by Lehua Parker | Apr 22, 2014 | Travel
The Iliad Library. Photo taken from my writing vantage point with a wide (repeat, very wide) angle lens.
Whenever I travel, I always look for the quiet nook, the place away from the karaoke bar scene and the disco fever, where I can sit and write. Last night while exploring the ship I found a little room called the Iliad Library. There are four tables, a few chairs and a couple bookcases—locked bookcases—where left-behind airport gift shop favorites are kept rigorously unread behind blurry glass.
Perfect, I thought.
But tonight when I sneak in with my laptop, Diet Coke, and ice pack for my throbbing heel (surgery three months ago and still healing), I interrupt a West Indian couple and a Sales Dude working them hard. I sit at the table the farthest away and start tippy-typing away.
Seriously, for 10 minutes nobody on their side of the room says a word. They’re just waiting for me to figure out the all night buffet is three levels up or that the conga-line is grooving on the Lido deck. Finally, Sales Dude remembers time is money and starts yammering about a vacation photo-package. He starts at $999.99 and over the next five minutes sweetens the deal with a memory book, a CD, and an extra free 8×10.
He can’t see me, but the couple can. As he offers his best and final price, I keep shaking my head no. The lady nudges her husband. Slowly the price keeps dropping. Sales Dude throws in a genuine diamonette necklace, discount shopping coupons, and a souvenir tote bag. When his price hits $300 and he throws in free daiquiris at the bar, I hear desperation in his voice.
That’s when I catch Wife’s eye and shrug. It’s on par with a photo shoot and print package at some place like a Target or Sears Photo Studio back home. Considering Sales Dude is showing printed photos, many of his costs are already sunk and he’s behind the eight ball.
Husband sees me, but sets his jaw firm. $280, he offers. Sales Dude says there’s no way he can do that. Husband crosses his arms. $280. Wife looks crushed. She really wants those photos. I start to feel a little guilty, but then Sales Dude sighs and says okay, but you can’t tell anyone the deal I’m making special just for you.
At that point I start to wonder if we’re still too high since Sales Dude’s a little too happy, but it’s done. They can pick up their vacation photos in an hour.
As they leave, Wife waves at me through the glass and gives me a thumbs up. At least they’re happy. Sales Dude packs his stuff more slowly, never giving me more than a dismissive glance. Twinkie. Now I’m happy I saved the couple at least $500 bucks from when they were first going to say yes.
As Sales Dude leaves, a couple of teenagers bounce in giggling, looking for a place to smooch. They sit in the small conversation pit behind me, but it’s clear my tippy-tapping is worse than any chaperone and after a minute of muffled groping, decide to split.
I feel like I’m doing all kinds of good tonight. Time for another Diet Coke.
by Lehua Parker | Apr 22, 2014 | Travel
The rodeo princess on vacation in St. Lucia
Of all the things I thought I would do on my Caribbean vacation, riding a horse would’ve been last on the list. We have horses at home; mine is a Tennessee Walker named Marley. She’s sturdy, well-trained, and bomb-proof, but I rarely ride her. I’m with Sherlock Holmes on this one: horses are crafty at both ends and dangerous in the middle.
But my husband and daughter have a dream of riding horses along the beach. I’m up for anything that gets me near the ocean, and our son comes along for the ride. We’re off-book, way off-book; instead of arranging this adventure with an official tour guide, we wandered near the port asking taxi drivers if they knew where we could ride. Twenty minutes later we’re standing outside the walled gates at the edge of the Sandals St. Lucia Resort under ironwood trees waiting for someone named Bano to catch the horses and bring them to us. “Don’t worry,” says the taxi driver as he zooms off, “I’ll be back in three hours.”
After a lovely conversation with a toothless man who tells me he sells the hematite necklaces he makes to the Sandals honeymooners—see how pretty she shines in the sunlight, you like, I make special price for you—Bano shows up. The horses are lean, bony even, and look like they could use a bushel of grain or two. When Bano asks if we’ve ever ridden, my husband says our daughter is a barrel racing champ and rodeo princess. Bano doesn’t believe until my husband pulls out his phone and shows him pictures. “Okay,” Bano says, “she can ride Formula One. He used to be a race horse.”
Formula One is a fine-boned white Arabian stallion. Alarm bells go off in my head.
“And you, Mami,” says Bano, “you ride, too?”
“I need one with training wheels,” I say. “You got one named Butterball or Marshmallow?”
He puts me on Apache, the biggest, but only about fourteen hands tall and 500 lbs lighter than Marley. Damn, I hear the horse think. Why do I always get the chunky ones?
Good, I think. Weighted down my horse is less likely to buck or run. It’s just too much effort.
I look over and see my daughter and husband weaving their horses through figure eight patterns around coconut husks in the sand.
Show-offs, I think.
“No, Sweetie,” Bano calls to my daughter, “with these horses slack reins means go fast. You have to keep them in tight check.”
“What?” she calls, clearly confused. We’ve spent a lot of time and money keeping our horses’ mouths soft and they don’t like short reins.
“Choke up,” I snap. “And if you even think of galloping, I’ll throttle you. Nice and slow, you hear me?”
“Yes, Mom,” she says with an eye roll.
This is why I don’t ride at home. I’m too slow, too careful, too boring. Riding with me means the kiddie pool when they want to surf Waimea.
We start the ride along the beach, then through red dirt fields, then down village streets. Kids coming running out of school to watch us ride past.
“Wave like you’re in a parade,” I tell my daughter. “I know you’ve had lots of practice.”
More eye rolling, but she does smile and wave at the kids.
After a short break, the horses are unsaddled, we mount again, and ride into the sea. I’m chicken and only go out as far as where the water rises over my horse’s back. Frankly, I’m afraid I’ll float off and won’t be able to get back on. Fearless on a horse in ways she’s never in the ocean alone, my daughter rides out until her horse swims. My husband chases her, and they play—each trying to knock the other off.
Soon, too soon, we wipe down the horses and saddle up. On the ride back to the ironwood trees where the taxi dropped us off, the wind blows my hat off my head. I call to my husband—in all things horses it’s his job to take care of me. As he lopes back to retrieve it, a girl about my daughter’s age calls that she will get it for me, but my husband beats her to it. I thank her and smile. Wide-eyed she asks how much it costs to ride a horse.
A thousand things flit through my mind, things that will make her laugh and shake her head. I settle on the simple truth. “$65,” I tell her.
“USD?!” she gasps, like it’s a trip to the moon. “$65 USD,” she calls to her mother.
I think about $65, not enough to fill my gas tank or buy a week’s groceries or even pay for an evening at the movies with popcorn for four.
“Yes,” I nod, jamming my hat back on my head. “To ride a horse in St. Lucia’s ocean. Once in a lifetime.”
by Lehua Parker | Aug 20, 2012 | Island Style, Travel
As I write this, I am sitting on a lanai in Kaanapali, Maui, sipping a watery Coke and trying to hide behind a plumeria tree, some torch ginger, and a couple of ti plants so I can see my computer screen. Tonight is the last night I will be in Hawaii; tomorrow it’s airplanes, luggage, and a rush to get the kids ready for the new school year.
I’ve had a lot of time to think on this trip. It’s been five years since I was last on Oahu and Maui. Every time I come home–and it is home, even after so many years–I see the islands with new eyes, and I remember lessons I learned as a child and better understand how they apply in my life.
A big one this week is about how we are all brave in our own way. My daughter loves horses and the faster the better. I think I like horses, but every time I get close to something a flashy like a Ferrari or even a reliable Honda I quickly jump back to my old faithful tricycle with training wheels. After a few bad falls, I figure a couple of sedate family rides a year in the mountains is good enough for me. I’m not going to run barrels or do reining horse patterns. Just getting on and staying on is enough of an e-ticket ride for me.
But the ocean’s a different story. I could spend all day every day in or on the water, SCUBA diving, boogie boarding, on a boat, on a reef, or just floating in the shallows. I know the ocean, at least the waters around Maui and Oahu, and know when there’s a problem and when there’s not.
Not so much my daughter. She swims well, but the ocean’s not a pool or a lake. There are critters in it and all of them want to take a bite out of her, she’s certain. The first day we were off Waimanalo, one of the best beaches to take kids who want to learn to boogie board or learn to be comfortable in the ocean. The water is usually very clear, it’s got a soft, sandy bottom, the waves are rolling and gentle, and it’s shallow for a long, long time. The only thing you have to watch out for are the occasional, very occasional Portuguese-Man-O-War jellyfish. I’ve been wrapped in their tentacles too many times to count. It does sting and it can leave a line of welts, but a little wet sand, some meat tenderizer, and you get back in the water. No big deal.
My daughter, of course, is looking for sharks.
“Cheryl, knock it off. There are no sharks here.”
“How do you know?”
“I know. You’re in more danger from a jellyfish than a shark any day of the week.”
“WHAT?!!”
“Relax. Breathe. You’re fine.”
“What do jellyfish look like?”
“They look like a bubble, floating.” I looked around and spotted what I knew was really just a bubble. “See that over there?” I splashed at it and it popped. By the time I turned back around she was halfway up the beach, screaming bloody murder. “Wait! That wasn’t a jellyfish! It popped when I splashed it. That’s how you know!”
“EEeeeeeeeeeee!”
“Cheryl! You’re more likely to get stung running up the beach through the foam than hanging out here past the shore break with me!”
“EEeeeeeeeeeee!”
“I got it,” said my husband. He went ashore with her and they walked up and down the beach until they found a jellyfish, long blue streamers broken off, just a sad little bubble sitting above the tide line. A few minutes later, she was swimming next to me, all smiles, but still keeping an eye out for sharks.
“Good news, Mom! We don’t have to worry about jellyfish anymore!”
“We don’t?”
“No! Dad says they’re territorial and that one way over there had all this beach as his territory!”
“Huh.” I cut my eyes at her father and he shrugged. It was starting to sound a lot like some of the things he’s told me about horses, cougars, and mountain trails.
It’s not the thing that makes us afraid, it’s our reaction to it. Watching my kids tackle all things ocean and foreign this past week, I’ve been amazed at the courage they’ve shown and understand a little more about how much of my adult life has been spent facing what’s foreign to me. No matter how long we’ve lived elsewhere, we’re formed by our childhood experiences which shape the way we view the world. When everyone around you takes horses or jellyfish as a matter of course, you forget that feeling uncomfortable around them is natural and not something weird or subpar about you or your character.
Cheryl summed it up best at the Maui Ocean Center when we were looking at some of my favorite sea creatures, moon jellies. She said, “If seahorses were big enough to ride, you’d ride them all day long, wouldn’t you, Mom?”
I would.
