honduras

i arrived on the scuba-diving pirate island of utila, honduras, on a friday night with a taller-than-me, drum-playing, dreaded and tattoed swede, after an hour and a half nearly-capsizing-the-whole-time boat ride through 15 foot seas, to discover motorcycles, four-wheelers, bicycles and golf carts speeding back and forth along the one pedestrian street, weaving their way between tourists and pirate-speaking locals who wandered to and fro below the sounds of reggae blasted from homemade balcony speakers. then i spent two days patrolling the streets in a haze of indecisive stress, trying to decide between twelve seemingly equal yet highly competitive dive shops, only to choose one which a day later i deemed too much of a coolness-oriented twenty year old hangout and switched to another one to take my diving course. now i am instructed, one on one, by a chain-smoking, speedo-clad german named ralf, who is quite nice and a great teacher. we have gone diving twice, and i have somehow survived with fifty feet of water over my head for halves of hours, drifting along the sides of coral walls with my ears gradually approaching one another due to pressure, without succumbing to the suicidal urge to laugh at the incredibleness and ridiculousness of being that far underwater, thereby dislodging my breathing apparatus from my mouth. i have yet to gain an exemplary degree of "control" or "comfort" with this bizarre sport, but i do have two more days and four more journeys beneath the sea in which to figure the shit out.*

*(two days later) i figured it out.