Chapter 2: Key Largo, FL

In defense of sharks...

Anybody that knows me knows my mantra, “The greatest risk is not taking one,” and as T.S. Eliot once said, “Only those who will risk going too far will find out how far they can go.”  Some people are perfectly complacent standing still.  Not me.  I have fallen 10,000 feet out of a pressurized metal tube, I have swam with flamingos in burnt red water, I have been 13,000 miles from home, I have hung from a parachute towed by a Kia-sized boat, and I have climbed stone staircases over a millennium old.

I can spew countless reasons not to partake in any of that (who wants to rely on manually deployed nylon to slow one’s terminal velocity by over 75% in order to stay alive, share a swimming hole with brine shrimp, be strapped to a harness 600 feet above the Atlantic, or slip and tumble down 117 feet of Mayan stairs?).  Not only do the reasons against those activities outnumber those for, the ONLY reason I can think of for them is simply because… they’re awesomely exhilarating.

As a society, Americans overrate risk.  Not to diminish the threat of dying in a car accident (14,813 in the U.S. in 2000), but one’s risk of death by… falling… is almost as great (13,322 in the U.S. in 2000).  Yet, the vast majority of people, if asked, will cite sharks as greater fears than cars or ladders.  This irrational fear has been engrained in the recent American mind, mostly due to Hollywood or TV.  The plethora of documentaries about nature’s powerful and mysterious machines, including Discovery’s annual shark week marathon, keep Americans glued to their couches and fuels their fears.  I will not discount the footage they display.  And as disturbing as it can be, it is also quite amazing.  But the awareness and truth about sharks is a mixed bag of love and hate.

In  2010, there were 79 confirmed shark attacks on humans worldwide.  6 died.  The average falls to 4.3 if you consider the numbers from the previous nine years.    During the entire first decade of the 21st century, 34 scuba divers were attacked and 7 died.  Humans do not satisfy the shark palate, and in the rare times they bite, they tend to move on to something less healthy.  And if I were to gamble, I bet the vast majority of them were asking for it.

 

Reef Shark and Bermuda Chub at Molasses Reef, Key Largo, FL

On my first two dives in Key Largo, 37 and 34 minutes respectively, I had two encounters with some timid and skittish underwater locals.  At approximately five feet in length, the first was a typical inhabitant of shallow, tropical, nearshore waters – the reef shark.  Research reveals its typical diet of small fish, such as mullets, groupers, and jacks, which were all plentiful.  Under most circumstances, he is easily frightened by submerged swimmers.  We were included in that category.  The second native was the lethargic bottom-dwelling nurse shark.  Approximately 30-32 feet down, camouflaged in the black spotted sand, he measured about 7 feet in length.  Slow-moving and largely nocturnal, the strong jaws of these creatures are only of concern to shellfish, coral, and things with gills.

Nurse Shark at Molasses Reef, Key Largo, FL

These citizens of Molasses Reef were well-mannered and, at least from our distance, carried pleasant dispositions.  It was a bar that will be hard to measure up to on my next few dives, but an experience of a lifetime.  Swimming in a sea of chummed blood may be pushing the excitement a bit too far, but it is certainly possible to share a reef with sharks and surface with all limbs intact.

Go see the world underwater.  Go swim with sharks.  And save the spearfishing for freshwater.

Slideshow:

Chapter 1: British Columbia

By the numbers:  4 days.  $101 on food.  $103 on refreshments.  $102 on transportation.  $121 on lodging.  $38 for admission tickets. 15 glasses of beer.  

Although we were international (one only needs to reminisce on the drill sergeant disguised as a customs agent at the airport as a reminder of this fact), there were no shortage of clues to just how close to the United States we remained.  Teenagers were still disrespectful to adults.  Fresh bud could be smelled on any walk greater than three minutes.  People knew we were not from the area – perhaps our sporadic fixation to city maps and Canon T3i’s strapped to our shoulders gave that away.  And, of course, Starbucks and McDonalds overpopulated the cities.  Though unfortunately for them, the allure of their occasional Victorian-influenced architecture still failed to make the overpriced Venti roasts and cardboard hamburgers any more appealing to my palate.  Despite this, once we forgot that we were thirty miles from the border and remembered that we were 1,500 miles from home, we were really able to immerse ourselves in the culture of southwest British Columbia.

Photo taken by:  Jeff Curry

The initial twelve hour commute from Phoenix to Victoria consisted of an airplane, a stretch bus, a cruise-like ferry (complete with coffee shops, a lounge with a $12 cover, a seafood buffet, six decks, and a children’s playplace), a double-decker bus, and seven blocks of walking.  Or wandering.  The nearly four hour commute from Victoria to Vancouver included the same two buses and ferry, but add the SkyTrain (light rail/subway/elevated train) to the mix, despite only 58 miles separating the two cities.  And interwoven throughout were the two-footed and two-wheeled adventures that spanned over 16 miles in Victoria, highlighting Beacon Hill Park, the low tides of the Strait of Juan de Fuca, Oak Bay, the quaint Uplands neighborhoods, and the historic Craigdarroch Castle.  Similarly, our $12 bike rental in Vancouver allowed the four hour discovery of a forest within a city that is Stanley Park.  Even without renting bicycles, I could have been content with the SeaWalk, the several mile foot path that begins near the Waterfront SkyTrain station and coincides with the Vancouver harbor.  Where else will you have to talk over departing floatplanes, see an island dedicated to a Chevron station, and walk around Canadian Geese who have little concern that their tanning beds are human pathways?  However, as this trail slowly transforms from shoulder bumping through the steel boundaries of hotels and condo high rises into backlit walls of green and brown, only the echo of the crunching leaves from our bicycle wheels, occasional passing pedestrian, and screams of journeying wind exist.  And it was then when I reaffirmed that the essence of travelling is not always contained within the destination itself, but the means to it and the continuous journey and exploration after arrival.

Photo taken by:  Jeff Curry

I must mention that the waterfront bar scene in Vancouver was one SkyTrain station from our hostel.  After disembarking the train on our last night, we had a choice in which direction to go:  East or West.  We inadvertently went South.  Three quarters of a mile right back to our initial station.  Despite this, I still say, “screw the maps.”  It was a pleasant walk.

Remember how I said in my first post that travelling is not just about what you can see, but what you can hear, smell, taste, and feel?  Here is what I mean.

In twenty-three years, nowhere in Arizona have I found any of the following:  The sweet bitterness of Bailey’s, Grand Marnier, Frangelico, and whipped cream infused coffee.  The rejuvenating fragrance of crisp, unpolluted ocean air, hinting of salt, seaweed and displaced shellfish.  The tantalizing flavor of chili-lime seafood linguini and crab bisque.  The buzz of Granville Island brews.  The mystery of new (and forever gone) Scandinavian, German, and Australian friends.  The mesmerizing Victorian architecture.  The freedom of two-wheeling up the coast.  The secrecy of white sand beaches.  The chilling bite of bay breezes.  The serenity of early morning fog, blanketing a harmonious forest of Douglas Firs, Red Cedars, and Western Hemlocks.  The freedom of irresponsibility and spontaneity.  The lonely squawk of a hungry seagull.  The nostalgic fragrance of 19th century wooden castle staircases.  The honesty of marijuana deprived beggars.  The intriguing twist of Elton John with an Irish accent.  The invitation of ferry horns and nighttime bagpipes.  The refreshment of rain-soaked garments.  The disconcerting sway of a pedestrian suspension bridge. 

Photo taken by:  Jeff Curry 

To conclude:  Go to Canada.  But don’t just see it.  Live it (not to be confused with livid).  With every sense you can.  Disregard the map and use the credit card.  Every time I handed it over, it came with slight hesitance.  I have a sly feeling, though, that not once looking back will I ever regret it.

Preface

The world is my book.  It's time to start reading.

The reason people travel and what individuals hope to gain from it are topics for discussion that can be dissected almost as endlessly as the meaning of life.  Such a discussion invites perspectives and opinions to which no limits exist.  But when most people travel, it is rare that they are fulfilling their purposes as extensively as they can.  If it is about the ‘experience,’ what IS the experience?  People often travel to see new places.  But that’s it.  When was the last time somebody said they travel to hear new sounds, to smell new aromas, to taste new ingredients, or even to just feel differently?    As unintentional as it often is, traveling can be motivating.  It can inspire.  It can challenge.  It can release inhibition.  And for me, if I were to reject the food, ignore the customs, fear the unknown, and avoid the people, then I might as well stay home.

The world is a book, and confining myself to one locale is like reading only one page (or something like that).  But just as in any story, a traveler must pay attention to far more than the words themselves.  We must focus on all the details of what we read in order to understand the story, to synthesize it, and to assign meaning to it.  

Consider this the beginning of my own story:  one which is based on the world around me, but my own interpretation and reiteration of it.  In my upcoming adventures, I will share my thoughts on travel and on life.   And with my camera as my brush, I will paint portraits and landscapes as well. 

In the past two decades, I have spent time in Mexico, Canada, the Cook Islands, New Zealand, Bali, Singapore, Malaysia, Thailand, and Ecuador.  I will tell you this:  From all my adventure, I have seen far more than I can ever remember.  But I remember far more than I have ever seen.  That, to me, is far more fantastic than any dream and far more priceless than any commodity.  That… is traveling.

Above:  New Zealand, 2002