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You have to watch out for Scotsmen of a certain age; they get wild and irresponsible. Sweaty kept saying we could swim out past the reef, cut around the old hotel, then swim in to the beach with the red flag. I mentioned that there was a red flag there for a reason. He said we'd just play it by ear. We also mentioned that there was about five inches of water over the sharp snags of the reef, and the waves were running about six feet high. He said we'd just check it out.
It was wild and tossed-up outside. In by the rocks where all the big black French Angels and Midnight Parrotfish were sliding around you would suddenly see the bottom slew away twelve feet and you'd be right up in the bubbly. Clouds of Queen Angels tucked into the broken canyons, sheltered from the surge. Beautiful. Thrilling. Sharp-edged.
As we played it by ear, we ended up following Sweaty in so close to the shelf that we what we checked out was: we no longer had a choice. Two-meter waves blasted us through the hand's breadth of water over the jagged rocks spotted with coral and the occasional sea urchin or venomous stonefish spine.
All three of us came in whooping in exhilaration and yelping as we banged into rocks and fire coral. We were lucky. We'd known from the first we'd go straight in towards the red flag, we just wouldn't admit we'd do something risky just so we could feel cool about the risk.
As soon as I surrendered to the surge and rocketed forwards, the water went white and effervescent around me. Accelerating blind, I stretched out my hands and struck rough rocks. For a second there was a swirl of clear water showing the reef right under my face--studded with the spines of sea urchins. I caught a glimpse of the bright red fire coral that burns the skin if touched. Worse, touching coral is a moral no-no: it's a beautiful thing that you literally kill by touching it. The painful burn of fire coral only serves you right.
I bent down my flippers to protect my toes and legs, sucked in my gut, and blasted through it out of control. The mad Scot scraped, and tried to stand up. The waves tumbled him over and over as he yelped. "I nae can get ma feet, Moon!" We laughed so hard we damn near drowned. Then we were in the calm "kiddy pool" in front of Casa Maya and the girls were waving at us from the beach.
We splashed around laughing and pointing, hyped on having done something nuts and gotten away with it. We hooted and rehashed and pointed out blood and lacerations on our chests and legs.
Nicoise opened her eyes and took it in, smiling a Gallic smile and shaking her head as we walked up holding our masks and fins, "Stupid boys". The boys heartily agreed with this, and so did the girls--namely Isa and Katie in neighboring hammocks.
Where all three were lying, it suddenly ocurred to me, naked except for tiny thongs under the harsh tropic radiation. Three beautiful European women (well, if you want to call Ireland part of Europe) with their tits exposed to the lash of the sun and the gaze of Mexican waiters. Courting cancer and early aging so they would look more exotic and beautiful than they already did. Stupid girls.
And I looked down at the lush, gold bodies and liked what I saw. Let them be stupid: I like the results . Then it hit me that they enjoyed what out stupidities did for us; as attracted as we were to the fruits of the other sex's stupidities.
I walked over to Nicoise and shook myself dry like a dog, imagining that the drops of water sizzled off her warm, golden, shape. They rang the bell at Buhos and I bought us two beers for the price of one and we curled in the hammock to watch the sunset.
Do you know what comes after happy hour? Stupid hour.
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