First I must tell you that I love my husband. I love him, but I've yet to forgive him for the incidents that happened in June of 1998, in Roatan, Honduras.
I let Nolan decide where we went on our honeymoon, as I really didn't care. He didn't get a whole lot of say in the wedding, and still brings up the fact that he didn't get to have invitations with little cartoon frogs jumping on them (seriously!). He wanted to SCUBA dive, so I got certified, and off we went. To Roatan, Honduras.
All I knew about Honduras at this time was that the country's name was synonymous with the word "rebels". Honduran rebels. I guess I heard it on the news. I was a little concerned that my new husband was taking me into a war zone, but I had faith. He booked with a company that he'd met through a dive show in Dallas, and we arrived, after a 14 hour travel day, on 2 commercial airplanes, 1 propellor plane that the pilot had to start by HAND, and an 45 minute un-airconditioned jeep ride through the brush, in Roatan, Honduras. At... wait for it... The Inn of Last Resort. I am not kidding.
Would that be the name of a place you'd take your new bride?
Anyhow, it was okay. It was not heart-shaped champage flutes and fluffy bubble baths and all of the other things that I dreamed a honeymoon would be. It was work. Scuba, although the 'lazy man's sport,' is still a lot of work. It is tiring. The last day we were there, we went out with the guide and the owner's son, an 11 year-old. We were drift diving, really just letting the current take us along, and I got bumped by something. Something BIG. Something Grey. My first thought was, OMFG it's a shark, a great white shark is going to eat me whole and I'm going to die here at the Inn of Last Resort, 60 feet underwater, in bloody Honduras.
Lucky for me, a few seconds later I realized that Great Whites aren't native to Central American waters. (Thank you, Mr. Killian, World Geography, Nimitz High School.) Anyway, I looked up, and saw TWO dolphins swimming away, up toward the surface. I breathed easier, and decided that drifting was no longer fast enough, and that I needed to swim as fast as my little short legs would go, to the instructor/guide, who was with the kid. On my way there, I got bumped again. Think of it as a nudge from a 350 lb. mammal. Disconcerting, to say the least. So I redouble my efforts to swim to the guide, screaming through my respirator, getting bumped by the dolphin 5 or 6 more times on the way. I look at the dolphin and at this point realize that I'm not getting bumped.
I'm getting humped.
By a dolphin.
At this point, the long-haired, hippie, pot-smoking instructor finally noticed that I was being violated by something that was, in fact, NOT my brand new husband, and advised me through sign language, not to touch the dolphin.
Oh, really? Don't touch him? Cause I was going to ask him back to my room so we could put on some Barry White and get comfortable, asshole.
At this point I hear a noise. I look around wildly, only to discover that it is my sweet husband of one week... laughing. I heard him laughing UNDERWATER. He was laughing that loudly. The guide was smirking at this point, too, and the dolphin was, of course, smug. The kid was the only non-asshole male in the area.
This picture documents it. I'm at the top of the picture, getting my LEG BITTEN BY A DOLPHIN, screaming and swimming, trying to grab the fin of the instructor. If you look closely, you can see that the dolphin is very.... erm, excited. Mr. Wiggly was out. My husband? Taking the picture.
After dolphin-boy got what he wanted from me and swam away, my husband takes the underwater slate and writes,
"Someone needs to tell him that I'm the groom."
He's so freaking funny. He's lucky that we're still married. When he really want to piss me off, he makes 'eee eee eee' noises.
So that's why I'm not a fan. Surely you can understand?