hair folded over his khaki pants. He ignored me as I browsed the dust covered medicine on the sparse shelves next to green plantains and individually wrapped rolls of toilet paper. Medical labels are for doctors and nurses, it’s a language spoken only after eight years of medical school and two years of residency. Now put a Spanish twist into the mix and you’ve got a whole bunch of incomprehensible potions and spells straight out of an alchemist’s lab. I went with the tried and true approach of common sense. I figured like medicines are stored in like places. Thus around penicillin, the only name which I recognized, would be the antibiotics. Furthermore, I figured that a lotion would be for topical purposes like for instance a skin condition, perhaps even a staph infection. Finally, I went with the most logical of all common sense rationality. You get what you pay for. So, I picked the most expensive topical ointment in the general vicinity of the penicillin.

At the counter the old man seemed pleased with my decision. I took his approval as a sign that he knew what ailed me and agreed; this magical ointment would indeed cure me of my puss filled blisters. I happily left the pharmacy with my bowlegged labored shuffle knowing that my suffering was nearly over. After applying the expensive ointment to my armpits and unmentionables three times daily for a week’s time, the blisters remained defiant. All was lost, I would never get better.

That’s when I made my third and final mistake. I went to my boss Justus. First, I told him I had the curse. He looked back with glazed eyes, he had no idea what I was talking about. I told him about the blisters on my "you know" and a wave of knowing came upon him. "Oh, of course you have blisters, you wear a wet suit!" he said, following with "everyone gets them -- no big deal, they go away." Clearly his hadn’t at least since we had been on the island. I showed him the nearly empty tube of expensive ointment that I had applied religiously. "This is junk -- won’t work," he chastised.

"Why not?"

"It’s for your eyes."

"No, really?"

"Yeah, it’s for pink eye; who told you to buy this?"

I had been taken. The reason that old man had been so pleased with my choice at the pharmacy was because my purchase clearly paid for a rather nice dinner that night. He hadn’t been concerned with my discomfort at all. Everyone on the island suffered. Why should I be any different? Justus tossed me a bottle of penicillin and told me to stay out of the water for a week.