The goal of TiR is to promote tourism and support local businesses on the Caribbean island of Roatan in the Bay Islands of Honduras through online marketing. TiR aims to be Roatan’s premier information service for travel, living, and island news. The site combines a clean modern design, advanced web technologies, and the power of Google Maps to present the beauty of Roatan to the outside world as never before seen.

The Story of TiR

Steve was sick of computer programming.

After wrapping up his Master’s Degree in Computer Science, Steve sold most of his belongings, packed his bags, and moved to the small Caribbean island of Roatan to teach scuba diving, drink rum, and live the beach bum lifestyle. He fell in love with the island’s jaw-dropping coral reef, friendly locals, sweeping white sand beaches, and laid-back attitude. His original plan to stay for three months was postponed… and postponed again… and again… until a year and a half of living the good life had passed by.

Steve returned to the so-called ‘real world’ to program professionally for a video game company in North Carolina. The job was good, the pay was fine, but something was missing. Staring at the photo of scuba divers on Roatan’s reef adorning the background of his computer, he knew he had to go back.

Meanwhile, a few websites Steve had made for Roatan businesses were starting to generate real results. A crazy little idea crept into his head: he could make a genuine impact on local businesses by driving tourism to the island through online marketing. Once again, he sold his stuff, packed his bags, and returned to the island he loved.

Real Time Development On Island Time

Upon returning, Steve began researching how he could make the biggest impact on the local market. Being relatively undeveloped, the island presented some unique challenges. As roads did not have names, local businesses did not have mailing addresses. There was hardly any news media on the island. Internet access was limited and quite slow by first-world standards.

Steve wanted a website that would do more than just act as a business directory. He saw a website that would show visitors exactly where everything was located on Roatan. He believed that media transparency was essential to promoting good business practices in the developing world. He envisioned a site architecture that would offset the slow internet speeds by incrementally streaming data in such a way that the website would never have to be reloaded. He dreamed of a website that would be sleek, modern, and beautiful—a place where local businesses would be proud to appear.

Steve was as naïve as he was ambitious. He thought the website would take six months to build. Unreliable electricity, crashed computers, political turmoil and personal hardships perpetually delayed the project. Progress was steady but aggravatingly slow. He poured his heart, soul, and personal finances into the project, bankrupting himself in the process.

The Dream Becomes Reality

Two years later, Steve finally published the first live version of TiR.

TiR remains the project of which Steve is the most proud. The website is proof that hard work, determination, and a fair bit of insanity can unite to create something incredible. Steve continues to refine TiR to fit the ever-changing needs of local businesses with emerging web technologies, allowing business owners to reach their online customers.

Steve hopes you enjoy the unique experience of TiR almost as much as you enjoy your stay on Roatan. If you find this website useful, please consider making a donation through PayPal; every buck goes a long way towards keeping the dream alive.

Changes are coming. I’m currently working on an updated layout and structure for the site along with a bevy of new content. The updates will be slowly rolled out over the next two months, but for now here’s a sneak peak at what is under development:

• More Scuba. Dive site reviews, professional tips to improve your diving, fish facts, industry news, and more.
• More Geek. Web design advice, code samples, Photoshop tricks, and general geek talk.
• More Interaction. Improved blog discussion, more pictures and videos, and better maps.
• More Rum. Rum reviews, drink mixing guides, and rum-based recipes.
• More Roatan. How to get there, where to stay, what to do, and how to make the most of your trip.
• More Tales. True stories past and present of my life as a scuba diving instructor.

As 2010 approaches, keep your eyes on TheScubaGeek.com to catch these new updates as they are unveiled!

Upon receiving the good news of the curfew’s end, we laughed, swam in the sea, played poker, drank rum, played trivia, jumped in the pool, and laughed again. It was as if all of West End was celebrating an early release from house arrest. Spirits were high, the beer flowed, and, for a brief instant, life as usual resumed.

But then we stumbled home, tuned in to the world news, and recalled how despondently screwed we are.

I really don’t know what to make of this situation… it completely breaks my heart, really. I spent a good hour crying as I packed some stuff. I’m not ready to leave. This is home. This is five years of my life. This is dreams pursued and dreams lost. This is Roatan, and I love my life on this island.

My plane leaves in eleven days. I don’t know if I’ll be on it. Not yet. I’ll keep you posted.

Make sure you read Micheletti’s letter to the Washington Post in the article (also available at http://lagringasblogicito.blogspot.com/2009/09/washington-post-moving-forward-in.html). It shows a leader with a level of intelligence rarely found in this part of the world, and point-to-point reiterates my arguments against Mel Zelaya. Too bad the rest of the world sees this guy as the De Facto Dictator of Honduras.

Until later, pray for me and this crazy situation. It’s certainly not your average day at the office……

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 lady slides up the stairs to the second storey of the dock. “Look at all these beautiful people,” she giggles childishly. Her eyes roll up towards the sky. She spins twice in a slow circle, her loose fitting dress rippling around her skeletal frame. “All so beautiful, all so nice…”

“You want some crack?” Craig blurts.

“No man.”

“Oh.” His neck bobs like a chicken. “Coke?”

“No.”

He sniffs again, leans in close, and whispers. “She’s crazy, man.”

She’s glaring at me from the opposite corner of the dock, her beady black eyes buried between the folds of leathery skin adorning her scowling skull. There’s no accounting for what goes on in the chemically imbalanced mind. Her face muscles tense into a snarl exposing the canines in her mouth. I avert my gaze.

Crackhead Craig shuffles away. A new group of tourists have climbed the stairs to our viewing platform, and he’s eager to bum and hustle again. I still feel the lady staring at me. When Crackhead Craig calls someone crazy, you know there’s something really wrong.

He’s right. A few days earlier she painfully serenaded my co-workers with nonsensical songs. Act Two: she stripped naked in the bay and waltzed down the dock. For the Grand Finale, she squatted on the deck at work, pulled down her panties, and urinated all over the place. She even saved some energy for an Encore: after slapping a few tourists, she was wrestled to the ground and handcuffed by two of West End’s finest. The audience raised their glasses in standing ovation as officers shoved her into the police car.

Just another day on Roatan, I think.

I glance to my right. She’s still staring. Damn that’s creepy. This kills the sunset.

I slide down the ladder and duck away before Craig can ask me for another cigarette. The warm white sand sieves through my toes. The sun bathes the bays in gold. Tan islands dogs chase one another down the beach, their scarlet tongues flapping in tow.

On Roatan the dogs have at least as much personality as the people—and in some cases, more. I can think of at least a handful of dogs I’d rather hang out with than any of the crazy crackheads on this rock.

“Hey mista Steve, gotta minute?”

Speak of the Devil.

A scrawny and severely weathered man shuffles beside me, a beaten rake slung over his shoulder. He removes his baseball cap and slicks back his matted gray hair. He softens the squinty dark eyes hiding beneath his Osama bin Laden beard, willing crocodile tears of pathos to well from their corners. It’s the same thing every time.

“Okay.”

“Hey man ja know I’m a good man and I ain’t never ask for nuttin’ but I come into hard time ja know and I need some help man cause dis morning  dis fuckin’ Spaniard says to me, he says ‘Dorado, I has four barracuda and nows I have three, you fuckin’ take my fuckin’ barracuda,’ an’ I says ‘I ain’t touch no damn barracuda, I ain’t no fuckin’ thief,’ an he’s thinkin’ just cus I down here everyday, ja know man, down here everyday cleaning da beach dat I be takin’ his barracuda, but I tells him ‘I ain’t no fuckin’ thief, I work, I ain’t need to steal, I WORK, I’m a man, so he keep goin’ ‘bout dis fuckin’ barracuda, and I says ‘You best stop callin’ me a fuckin’ thief cus I cut you wif my fuckin’ machete’, ja know.  I’m a fuckin’ MAN, dammit.”

“Okay.”

“I works hard to sweep dat beach, clean it real good you know, the best fuckin’ clean beach on island, I’m da rakemaster.  So hey, I gots to ask ya man ya gots some limps I can borrow today cus I can’t wait to weekend, ja know, I have important things to do, gotta go to town…”

“Sorry dude, I’m broke,” I truthfully reply.

“Okay man dats okay.” He put his cap back on. Eyes narrowed, he turns and walks away muttering, “damn fuckin’ gringo…”

Car horns blare. Four vehicles: it’s total gridlock on West End High Street.

Haywood is directing traffic. He staggers in the intersection, pointing in random directions with one arm as the other raises an unlabeled bottle to his polio-gnarled lips. The cheap rum spills down his shirt as he growls.

Moses stands on the corner preaching hellfire and damnation to the white man. Gray dreadlocks spill from an oversized white turban down to the small of his back. Wads of spittle fly from holes in the massive beard as he howls of death to whitey. He raises a piece of spiraled bleached driftwood above his head. His wild eyes betray the delusion within: he is Moses before Pharaoh, demanding his people be set free, lest God change his staff into a serpent.

Man, this place attracts the crazies. Just one giant mental asylum basking in the Caribbean sun.

“But I’m sane, I’m still sane, I’m sane…” I mutter to myself as I shuffle down the street.

Well, here it is: http://www.thescubageek.com/i-am-the-scuba-geek/.

The bell rings. My arms pump in rapid yet rhythmic alternation, delivering haymakers and uppercuts to the facial region of my foe. He ducks, weaves, and wallops a low kidney-shot to my torso, simultaneously crumbling my defenses and body with a single emphatic blow. I twitch on the ground in agony. Despite the fervent shaking of my arms, I remain unconscious on the floor. The time ticks away—eight, nine, ten—and it’s finished. I’ve lost.

And yet another fourth grader has kicked my butt at Wii Boxing.

Tonight was the Coconut Tree Carnival for the Kids, a fundraiser supporting the SOL International Foundation. Whether it be ring tosses, football throws, darts and balloons, coconut throws, or the aforementioned Wii Boxing, games abounded as kids of all ages turned out to win prizes of candy and inflatable baseball bats. Hot dogs off the grill and freshly-popped popcorn rounded the carnival affair.

And fun was indeed had by all ages.

Personally, I lost 100 lempiras in challenging a fourteen-year-old in a stupid parlor trip— and yes, I must admit to being outsmarted (or at least out-shenaniganned). Then I lost successive rounds in Wii Boxing to kids half my age and a third my body-weight. Hey, it’s for the kids, eh?

(I truly am a few years away from being obsolete. A three-year-old— yes, three years of age— corrected me on how to unpause the Wii Sports menu. I might as well retire now while I’m still ahead.)

At the end of the day, the Coconut Tree Carnival was a rousing success. It was such a genuine pleasure to see kids of all social background playing together in lighthearted competition. I am proud of our contribution to the local community and particularly SOL International Foundation— Dave and Brandon, you guys are doing a fantastic job with these children!

Evelyn, a professional Madonna impersonator, gives the performance of a lifetime on the Coconut Tree Divers deck. Amazingly, the voice really is her singing “Like a Prayer,” and she didn’t know that her prop would be a three-foot-long sparkling schlong until seconds prior to performance.

Watch all the way to the end— it will blow you away.

Note to self: Install web cam on Coconut Tree Divers deck.

Last week I was bit by a spider. I don’t know what type of spider. If I knew what type of spider bit me, I wouldn’t have let it crawl on my neck in the first place. I just woke up with two lovely incision marks near my left jugular.

In lieu of developing spidey-sense, I got a fever. I can’t sling webs from my wrist nor swoop in unexpectedly on bad guys. I can, however, ooze puss, spread Staph, and sit around looking decidedly unheroic. I can’t even climb into my superhero suit (the wet variety) for the next three days. Aside from a woman named Mary Jane, Peter Parker and I don’t have much in common.

Welcome to the jungle

So I’ve been away from the blogsphere for the last three weeks. A quick update of my life on Roatan is in order. Highlights during this time period include:

• Having my computer battery fry, my 3G adapter go haywire, and my Dell catch a healthy set of viruses— hence my break from the online world. What can I say? Technology hates me. Thankfully all of these issues have since been fixed. Oh, and thanks to Dell’s quality tech support, I’m now a Mac user.
• Going out with DSAT Tec Deep Instructor Monty Graham on a Discover Tec Diving experience. It was my first time donning doubles, routing the long hose, and strapping a stage bottle under each arm. Surprisingly, I found achieving neutral buoyancy in this bukly rig to be far easier than I expected. Getting familiar with the standard rig configuration will take some more practice, but this introduction to tec diving served its purpose— I want more.
• Finishing my PADI IDC Staff Instructor course with PADI Course Director Will Welbourn. I’ve been planning on doing my IDC Staff since November 2006, but unfortunately in the past my plans have been delayed. It was a long time coming, but I’m glad to finally be one step closer to my PADI Master Instructor rating.
• Doing some amazing diving with underwater photographer Vivian Weber-Pagel and using her incredible macro photographer to design a new set of print media for Coconut Tree Divers. I’ve been diving the Roatan reef for over four years, and I still have no idea how she manages to photograph these minuscule critters. It truly is The Little Things That Count.
• Getting to dive with my parents again

Time for more antibiotics… f’in spiders…

Look closely…

Tank. BCD. Regulator. Slates. The abandoned weight belt lies some twenty feet below.

The depth? 370 feet (112m).

The reason? A dead diver.

Mind you, I was never stupid enough to see this site myself whilst scuba diving. Even with a Trimix tec rig and a proper dive plan, this depth is more than a bit insane. No, this eerie shot was taken from the safety of Karl Stanley’s deep diving submersible Idabel.

Diving is a very safe sport when done properly— though complete safety is never guaranteed, proper practices have consistently shown to successfully mitigate risk. Done improperly, however, one can quickly and tragically discover how unforgiving an environment the underwater world can be. It’s this healthy fear and respect that keeps us, our students, and our customers alive as professional divers. No matter how alluring the deep may be, there is nothing down there worth dying for.

In conclusion, any time I consider doing something a bit rash with regard to depths, the sobering image of this diver’s gear dangling over the icy abyss in eternal darkness, his corpse long since disintegrated, sears across my neuronal pathways— as I hope it does yours.

Remember: Safety First!

As a PADI Instructor, there’s a lot of dive courses I love teaching. There’s nothing like seeing a student take their first breaths underwater during the Open Water Course, or watching divers make the crucial improvements in self-awareness in the PADI Rescue Course.

However, one course always seems to get glossed over in the PADI system: the Emergency First Response course. It’s sad, too, because in my honest opinion this is the single most important course anyone can take.

The day-to-day applications of Emergency First Response course extend far beyond scuba diving. In just the last year, I have:

• Dealt with the shocking discovery of a freshly-murdered taxi driver’s corpse, during which I was faced with barrier use, lifeline assessment, and the bizarre challenge of convincing over forty PADI professionals to respond without causing chaos.
• Managed a screaming tourist with a shattered leg following a motorcycle accident, during which I had to split the victim’s leg whilst coaxing him out of shock.
• Freed a terrified child trapped under a collapsed motorbike, during which I had to pull the bike off the child, treat her leg for sprains, and assist a distressed mother in getting the girl to the hospital.
• Plucked an unconscious friend from a swimming pool and rolled him into the recovery position, thankfully after which he regained his breathing and recovered.
• Treat a suspected decompression illness victim using emergency oxygen.

The EFR course is so short, so simple, and so invaluable that I personally believe that everyone, diver or not, should sign up. Emergencies are never convenient. Thankfully, they are rare. However, in the unlikely but unfortunate event that they do occur, being trained to quick and adequately respond is, without a doubt, indispensable. After all, the difference between knowing and not is, quite literally, life or death.

My advice: regardless of where you are relative to scuba diving, please, please, take a course in Emergency First Response— trust me, someone else’s life depends on it.