…is apparently also a lie on Utila. I arrived on Roatan’s sister island via Captain Verne’s catamaran ($100 round trip Half Moon Bay, Roatan to Utila Town, Utila) on Tuesday. The plan? Hang out for a two nights, do a little skin diving, and return to the “real world” of Roatan on Thursday. Yeah, so about that plan… It’s Friday afternoon and I’m once again telling the lie, “Seriously guys, I’m leaving tomorrow.” This time, though, I mean it. Honestly. When I get back to Roatan’s blazing fast internet (think year-2000 speeds, as opposed to Utila’s 1994 speeds), expect deliciously debaucherous updates about my time here. I didn’t think an island could be more ridiculously bizarre than Roatan, but this » read more «

A few months ago Les Fruits de Mer co-founders Madam J and Mark AuMarc were awesome enough to host a private screening of Jacques-Yves Cousteau’s documentary The Silent World. The 1956 film follows the adventures of Cousteau’s oceanographic team aboard his research vessel Calypso as they explore the underwater world of the Mediterranean Sea, the Persian Gulf, the Red Sea, and the Indian Ocean. As one of the first feature-length films to use full-color underwater cinematography, The Silent World wowed audiences with its vibrant depiction of aquatic life, winning an Academy Award for Best Documentary Feature and the Palme d’Or award at the 1956 Cannes Film Festival. The jaw-dropping opening shot follows Cousteau’s team as they plummet headfirst down a » read more «

My hand twists the tank valve shut. She is visibly nervous. I watch her SPG drop 50 bar with each bubbly breath. The needle pegs at zero. Red zone. Out of air. Slash throat. She grabs her buddy’s alternate air source and tugs. It doesn’t budge. She jerks down again. Nothing. It’s snagged on her buddy’s strap. Her eyes widen with panic. My left hand twists her valve open. I can feel the air pulsing down the tubes to her convulsing lungs. “Okay?” I signal. She breaths deeply, rapidly. I lock my arms on hers and look in her wide eyes. “Breathe… breathe…” The bubbles slow. She’s shaking, but I’m not letting her go anywhere. Not until she’s ready. “Okay,” » read more «

“Look, here comes that crazy lady.” He points over my shoulder. I turn, following his black finger towards the white dress sauntering down the dock below. Crackhead Craig is right. It is the crazy lady. Craig leans closer and props his sunglasses haphazardly on his head. “That bitch crazy, man,” he mumbles, looking at me with glazed eyes. For a brief second I catch a glimpse of the teenage boy who helped his dad raise the pigs as I watched from my neighboring hammock. Then the image withers into the emaciated figure extending his open palm towards me. “Gimme a cigarette.” “I don’t smoke, dude. I tell you that every time you ask.” “Oh,” he sniffs, head weaving. The crazy » read more «