I did it through hard work, tons of time, and a heavy case of boredom. Now that I’m retired from work as you know it, I figured I would stop ranting about how ripped I used to be, and just have a go at getting back that same tasty rack of beauty that I used to have 9 years ago.

As all of you know, I just got back from traveling for 505 day in a row. On the road, I didn’t have much chance to maintain a proper diet, consistent exercise regiment, or a gym to sculpt my guns.

Now that I’m back home, with oodles of time, I just don’t have an excuse. But before we get into my secrets, let us explore with a bit more detail how I got to my original 8 pack of greatness.

It all started in the summer going into senior year of High School. I had tons of friends, a cell phone, and even a 1991 Volvo as my first car. Times were great; I played volleyball at the beach with my buddies almost every day. I had a great tan, marginal aptitude of the sport of volleyball, and gorgeous flowing hair, naturally kissed by the sun that I worshiped on a daily basis. I ate at El Pollo Loco every day for lunch, eating a 2,000 calorie Chicken Cesar Burrito, 500 calorie large Coke, and 3-4 300 calorie Churros (the best meal ever). All in all, I consumed about 50% more calories in that single meal than a person of my age should consume in an entire day. God I was happy.

And then I saw a picture of one of my best buddies of the time Dave and Me. It appeared that I had something resembling a spare tire around my waist, only it was the same exact color as my skin. “What’s that?” I thought. “Wait a minute, am I fat?” Until that moment, I was completely unconscious of my body shape. I couldn’t help but notice that my torso looked like it was flipped upside down compared to my lifeguard buddy standing next to me in the picture. My chest was inverted and my arms were chicken thin. But I was tan, sporting an indelible smile, and rocking hair that would soon inspire Justin Beiber to change his look and make his first million.

I was the only one of my friends at the time to have a movie star white smile due to a gray tooth that I sustained after I was hit in the face with a baseball bat as a child (it’s not as bad as it sounds) and the nerve of one of my front teeth died. I couldn’t walk around with a gray tooth, so I bleached it (this was easily 5 years before the proliferation of low cost, over the counter, whitening strips). Once I got rid of the gray, I realized that I had one white tooth while the rest remained yellow. That wasn’t going to fly either, so I popped in some bleach into my custom molding and took care of the rest of the bunch.

Enough of being satisfied with my image; let’s get back to feeling fat. As the August Sun sang its song to end summer, I would eventually say goodbye to my best of friends who would make their way to the colleges that they were accepted to. You see, I was a year and grade younger than the crowd I hung out with, so when I entered my senior year, I had virtually no good friends. I was left with a zero period class schedule (when you go to your first class early every day, so that you can get out by lunch), the absence of class pressure (since I knew I was going to a community college the following year to save money and sort out what I wanted to be in life), and no real friend base to speak of. What would I do with my time? More immediately, what would I do with my lunch? I didn’t really have anyone to go to lunch with, and at that age, I sure as hell wasn’t eating alone.

I got in contact with someone who would be my mentor (who remains unnamed out of respect for his current situation). He was a swimmer who was very popular around school. To tell you the truth, I can’t remember how exactly we started hanging out, but it had to do with him inviting me to the gym. He needed someone to spot him during his bench press and in exchange, he showed me how to lift weights.

Patiently and diligently, he showed me nearly every exercise I use today. We both had a zero period class schedule, so we both worked out every day at lunch. I remember spending two and a half hours every day, doing everything you could imagine in a gym and never getting bored or fatigued. I was so enthralled in something that could show personal achievement nearly every time. I got a little stronger, bit by bit, week by week. The only competition was with myself, my favorite and only accepted form of competition. Being an introvert (by definition of being motivated my internal sources) I always took team sports as an absolute chore. I saw right through the coach’s feeble leadership skills and I saw how pathetic it was when he yelled at a bunch of children for doing something still better than his fat ass could ever dream of. I saw the irony, and as soon as I had a say in the matter, I vowed to never set foot on a team sporting field again, unless it was to hurl a hotdog at some dumb monkey who couldn’t catch balls anywhere outside of on his precious little chin. (Yes, I am telling you that all baseball players are homosexual, especially Manny Ramirez. Not that there’s anything wrong with that).

Sure working out took a solid 2.5 hours of my afternoon up, but what was I supposed to do after that? Well, I began cooking for myself after I got back. Then, since I was so bored at night, I’d drive back over to the gym at and run on the treadmill for 30-45 minutes.

It’s not like I didn’t have any friends at all, it’s just that I didn’t have any friends that I wanted to spend my whole day with. Sure I chatted with kids while I was walking through the halls during the breaks in my classes, but I wasn’t up to too much at night most of the time. But since I was working out with one of the popular kids, everyone knew I was working out. I jokingly made an AIM screen name AlexGotHuge before my body ever really started to change shape. I shared it with all of my acquaintance level friends so when my body actually began to noticeably change, they went nuts. It was the most fun joke to use on a daily basis. Guys would ask to see the little bumps on my arms every day or so. They thought it was so cute, especially because I was such a little pip squeak until that year.

In the summer going into my junior year of High School, I weighed a measly 135 lbs standing 5 foot 11 inches tall. I was a stack of beans. Just one year later, when I was super tan, happy, and the proud new owner of a matching set of love handles, I weighed 165 lbs at only a quarter inch taller. It was all around my waist. I remember working out as a hobby and time filler and I wasn’t too obsessed with the change in my body. But I do remember things starting to turn around after three hard months of work. This is where my body started to get puffy. I was noticeably bigger, my shoulders were wider, and I was feeling the surge of testosterone for the first time. People thought it was hilarious and I played up the part, attempting to flip cars in the parking lot, sometimes with my shirt off for laughs. Just flexing and screaming like I was some 300 pound monster.

I remember that by month six, my mentor had switched schedules for swim team reasons and I was left to work out alone. I was going to the gym twice a day, eating very healthy at home, and doing 2,000 crunches a day. It was in month six where I looked at myself in the mirror and realized that I looked nothing like the person I was half a year ago. My body showed zero resemblance to the imploded chest, scrawny arms, and spare tire stomach. I was cut. I remember wondering why everyone referred to it as a six pack of abs when I so clearly had an 8 pack. I walked into the gym and did 15 minutes of crunches (which equated to 500 reps) and did another 15 minutes before I walked out. I did this twice a day which easily made up my 2,000 crunches. I was 145 pounds of pure muscle.

By the following summer, I had amassed an entirely new set of friends. Solid friends that I actually wanted to spend a ton of my time with. I distinctly remember beginning to skip sessions at the gym to hang out. I remember beginning to eat out with my new friends as well. I remember some of them asking me how I got my abs and replying with “Just don’t have any friends. It’s that easy.” I coasted that summer and hardly worked out at all and by the end of it I was up to 155 lbs and a number of people told me that I looked much better with the extra ten pounds. I made me look like a man, they said and not some wiry boy. My abs were mostly gone, but my friends were back and I distinctly remember favoring the trade. I was bulkier. I began to work out again when I entered community college after my new found friends had once again, mostly gone off to college. But I still maintained a few really good ones who prevented me from getting bored enough to get back down to 145.

Fast forward a bunch of years, I’ve graduated from a 4 year university after transferring in as a junior. I was working at an Internet Marketing Agency for about 50-60 hours a week, but still made time to get to the gym about 3 times a week. This compared to the 12-14 times a week I was going when I was 17 years old is pretty sad. Also, I was so tired from my cripplingly stressful day at the office that I was trying to get in and out of the gym in 40 minutes or less. I was doing it as a chore. I wasn’t really motivated, but my job paid for the perk so I figured I’d use it.
The real kicker was I made enough money and had such little time, that I ate out every meal of my life, in the two years after college, during my professional career. I figured, my car was paid off, my rent was cheap, and I didn’t dink like the rest of my friends, so eating out was one of the few things I could enjoy my money with on a daily basis. You see, this lead to a scary situation when I no longer fit into any of my suit pants. I was “filling in” as they say. I was a solid 190 lbs before I left on my trip around the world. I even brought a pair of fat jeans with me incase my growth continued during my journey.

Though I never weighed myself during my 505 days abroad, I could tell my weight flocculated quite a bit based on how tight or loose my board shorts fit. I remember that I was skinniest when I was in Japan. I attribute this to my delectable diet of small bites of raw fish and orange juice. My policy during my trip was, if there was something delicious, to eat it like I may never get a chance to eat it again (which is actually pretty accurate.) I didn’t eat a lot just for the sake of eating though. As a matter of fact, I learned about the difference between eating because I was bored and true hunger. I learned that I could easily skip an entire day of eating if it was necessary, though I wouldn’t recommend it. I also learned first hand, that most of rest of the world doesn’t eat much compared to us. Not by a long shot!

Wow, I wasn’t really planning on this to be as long as it has become, but what the hell.

Now that you have an extensive background of my physical fitness, I can tell you what I am doing to re-achieve my beloved 8 pack. I have devised a proprietary process, patented to potentially plaster pussy popping abs directly where your round keg currently lies.

If you care to follow along in this journey, I suggest you first kiss your loved ones goodbye, go into early retirement, or possibly both. The moral of this long winded, untold story is that the only way to get a real change in your life is to really change your life. That is to say, if you want to look completely different, you have to completely change your lifestyle. There is no easy rout. There is no cheating, only effort. And if you don’t appreciate the intrinsic value of effort, then you’re never going to look like Brad Pit circa Fight Club.

Stage One!

Get to the gym and lift those weights. Get in and go often. Go 6 days a week. Choose a time of day and make it routine. I have chosen 10am-12pm; this way I slip in just between the morning rush and lunch rush of people. Try doing crunches 3 days a week along with lifting weights 6 days a week. Be patient in the process. Remember, it took me 6 hard months to look like a completely different person. Don’t even consider weighing yourself for the first three months. This is a new life you have adopted and God willing, it’s here to stay. If you need to get into shape for an up and coming event, it had better be at least a half year away. It isn’t? Don’t worry, next year you’ll be jacked.

Just remember, there isn’t a miracle for this and the sooner you accept that, the sooner you’ll make some progress. I know I just said it, but I have to remind you, expect measurable progress no sooner than after 90 grueling days of effort. Besides, after 90 days, you’ll be so used to this new adopted lifestyle, you won’t even worry much about the progress. That or you will have quit/cheated dozens of times.

I don’t have a specific amount of time prescribed for this stage, but if you have lifted weights before in the past then this won’t be too daunting of a habit for you to master. If this is your first attempt, then take no less than 6 weeks. If you are an old pro, go ahead and jump to stage two after three weeks. And remember, the reason that we are doing this in stages is so that you don’t get overwhelmed and burn out. If you went directly to stage 5 you would certainly burn out in a few weeks. This is a Kaizan (the Japanese word for incremental improvement) approach to abs.

How much and often should you be lifting? Well, take it easy champ for the first three weeks. If you don’t, you will actually do more damage than good. Don’t lift as much as you possibly can, unless you don’t feel like walking for the following week. Just get in the habit of consistently lifting weights, 3 sets of ten in three different exercises per muscle group (90 reps per muscle group in a single day)

Before we go on, one might be wondering why the hell we are focusing on working out if all we are after is abs. Why aren’t we starving ourselves, only eating when it’s non fat and low cal? In good time, but first we must understand why we lift weights. When you lift weights, you break down the muscle in about an hour or so, but your body spends the next 23 hours rebuilding muscles and takes extra calories in the process. When you run for a half an hour, you burn calories at a much more intense rate, but only for 30 minutes. The next 23.5 hours are not spent doing anything special. As soon as you stop running, you stop burning extra calories. The more muscle you have, the more calories you burn for those 23 hours. The more calories you burn, the thinner your layer of body fat is, thus letting your abs show through. As much as we might love to believe, there is no such thing as burning specific sections of body fat. Are we clear? Let’s move on.

Stage Two!

Apply Stage One logic with perfect eating. Most people find this stage to be the most challenging because we are such social eaters. I didn’t say this shit was a cake walk. The diet that compliments stage one is a high protein diet. You are also going to be eating 5 to 6 small meals per day. The human liver can only process 20-30 grams of protein per 2 hours so don’t bother eating some monster steak and the morning and calling it a day. Once again, this takes a huge commitment. This also isn’t the Atkins diet that calls for zero carbs and tons of fatty meat. I want you to eat 20 grams of protein, 5-6 times a day, drink 10 glasses of water, and stuff yourself with plenty of fruits and vegetables.

What do the small and frequent meals do? They spread out the time your body has to digest its food. This gives the body less incentive to store calories in fat as well because it is being consistently nourished. This also gives the liver a chance to process the protein more effectively. The more muscle, the more fat burning. The longer the digestion process the more effective the metabolism.

Sure you can throw some breads and pastas in there form time to time, but make it a few times per week splurge, rather a once a day splurge. What exactly am I eating in phase two? I start my day with a protein shake, ride my bike to the gym, ride back, and have another protein shake. Two hours later, I eat a piece of fish or chicken accompanied with a bunch of fruit. A few hours later, I have some beef jerky and a glass of milk along with some more fruit. Then we are at about dinner time where I eat a meat or fish, a salad & vegtables, and some more, you guessed it, fruit. Two to three hours after that, I have a big glass of soy milk. Yes, this stage is next to impossible if you don’t eat the majority of your meals at home. But this whole thing isn’t realistic anyways.

Whilst in stage two, now lift them weights like it’s your fucking job. Don’t cheat, but if you re easily getting to the end each set of ten, then you aren’t pushing yourself hard enough. Also its time to get serious about these abs. You are going to commit 30 minutes of your day to crunches. Make it when you first walk into the gym. Before anything else gets done, crunch for 30. At this point you will experience a huge increase in strength and size. With this perfect eating, your muscles are going to regenerate at optimal rates. You probably won’t see any abs yet, but don’t worry, stage three is just around the corner.

Stage Three!
This is the stage that I have just entered into after working at this for a solid two months. I am now accustomed to eating at home and laugh at my friends (that’s right, this time I have friends) when they order that milkshake at diner (that I only come along for the conversation because I have “Just eaten” before they come to pick me up).

To be honest, if you can make it through stage 2, stage three is a breeze. By now you are so committed to a different lifestyle, that the 30-40 minutes of running won’t really seem like much. Yes, once more, you are going to apply the wisdom of stages one and two in addition to stage three. Now you are going to tell your metabolism that it’s time to kick this shit into high gear because every day you are going to need some intense caloric burning power. Don’t be surprised to get a little weaker in the amount of weight you can lift; that’s all part of the plan. If you run for 6 days a week, 30-40 minutes, for an entire month, it will be the same as not eating one day a week. Think of how fast the pounds are going to shed now.

Keep working out every day, keep eating perfectly, and run your little ass off too and it will be no time until you start seeing little shadowy figures when looking at yourself in overheard light. Keep pushing, ignore your fat friends, and stop saving coins to do the laundry because soon you’ll be using your washer board abs to clean all of your clothes.

Stage Four!

Just one more thing on top of the first three stages, I want to see you do another thirty minutes of crunches before you go to sleep. Don’t worry after all the pain and sacrifice you’ve gone through in stages one two and three, the extra 30 minutes won’t seem like much.  Oh and don’t forget to take one last protein shake before you turn in for the night.

Stage five!!!!!

Can you smell your abs yet? I can. And if it’s been a whole six months and you still don’t have a rock hard situation/cornucopia of abs, then you are left with chewing ice in a dark room and cutting yourself. That’s right, stop eating fatty. Just keep doing stages 1-4 at the same pace, but cut out stage two completely. You will either have that beloved 8 pack in one week flat, or you will die. And let’s face it, after all you’ve been through in that last 6 months, you’ll be happy to get some sort of measurable result.

Thankfully in the summer of 2002, I only got to stage 4 before I relapsed into a normal human being. My friends seduced me into those extra 10 pounds of skin to make me look normal and my indelible smile shined once more.

As a fail safe, I’m off to India, in exactly two months so I probably won’t ever even reach stage 4. I am someone who does find intrinsic value in effort and that’s why I am doing this all over again. Ya, sure, call me an Existentialist.  But I’ll be sure and be a douche bag and take plenty of pictures just before I leave. I’m already shopping for my Ed Hardy hat and Affliction tank top

Your value to your profession is implicit in the subconscious sentence structure. The difference in one word can completely stifle self value in your given profession. Which begs a deeper question; do you work to live or live to work? If you work to live, then you are likely a do-er. If you live to work, then you are likely a be-er (Beer?!!)

Right now, in this economy, I think it is safe to say that many people between the ages of 19-35 are unfortunately neither. To which you might be reading this post in anger and disgust. But here is the window. Here is the window in the door that was recently slammed in your face. With the break in obsession of doing, you might just now get a rare moment to give some thought about being a be-er.

I know what you’re thinking right about now, “Alex, nock that shit off! I’ve got bills to pay motherfucka! This aint the time nor the place to press that hippie shit up on me.” And I would kindly remind you that you are reading MY blog as a break from do-ing.

I’m coming at you with one more theory in this post. The vernacular for making a lot of money is Success. This is the Do-er’s wholly grail. It’s sad and true that if you work to live, then success (a stinking lot of money) is the highest reward you will ever receive. Chasing those dollars will own you. And money is actually potential utility. It’s one step away from the stuff that we really obsess about. We loose sight of a couple of simple ratios.

Number one: How much time do you spend trying to get the stuff you want?

I used to work at a country club and knew some incomprehensibly rich folks. Some guys were worth hundreds of millions of bucks and still worked 5 days a week into their 70s. They did this because their obsession with “success” was so insatiable that they lost sight of what they were doing it all for in the first place. If you’re going to read a book, just don’t forget to read it. The truth is, they wouldn’t know what to do with themselves if they cashed in on all that potential utility (and time). But we will get to that later.

There are two fixes for this and the first one, as an American, you’re not going to like. First, want less. “Hey, wait a second. I said no more hippie shit!” I know, I know, it’s like saying eat less; it just doesn’t work. “No no, give me a pill, in which I can sit on my ass and keep my lifestyle exactly the same, while achieving life changing results.” Just zap it instantly better. This is why we’ve got a huge infomercial economy.

But wanting less will do exactly two things. It will make you feel less behind in the game of “Success” and, much more importantly, it will give your mind time to think of what else might make you happier than watching 2000 channels through a 72 inch plasma. You might just start to wrestle with bigger meanings in life. You just might, if you are really lucky, find a calling.

The second fix: start being a be-er. You will spend roughly half your waking life trying to “be successful”. Worse yet, the most healthy and most easily enjoyable half of your life will be dedicated to trying to “be successful”. Here’s the math: 24 hours in a 7 day week account for 168 hours a week. 56 of those hours Should be used for sleeping and 34 of those hours are your waking weekends. That means that 112 hours are waking hours and most of you will dedicate 40-60 of those hours to “being successful”. That’s 35%-54% of your young and healthy life. Assuming you start a career at 22 years old and retire at 62 you spend 50% of your entire life working towards “being successful”. Working towards getting the stuff and the life you’ve always wanted. That is, of course, assuming you will make it to 80 years old. You could always work till, say 45 and then drop dead from too many stressful and sedentary years in front of a computer screen.

What kind of lunatic waits and postpones doing what they want to do their whole life? How in the hell can our society of instant gratification seekers do that? Something just doesn’t make any sense here. You know the house is going to win right? The way these people obsess about getting ahead in the first 40 years, you’d think we lived for 400. The fact is, from a health standpoint, (assuming you even live until retirement age) your going to be just miserable by then anyway. Care to argue? Hey 62 year old man, go hop over that fence. Hey 62 year old man, go get obliterated with your friends and spring up the next morning feeling mostly fine. Hey 62 year old man, why don’t you go ahead and run that marathon for me after only running for one month in your life. Hey 62 year old lady, smile, and try and keep count of all your wrinkles. Hey 62 year old man, pick up that tire and not throw out your back. Hey 62 year old man stop taking your 8 pills a day for a month and see what happens. Get my point?

Finally, back to the second fix. Start playing the odds. Consider that the likelihood of you living to 62 is a lot lower than you believed it to be yesterday. Leverage that 50% of your healthy life to doing something that you are proud of, something that you would actually brag about to your children. Forget about the cash and obsess on the old and earnest definition of success.

And if you can’t bring yourself to chasing that type of a job, start doing your job differently. Start doing it with pride. Stop do-ing and start be-ing. But this all opens a greater can of worms that for many is maddening. What that hell do I want to be? What the hell should I do with myself? Well, that’s precisely what the men worth hundreds of millions at my country club did. They found it more comfortable to just chase the millions instead of actually asking themselves what they would do with it once they got it.

If you can find happiness in what you do, then you will be exactly one step past those old men and the best part is, you can enjoy it while you can still hop over a fence

But I’m not trapped here. I recently took a greyhound bus to San Diego. To get a hour down the coast, it only took me half a day. Ok, so maybe I had to still bum a 30 minute ride from my room mate (I call her Mom) to the nearest greyhound station, but I got where I was going with semipublic transportation. Take that America. I can still live like a backpacker in a non-backpacker friendly place. Oh and I’m the master of “going that way travel”. It goes a little like this “Oh, your going that way? Sure!! I’d be happy to hitch a ride.” You see, just as in travel, you must be very comfortable with not having a definite plan.

In San Diego, I had three houses that I had arranged to stay at. I figured, three houses in 7 days would average out to one formula for not overstaying my welcome. I ping ponged my way from place to place. Sometimes people had to drop me at my next destination, like I was a little kid, in the middle of a custody battle. “Are you home? Ya, I’ll be over to drop him off in a few minutes.” I was literally the package. If you wanted to see me, you had to come get me. Sometimes people met me at a nondescript location. “You know, you should have said something more specific than just Crown Point. This is a big parking lot. You might as well have just said you were going to be in San Diego.”

Back in Huntington Beach, “You wanna go work out?” “Ya sure, I’ll just be 20 minutes to ride my bike over.” “Never mind, I’ll just pick you up.” It seemed that I was benefiting from some of my friend’s short patience. “No, I’m ok with riding my bike. Really.” “I’ll be at your house in 2 minutes to pick you up.

And so it goes that most of my transportation is not rides from other people. I ride my bike around town and can’t help but feel happy, silly, and enlightened. Happy that I’m not in a rush enough to drive a car somewhere; silly that I go so freaking slow (I also think I look goofy on a beach cruiser when I am not cruising down a board walk and huffing up some chicken shit hill to get to the beach); and enlightened that I have somehow structured my life in a way which I can take all day to get where I am going, and still have the time to reflect on all of it. I can’t help but to feel sorry for all the folks, chasing the bigger house, faster car, and louder rims. I can’t help but think that people are laughing at me as I huff up my local chicken shit hill as they zoom by. I can’t help but think that the joke is on them, because I am about to do what ever the hell I want for the rest of that day, and in that 12 seconds that they see me, that will most likely be the only unplanned and unspoken for 12 seconds in their entire day.

I’m so self absorbed!!! Yuck, well this is a blog about me, and YOU are reading it. So who’s the obsessed one now?

Is there a reader that I haven’t offended yet? Probably not.

Do I have the money for a car? Of course, but do I see the value in one? Nope, I’ve got all day 

Ok, maybe it wasn’t as exciting as Tokyo, but it was something new and exciting none the less. I picked up my bags from the baggage claim. In fact, my backpack was the third bag to drop onto the carousel for both flights that day (also something that has never happened). I pushed through customs, dare I say it, even more quickly than the 4 minutes it took me to clear Tokyo. My parents held a small cardboard sign that said “ALEX”. Later they told me that they wanted to hold a sign that said “DANGER!!” But it probably wouldn’t “Fly” at an Airport.

The next morning I went to a bar to watch USA get robbed from a win by a referee in the world cup. This is where I got my first taste of “Star Power”. People looking at me like I was a ghost. Like I was back from the dead. Some with complete amazement. And some didn’t seem to care at all. I was served by an Aussie waitress who gave perfect American service. Someone looked at me and said “Wow, that chick really sounds Australian.” and I could barely tell. I wasn’t used to the muddled, americanized accents. I was used to the good stuff, 80 proof accents which burned your ears if you took in too much at once.

That day, I went bodyboarding with my good friend Greg for the first time with proper equipment in a year and a half. What I haven’t mentioned is my reaction to material. The night before, I climbed up into my attic to pull down the 4 large space bags full of my old clothes. It was like the biggest Christmas ever. A full wardrobe, 4 times the size of what I have been living with, instantly gifted to me, from me. I was able to find my bodyboard, fins, an a wetsuit that would work for the next morning. I was soon to learn that my personal possessions, those of which had any value, had been picked though , cannibalized, horded, sorted, and interest lost in by my older brother. As it were, he had his own Christmas, with my stuff.

I stormed down my parents hall (My new residence for a little while) and began to wind up. At the same time, I realized that I had already declared, about 10 months ago, that all the personal stuff I had left behind must not have been too important if I couldn’t even think of what it was whilst abroad. This, my brother, would be the officer who inadvertently would keep me true to my word. If you ask him, he’ll tell you I FLIPPED out

Later that night, we went to a bar, with a bunch of friends who had been more or less following my blog for a good part of the trip. This is ware the star power shined, when people were drunk Lot’s of “You did it!!!” “Man, Congratulations!!!!” Lots of love that made me feel very well accepted and wanted back in my home. People who were historically very flaky about answering their phones were surely breaking character. Later that next day, I would joke with my parents about only staying around just long enough to the star power to wear off and then I would go abroad to recharge it.

I went for a poop (as you do) and seriously hesitated when I threw the used toilet paper into the toilet.
I had a drink of the tap water and seriously hesitated when I gulped down the glass.
All of my clothes were gulped down into my parent’s oversized, energy star washing machine with ease. It wasn’t even a full load by American standards.
I took a truly hot shower and got truly clean for the first time in forever.
I squeezed 3 weeks worth of conditioner into my hand and rinsed and repeated.
I used a cotton towel that was big enough to wrap around my waist.
I slept under a comforter!!
I used silver wear (My parents have more forks than a 100 person hostel).
I drove a car!!!
I wore a hoody (no more red jacket, for a while)
I took my wallet out with me.
I got really anxious about getting in contact with EVERYONE.
This is shit that excited me.

It was exciting to be normal again. And no, it wasn’t frustrating to see the same old people. Maybe not a ton has changed in their lives, but they are still important to me. Maybe they won’t ever be able to fathom what just happened. That doesn’t matter either.

Some things have changed. There are some things that I can’t unlearn. But in the end, so far, home is a lot more comfortable than I thought it would be.

I’m in Mexico now and it feels like I am practically home. Though I’ve never been to this part of Mexico, I’ve enjoyed it’s richness no less than 30 times. I understand the culture here and after visiting 45 countries before it, I respect it’s strength on a much higher level. Mexico is a Latin Juggernaut in every sense of the word. It’s capital, the largest city in the world with a population that dwarfs the entire continent of Australia. It’s food, mimicked by all other Latin Nations to one extent or another. It’s people, can be summed up in 5 puzzling words: Practical, Charming, Speedy, Calm, and Happy. In Mexico, there is NO impossible task that can’t be adapted or worked around. There is no sense of pride when it comes to HOW you can achieve something. The people somehow understand that Happiness is Free and that charm is their strongest muscle. And they somehow work as fast and as hard as a strung out heroin addict trying to clear a bus to find his last needle, all while maintaining a calm demeanor. If someone doesn’t know your name, they call you amigo (Friend). The default way to address a stranger is friend. In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve been deeply in love with Mexico for quite some time now

I’m not even going to waste your time with Playa Del Carmen (well maybe just a little bit) or Tulum. We are all here to read about Whale Sharks. What I will say about crossing over from Belize to Mexico is that free trade is evident. Where as Belize did not seem like it was deprived of products, when crossing into Mexico, Belize looked like Cuba. And Playa Del Carmen looks like Laguna Beach mixed with park city, on steroids. Cutesy, well planned, quaint and yet still bustling. I haven’t seen a place like this since Europe some 8 months ago. It’s like Down Town Disney, if it were situated in white sand beaches instead of a concrete jungle.

When there though, I was checking into the price of swimming along side a whale shark. The Common stated price in the dive shops was $250, a terribly reasonable price to pay to do the impossible. But I have some days to burn and wanted to stay a few days on the island that this all runs out of. I bet it was cheaper if I just showed up as well. I went online to see if it was possible to get there and found several websites that said the price of the tour would be $135 if I were already on the island. The next day, I packed up my stuff and headed off to Isla Holbox (pronounced Hol-bosh).

Upon arrival, I met a Swiss Hostel owner at the docks. He had rooms for $7 per night (half the price that he posted them online) so I went with him. I was starting to learn that it pays to just show up in the shoulder season of a one hit wonder island. He also said that the Whale Shark tour would cost just $65. I was ecstatic! For that amount, I could do this tour 5 times !! He also told me that they have an ATM on the island, So I could actually fund these 5 times. An ATM? I didn’t find anything online that said that! “Oh yes, But Lonely Planet hasn’t visited here in the past 6 years, so they keep publishing in their books that there isn’t one.” “But I don’t even read Lonely Planet. I was reading other people’s travel blogs. They must be just plagiarising or something (Read a few of them and you’ll see the staunch lack of creativity that I’m talking about. It’s like they are trying out to be a Lonely Planet writer or something.) Well, As I have always said “Fuck Lonely Planet” It’s the book of lies as far as I am concerned.

I boarded the boat the next morning and had a briefing entirely in Spanish. Everyone that were on board were French students between the ages of 22 and 24. They turned out to be (as French people often are) quite charming which fit the general culture of the area. Ahhhh, more young French adults out to correct the stereotype that their parents have created of being cock suckers. Sounds good to me

We were told by the captain that here would be a 30 to 90 minute boat ride until we got into the area where the whale sharks are found. I translated this into practical terms of: “It might take us up to 90 minutes to find a whale shark.” The boat blasted into the choppy grey swells as we headed out to sea. It was jolting to the body, but nothing compared to other past boat rides I’ve had in the Caribbean. We all looked around in the sea for signs that were not explained to us by the captain. Suddenly we rounded the corner of the island and the wind got about 10 degrees colder. The weather was not looking good. It was only early in the morning and the wind was already blowing in a peculiar strength.

We looked and looked but didn’t know what were were looking for. Then, all of a sudden, the wind stopped and we were gliding through glassy swells in green ocean. The sun came out and wished us good morning. This made it much easier to see disturbances in the water. Because that was what we were after, right? Irregularities? This reminded me of when I was looking out the window of the public bus outside of Beijing, hopping to see a glimpse of the Great Wall of China, to ensure that I was on the right track. Then, to our right, off about 300 feet away, the water seemed to be electrified! A sigh of relief, I was beginning to think I was paying for a $65, not so joyful, joy ride.

The captain slowed the engines as we approached the ball of electrocution. I was expecting to see a giant mouth come out of the water in a dramatic showing from the largest fish on the planet, but instead saw nothing. The boat continued on and my hopes began to soar. This happened several more times, areas of electrified water, in the shape and size of a whale shark. It even had a brown tinge to it. Maybe those were whale sharks? Maybe they were just in a “below the surface mode”? You could tell that they were huge schools of bait fish, commonly refered to as bait balls. But what were we looking for then?

Then the captain shut down the engines completely and there it was. A 33 foot shark, practically sitting on the surface of the water, in a 15 degree angle, with it’s mouth open. Like a giant redwood tree with a slightly less buoyant tail end, but it’s massive tail still stuck well out of the water. The water was murky with plankton and sediment, so it wasn’t even easy to grasp the entire size of the creature.

The guide just slowly puttered around the boat, preparing the equipment. I was fired up to get into the water and fearful that the beast would leave at the sight of people. The captain radioed the other boats from the island and three others showed up within 10 minutes. As it turns out, the companies work together to produce 100% satisfaction. I wanted to horde it all to myself.

“Who wants to go first?” I raised my hand like a 5 year old at a pizza party. I was not going to get skunked here, I was going to see this shit before it decided to take off. But there it was, barely moving through the water, like a lazy giant. It almost seemed like the thing had been drugged, or broken. A large part of it’s majesty was lost in this mode. It was like learning there was no Santa clause. No, the male lion, the one with the impressive mane, it sleeps all day while the little female hunts.

This is why the Mexican government has approved this activity for ages 4 and up. The last time I saw one of these was in Thailand, over a year ago, and it was 100 feet underwater, in it’s habitat, not mine. It was a legendary experience that lasted only a minute.

The boat drove 70 feet in front of the shark’s predictable path, then the guide, a French kid, and I dropped into the water. The shark was heading right for us. I stuck my head into the water and waited. The water was the color of bourbon, so I pulled my head out to watch for the 4 foot dorsal fin. The shark changed courses to go around us (understandably) and I found myself climbing over the French kid to chase after the shark. I felt like I was in a water polo match. Kicking everyone’s ass who were in between me and my goal (I’ve never played water polo, but I would imagine it similar.) Finally I got to the base of the dorsal fin. Now, with the backdrop of the spotted beast, the bourbon appeared to wiggle with excitement. This was the cloud of plankton that the beast was feeding on. I continued to swim form no more than a minute beside it, a little bothered by how murky the water was. Then it began to go faster and I dropped back to where the tail was. In my peripheral I saw a spotted grey wall closing in on me. The next thing I know, I am being pushed through the water sideways (gently), by the tail of a 33 foot shark! Awesome !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

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I got out of the water and back into the boat. Then I watched the rest of the French groups of two have their turn at the shark. Though they were sweet people (and actually strong swimmers), they were somewhat clueless in the water. The amount of times I saw people either miss the 33 foot shark right in front of them, or unknowingly kick it in the face was outrageous.

Something in my heart just kept screaming “WRONG WRONG WRONG”. We shouldn’t be here. We shouldn’t be doing this. The beast kept obviously changing courses to avoid us. The guide did a poor job at ensuring that the treasure was respected. All of a sudden, I felt like perhaps I was not going to do this 5 times. Maybe I should start a petition instead.

Soon one of the 3 other boat captains spots a second whale shark. This one a cool 20 feet long and it seems not be bothered by the other boat’s swimmers. We break off and approach the smaller creature. Just as we start the engines, the captain yells “MANTA MANTA!!” he points strait ahead and a black figure, easily 15 feet wide surfaces and heads directly for our boat. It’s dorsal fin sat in the same portion as it does on a 7 series BMW. It’s presence creates a wake as it flaps it’s wings a little as it to say “Don’t you forget about me!” Soon to dive down into the bourbon.

We approach the 20 foot child and I again drop into the water. This time I was determined to see it’s face. I swam along side of it and could feel the other French guy behind me. I didn’t care if I kicked him. It was 20 feet long, go find your own patch to scope! In my best swimming form, I got up to the head of the beast, it’s blunt girth put a mac truck to shame. It was here that I remained for the next five minutes. I stared into its little button of an eye and went somewhere else. I was all alone in an experience that even everyone else on the boat can not relate to. All alone, where the best moments of my 500 days abroad have been. See sacred lands of Easter Island, See Great Wall of China, See Japanese Super Temple, See on my back in a water hammock under a school of 2000 jacks (the best single moment of my life), See half way up Mont Doom in New Zealand, See free falling for 9 seconds and 440 feet on a bugy cord, See the Colosseum, See back alleys of Venice, See cutting across all of Tokyo by foot, See the Forbidden City in Beijing, See 100 sunsets that I have enjoyed on this trip, see the Berlin wall, See sticking my head out of a Polish train for 2 hours, See watching a 300 foot glacier collapse, see my life as I appreciate it now.

I was not going to let this moment slip away, but my mandatory life jacket was acting like a parachute underwater. I swam and swam and caught my breath through the snorkel to start a pace. This would be the most important swim of my life. How long could I swim at this blistering pace? Well I did have some motivation. I dropped back a bit to stare at the beast’s gills and dorsal fin. The gills I could have easily passed through had I been swallowed mistakenly. I noticed that the shark was turning into me slightly. It must have been going in circles. I think it may have even liked me. As I was no longer in the front, I didn’t ride it’s wake at all and found it much harder to keep up. Still, I was determined. I swam and swam. Briefly wondering what everyone else on the boat was thinking of how long I was with the shark. They probably aren’t even looking anymore. They have probably lost attention, seeing as this is probably something that is incredible to them, but not something that they have been obsessing over for over a year. I kept swimming as my stomach began to turn. I didn’t care. We must have been going on 15 minutes and I look down for some reason and realize that I have been swimming directly over it’s pectoral fin for the past 10 minutes. If I didn’t know that it was harmful to touch them, I would have just reached down and grabbed onto the massive wing and hitched a ride like the rest of the remoras around me.

Finally, after about 20 minutes, I broke down and said goodbye to the beast. I look up and everyone is in the boat, including the guide who is supposed to me by my side at all times. No one even notices that I have surfaced, which pays homage to my theory of their short attention spans. As it turns out, several other guides from other boats have attempted to lead packs of two to the shark as I was still swimming with it. Ya, I might have been hogging it a little, but I cared. That was my last big shot before I went home. My last Ace up my sleeve. I was complete. Weather I am going to do it again, I’m still on the fence, but I think the answer will be yes.

And of course, this experience was sponsored by my favorite Donner, Cary Johnson. Cary, this is one that I think you and you’re wife should definitely do someday soon. This is something that your daughter will be able to do before you know it. I know you will read about this soon, but I hope that I will read about you doing it too

This is Cary’s 3rd donation. Perhaps some of you remember the caves of Capadokia in Turkey or the Sand Dunes in Morocco. Ya those were both also made possible by him too!!

Thank you Cary! Oh and one last mention. Cary lent me out a good luck charm right before I left on this trip. He made me promise to keep it with me. It’s a little Buddha that he gave another one of his friends to take through a service in Iraq. As many of you know, I have avoided all sorts of disasters including, Mega Earth Quakes, Cyclones, Hurricanes, Volcanic Eruptions, Land Slides, Avalanches, Great White Attacks, Floods, and political demonstrations. I also haven’t ever been mugged, stolen from, or even so much as had a flight canceled or a bag misplaced.

I guess I owe you another thank you for the Buddha ?

Belize is a “gem” amongst the Latin American world. The people are mostly black and speak Creel as well as English. Quick note in history, Creel is the language that the slaves made so that they could all understand each other. Coming from different tribes that didn’t speak the same language, they had to improvise. In case you haven’t ever heard it, it sounds like a simplified version of English.

We had some 9 year old girls teach us some phrases. For instance, If you wanted to say “Hey look at that boy over there” it would sound more like “luk dat boy dare”. It sounded as if you could learn this language in a few weeks, until someone strings together a whole paragraph. Then it becomes indecipherable.

Speaking of Racists Assholes (me), I was walking down the street when I first got to the island of Key Cocker (not spelled that way), a man tried to sell me something. He yelled at me from across the street “Hey, come over here” I replied with “Oh, no thanks.” “Hey, Hey, Hey asshole! Asshole !” He kept saying to me as I ignored him, walking down the street. It was so funny how he could switch to calling me an asshole within 3 seconds. How fake his first smile was. This is about the time I would have began to feel that my first impression was a sour one, but I had already interacted with several amazingly funny and nice people at the boarder and the docks.

As it turns out, I had to cross this man’s path once more to get to my hostel that I had overshot. When I did so, he said “there’s that racist guy.” “Wait a second, you called me an asshole. How does that make ME a racist? You know, that’s a pretty strong word to call someone after you have known for just 3 seconds.” “You didn’t even look at me! I wish you people would go home and leave my island. You ruin it!” “You people? Now I’m almost sure that YOU are being the racist one. You might think I’m racist, but I think you are completely fake. And that is a huge disgrace to your “amazing” gem of a culture”.

We had our differences. Luckily he was one of a kind. But then I found myself going out of my way for the next 4 days to make eye contact with EVERY single person and say hello. It was well received. The Belizeian people were happy to reciprocate.

As it turns out, the room I stayed in had been robbed two nights before I got there. A man came into the room when a girl was asleep and took her backpack. Yuck, I got out of there as soon as I could. The name of the hostel was Tina’s and they had a sign that said “Don’t complain , just check out.” at their reception area. Which was really funny when you think about it. The people of Belize were similar to Costa Ricans. They knew that they were the hot place in the region. They knew they were better off than their neighbors, and for that matter they were nice, but carried a small chip on their shoulder.

But why was I here in the first place? I was here to dive the blue hole, an old cave in the Caribbean which has sunk into a giant cylinder. It is 1000 feet across and 160 meters deep. We only dive it to 40 meters (which is the maximum depth for a non commercial diver). The big claim to fame is the massive stalactites and stalagmites. Said to look like a unique underwater arena. This dive is one of the most popular in the world.

We geared up and dropped in. The blue hole looked absolutely black due to the sediment from the last 4 days of rain. I descended to about 12 meters until I felt my regulator tightening up. This is the same sensation I felt in Thai Land, just before I aborted the dive. Think of trying to breath through a garden hose. Now think of trying to breath out it with your kid sister standing on it. This sensation, coupled with the previous experience of having my regulator fail in Thailand and the known fact that we would be at 40 meters (absolutely screwed if a piece of equipment failed) sent me edging towards the surface.

Fuck, not on this dive! I felt defeated. I don’t do “defeated” well. I was pissed, but I wasn’t going to let pride kill me. As I made my way to the surface, the tail end dive master caught me. (In sign language the following was said) “I’m going up”. “what’s wrong?” “My regulator Isn’t working” “Try your back up” (all while maintaining the crucial eye contact that is a make or break in keeping someone calm) (She held me by my tank) “Better?” “Nope, this is just as bad” “Really?” “Try my alternate” “Nope, this one is hard to breath out of too”

At this point, I had gone long enough with bad air sources for my throat to spasm violently. Like a child who had been crying violently for the past hour, my throat convulsed at 40 feet below the surface. Our max dept was going to be 132. At this point, I had done the one thing you CAN’T do whilst under water, loose your cool. This is the One thing that Will kill you, weather surfing, diving, or swimming.

I figured that the odds of all three regulators actually failing were extremely low and that though they were not giving me the normal amount of air, there was certainly a high amount of responsibility for my spasmodic throat in my own head. This was like an outright challenge. I thought “Hey asshole, get down there, ok? It’s in your head and you are better than that. Show that black hole whose boss!!!”

I conceded to follow the dive master deeper. Luckily I got narc knocked (nitrogen narcoses) about a minute after that (When the dept makes you a little, or a lot, buzzed in the head. It was like a couple of shots of whisky directly to the head. It loosened my throat and frankly made me not care about the equipment issue as much. That coupled with the fact that the dive master would not take her eyes off of me, made me feel pretty good about the whole situation. We got to 132 feet and the stalactites were amazingly impressive. The water was oddly calm at this depth and clear. Shortly after, we began to make our assent towards the surface. 4-5 large reef sharks circled around us as we got closer and closer to the surface. This, was the least of my worries seeing as I had dove with this species many times before.

As we got back onto the boat, I thanked the dive master for saving the dive and she replied with “Oh, sorry about those regulators, they are notorious for being a bit stingy, and I guess my back up is the same way, so that didn’t help much.” She wasn’t really assuming responsibility nor blaming me for freaking out under water. It was a fine compromise in my book. It was an “It happened” type of situation. She did what she could. In fact, the next two dives, she switched the regulators out for a different set and I had a great next few dives.

The next day, we ate dinner at a hostel that was being run by a chef who was in it for the experience. Adam had been an undercover detective for the UK for 12 years. He spent 2 years in prison being deep undercover. He also achieved his law degree whilst in the force, but his true passion was cooking. He has lived in Belize for 12 years and in those 12 years had two cooking shows on TV, 3 books, and 2 magazine columns about cooking. As you could imagine, the food was out of this world, and his stories were even more impressive.

Oh and by the way, according to Adam, there are all types of sharks spotted in the blue hole because of it’s depth including Bull, Tiger, and Great White (the top three most dangerous sharks on the planet). But the only one that breaks my golden rule of diving is the Great White. The only shark that I will never knowingly enter the water with sans cage.

It’s probably as rare as seeing one in my home break of Huntington Beach though……. Speaking of my Home break, I declare June 18th a national holiday. It’s not just any Friday, It’s the first day that I will be back home after over 500 days of being abroad, and you can find me at my local break, enjoying the summer waves.

Oh and one last point of information for the experienced diver who might be reading this post.  I forgot to mention that I surfaced my first dive with 2100 PSI (150 bars) (2/3 full tank of air).  After diving to 40 meters and staying down for 6 minutes at that depth, air tends to go quite quickly.  For a total dive time of 25 minutes, my peers all had about 1000-1200 PSI.  I tend to breath less than most people, but that is a scary lack of air, looking back on it.

This is decidedly the first time I have ever mentioned women in an ebjectifiable manor. But it’s to show you, the reader, how important you are, to me. It’s really not more than a novelty that I wanted to mention. Onto Guatemala and what it means to me the second go around.

You see, my Mother forced me to come with her to do a 3 week immersion course as a plea bargain to dropping Spanish in high school. Together we spent 2 weeks in Antigua before we cracked. Though I don’t remember too too much about the place when I was a kid, it has proven to be one of the more memorable places that I have been to in Central America.

The people…… Are…….. Nicer than they were in Honduras! But they are still far and away less approachable than my beloved Nicaraguans. The Hostels are about 4 bucks a night and the food is really good (if you aren’t eating the local dishes.) But perhaps more importantly, the travelers here have been outstanding. I feel as if I am, in just one sense, whisked back to New Zealand. This is because everyone is in a big rush to see all of the great things that Guatemala has to offer. They all have to be at some airport yesterday, and they are all extremely excited to be here. They won’t take no for an answer. Very inclusive and talkative. But already I’m “that guy”.

I don’t really want to know “Where you’ve been” “Where you are going” “How long you are traveling” “And where you are from.” I meet 10 to 15 people a day with almost the same story. But I am “that guy” because I have been doing this for 16 months. I’ve been to everyone’s home country and I’ve seen more and experienced more than most everyone can wrap their little hopeful and enthusiastic brains around. I often laundry list the places I’ve been and know for sure that someone has glazed over around Europe when I get to Antarctica and they don’t even bat and eye lash. It’s ok, I think. Most of the time I even leave it out because I don’t really want to try and explain something so experiential as the 7th continent.

But people are great here. Eager to hook up for excursions. Even if you aren’t “traveling” with anyone, you are “essentially traveling” with everyone. Such a tight circuit here. But it’s a place with some really unique attractions as well. Well another country, another natural disaster averted. Just days after I left Pacaya (the country’s active volcano that is your best chance at toasting marshmallows in real lava) it erupted and killed 3 people. It also shut down the international airport for 2 weeks and set the state into an official state of emergency. But this isn’t the first time I’ve slipped past crisis. I want all of my faithful readers to recall the 8.1 earthquake in Chile that I missed by 4 days. And the one off Hurricane I sailed through on the way back from Antarctica. And the Thai political unrest that I missed by a week. And the Cyclone in Australia that I missed by a few miles on the east coast. I’m sure there are several more that I missed, but that’s more than impressive for now. Yes. It appears that my middle name shouldn’t be danger so much as, “Leaves a wake of danger”.

I always do this. I lead in with the hint that I am going to talk about something in the title, lets say, the country I am in, and then essentially ignore it until the very end. Well the bullet points worked well for Nicaragua, so I’ll try it for Guatemala too.

Its cheap: Hostels are 4 bucks, which I already mentioned, but its really significant, so there it is again.

Lake Atilan: Stunningly beautiful, lake, situated in the center of an enormous, green, jagged, mystical, volcano.

Antigua: Not as touristy as everyone said it was going to be, but full of good fruit and drum & bass music. I danced so hard that everyone thought I was tripping balls, and you wanna know what? I kind of was! In a “musical” way.

Samook Champay: Not spelled even close to correct, but the Most beautiful place in ALL of Central America. Fresh water pools that are completely clear and full of fish. Plants grow on plateaus and waterfalls are a dime a dozen. This amplifies in awesomeness when you realize that the whole site is essentially a bridge and a huge river is running under the whole site. Take it from me, this place is unique and about as romantic as you are going to find in a place were, to tell you the truth, doesn’t usually have a whole lot more going for it than the immense bar scene. Went caving as well. Much more dangerous than the caves in New Zealand. By candle light, climbed a waterfall inside of a cave. Sound safe to you? Thats what I thought. Got bashed up pretty good, but you know I have a “no broken bone policy” in my life. Cracked my elbow so hard under water that it gave that loud “thud” that they would use in a made for TV movie about some girl hitting her head on the side of the boat under water. Did a back flip off of a huge rope swing and jumped off of a huge bride and called it a VERY GOOD day.

Hate: The popular form of transportation in Guatemala of minibus.

Want: To punch the driver in the neck. Usually about the 6th hour out of the average of an 8 hour journey.

Swear: I’ll never use chicken buses again after a said to be $30 dollar day of transport turned into an $80 day of defeat. $20 Boat to Honduran main land into a $15 fancy bus to a $2 chicken bus which didn’t actually take me anywhere good. Just to a cross roads where a mini bus driver raped me for $35 bucks to drive one hour which didn’t actually get me anywhere. To which a took took driver took me an additional 15 minutes for $8 which still didn’t get me to my promised stop of the hostel’s doorstep. I finally walked the last three blocks up hill, in the rain, 6 hours late, $80 lighter, with a solid pledge to just spend the extra 10 bucks the next time to be dropped off door to door.

There are two major claims to fame in Guatemala. Two things you can do out of the box here, that almost everyone passing through do. Spanish school (been there, 10 years ago, done that) and volunteer work. Please don’t get me started on the later.

But perhaps more colossal that Guatemala is my obsession with when and how home will be. I have a habit of getting excited about where I will be in 2 months. I’ve had this habit all through the trip, but kept it quiet for the sake of the reader. I met a dive instructor who told me of a secret place where all the whale sharks go (like to the tune of hundreds in one very special spot) in the right time of the year. This alone would keep me in, lets just say abroad, until my maximum time of August first. But in the same fashion, I have a dear friend who will be in California until no later than June 23rd which would put me back state side in no more than 2 weeks. I looked up the price of flights a few weeks from now and it is very cheap out of Mexico city, but taking my last two months and shrinking them into 2 weeks does something to the long range traveler. It puts the fear of God in them. It’s a whole lot like telling someone when they are going to die. All of a sudden, life is a rush. And I don’t want to go home at all. And I have a new found energy to hit it hard. All of a sudden, when I saw the Purchase button below the stupidly cheap ticket, I panicked.

Anyway, onward into something much overdue. How do I now feel about traveling as a whole, and every little bit in between. I can tell you that it’s been over a month since I’ve taken a picture. I can tell you that I’ve began to think a lot more often about home. Now, is that a function of my proximity to home? Does it mean that traveling has lost it’s luster? Does it mean that I’m a little far off of the middle path?

I’m in Honduras now. Only 7 months ago, there was a government overthrown here and I hope it is this as a reason that the people are less friendly in the streets. I hope dearly, that they aren’t just lame people. I’m on Utila, a Caribbean island that is much different than Little Corn (the Nicaraguan Caribbean island that I just came from ). Both have diving. Both have parties and white sand. But Little Corn was way more expensive to get to and twice as expensive to eat and live at. This was fine, seeing as the people at Little Corn were a thousand times nicer than those on Utila. The dive centers on Utila are a dime a dozen and operate under terrifyingly dangerous conditions and equipment. But the divers are new and of the backpacker persuasion, so they don’t know just how close to death they are.

For all the divers out there: At Underwater Vision, the dive shop I had a few dives with committed the following. Forgeting to provide regulators. Providing regulators that were audibly leaking on land. Hoses that were completely frayed (I got a new set). My dive master showed up still drunk from the night before (her breath was easily double over the limit to drive. Then again, so was my dive buddy. Safety stop? No way. Buddy checks? Once you are in the water, close enough. Dive profile? 18 meters, up to 6 meters and back down to 12 meters, then no safety stop. You know, no big deal. But that wasn’t even the dangerous part. The dangerous part was attempting to put 12 divers in the water off the back of a boat that rocked and rolled in 4 foot surf. Something about strapping a 60 pound weight to your back and wearing size 80 shoes on a wet and heavily moving surface (with blury vision) doesn’t sound safe. Let’s not forget how they neglected to warn anyone about the rope clotheslining everyone on the boat when the boat swings across the buoy. A bunch of fucking kids out here more concerned about how hard they party than the safety of their divers. I have more dives than a few of the dive masters.

Then there was the story that our dive master told about her group the day before: “ I was underwater with 6 new divers and half way into the dive, one of them was almost out of air. Then the next one was almost out, and the next. It wasn’t safe to bring them up because the waves were really big at the surface, so I just had to alternate the the ones with a little air, with the ones with no air.” Last time I checked, there was a ton of air on the surface, and it will be, in every instance, safer to battle waves on the surface than have no air under it.

Parts of this place remind me of Australia. Just a party town. Just a bunch of kids. But they are older here and more inclusive because of it. After all, we are in Latin America, and the demographic is much closer to 30 here because anywhere that English is not the first language, is never the first traveling location for the English speaker. Actually I want to make a rule right now. South America is a 30 year old demographic (plus or minus a few years) and Central America is a 25 year old party demographic (Plus or minus a few years).

Back to traveling on an existential level. I feel like I am very near an epiphany (no way I spelled that right on the first try!!!!), but before that comes, my thoughts are in a jumble. Back to Honduras.

They don’t really have their own food here. Instead they have simple versions of Mexican favorites. In a doughy flour tortilla, comes refried beans, eggs, meat, cheese, and onions. Amazing street food. The problem is that most people serving them are in a real bad mood. We found the single lady with a smile and gave her a ton of business.

And of course, things come in threes (or more) so the moment I ended my travels with two Canadian girls from Islands in British Colombia, I had to meet a few more from neighboring ones (Come to think of it, my current hostel has no less than 15 people from British Columbia). One of the more interesting ones was Ria, an actual cool hippie. No righteous political demands. No eating restrictions to fit in. No obsession with hemp or legalizing marijuana. Just the fact that she was raised by real hippies, who still live in a bus, down by the river. She is logical, not defensive. She makes crafts, but gives them to her friends, instead of trying to pose as a local and sell them on the streets. She is to being a hippie, what the lead singer of Bad Religion is to Punk Rock (Not a poser). At this rate, I won’t be able to hate hippies for long.

Oh wait, then there was the amazingly interesting massage therapist from the Czech Republic. Let’s just say, best massage I’ve ever had, and a ton of really interesting conversation to go along with it. I kept trying to break into silence so I could fully enjoy it, but she kept on chatting away

But there was one phrase that stuck to me like glue. When talking about how hard it is to give 4 massages in a row, she replied with “I am grateful”

The way I heard this was: “I……….. AM…………GREAT-FULL.” I had never actually heard anyone say that, let alone mean it with the sincerity that she had. She was an enthusiast. She loved what she did and she did it from her home. She spent the whole day, very close to her two boys. She explained that it was a response to how cold and far her parents were from her in her childhood.

I got to thinking of responses and how that is a great show of character. What great strength? What power to chose to be different than what you have known your whole life? My grandmother was a brilliant woman who turned into a house wife. For this reason, she cried a lot when my Mom was growing up. My Mom made the conscious decision to be different. She became a career woman. Her motto was be her own boss so that she could control her own work day. She also often mentioned that if she wasn’t gone all day working, that our world wouldn’t be possible.

My Mom is diligent. She is a saver and an investor, but I don’t think she really fucked around when she was in her twenties (she just recently has begun to start spending those splendors). For that matter, I have already somehow made a response to her way and philosophy. I am now dedicated to being broke when I am 30. My philosophy is that if you have money at that age, then you haven’t been living hard enough. I don’t suggest that you piss your check down your throat every weekend, nor do I suggest you amass a fleet of cars that could easily be mistaken as rockets. I mean that you should be amassing experiences and stories that will keep you warm in the coldest night, keep you laughing whilst trapped in an elevator, and keep your grandchildren in awe every time they come to see you and that tube that is draining the fluid from god knows where.

Back to Utila. A few awesome developments. Went on a boat ride to the keys on the north side of the island. The captain and owner of the boat was none other than the Mayor of Utila. This is a kooky place where everyone is “the best on the island”. The best lawyer, dentist, laundry mat, really actually means “Only”. Speaking of best, the best doctor on this island also happens to cover the position of best drug dealer. Doctor John is an A class heavy drug addict. He parties harder than anyone on the island and tends to stitch people up in between cocaine benders. His office is strewn with rotten and rusty equipment and his waiting times are often upwards of 3 hours (to find the good doctor and give him the proper dose of cocaine to take the shakes away). In the case of medicine, there is actually an alternative clinic on the other side of the island, but only the locals use that, because they don’t speak English, and they are not right beside the best ice-cream shop on the island.

Back to the existential state of travel. Almost all of my clothes are now wearing dangerously thin to a crotch blow out. Many of the stitching is just beginning to rot to the point that beach volleyball will likely burst my shorts and or swim trunks. I really wanted to make it all the way back to the states without having to buy a new wardrobe. Something about bringing everything out with me for a year and a half and bringing it all home just sounded a bit more romantic. Thought typing it now sounds far from it. But then again, my trip was only supposed to be for 13 months. The extra 5 could explain how things are wearing thin. Is my patience wearing thin? Is my interest wearing thin? Or is it just my interest in this particular region? I will say that the beach party scene does in fact get old for me if I don’t have anything categorically amazing to supplement such as great waves, food, diving, scenery, and most importantly, people.

Nail Polish: “Now with extra garlic!”

Need currency changed?: Men in the street playfully slap each other on the backs with loosely held bricks of cash worth no less than a thousand dollars. Yes, it’s that safe here, and no they don’t rip you off at all. They take a tiny percentage.

Buses that cost 70 cents: Like they should! Comes with guy who climbs on the roof while the bus barrels down the dirt road at no less than 50 miles per hour.

An inexplicable obsession: With Miami of all places. I have been asked by no less than 5 men how it is in Miami and then quickly told that that is their dream destination.

Fun Station: when it only costs 12 bucks, you can count on it not working out like the playstation it is modeled after.

A personal assistant: The boy who’s few English sentences include: “Are you having my baby? Did you meet her on the Internet? And of course, Miami is somewhere I’d like to go.”

White lobsters: The down low, slang for cocaine (We are still on the track that drug runners use to get to USA)

Snoring Pilots: The standard procedure when flying a 12 person passenger plane when your co-pilot takes care of the 5 degrees of yaw caused by a strong tail wind, and the passengers snap as many photos of you as possible.

Nicaraguan abortions: The ferry boat from big corn island to little corn island speeds across the Caribbean, hitting 6 foot swells head on. As the bottom drops out from below, it’s spine blasting landing in the flats, cause your balls as well as any women’s embryo shatter against the hard plank of wood that poses to be a seat. Two men stand at the very front of the boat and hold a rope which looks a lot like they are attempting to wrestle the beast into submission.

Finned, washed up, baby tiger sharks: Booooooooo !!!!!! The three foot beauty was torn limb from limb and dumped to drown. Fuck that! Wait, the mommy can be as big as 20 feet :0 What the hell am I diving for?

Living on the beach: My bright yellow bungalow has an unobstructed view. If that view gets too hot, I can just walk 30 feet and be in the Caribbean. That’s ten bucks, beat it, I dare you! The ocean breeze splashes through the loosely placed slats that make up my only walls. The crab in my shower gets pissed on daily, because that’s my shower, and that’s what I do in the shower every morning. Fuck off crab! (I’m cussing too much)

7 Dolphins!!: Ok, that’s not funny at all, but it sure is rare. Our dive master has been diving here for 16 months and has only encountered them while diving once before.

String of pearls: No no no, it didn’t just become a sexual list. These little phytoplankton emit light all the time, but when you dive at night, they are finally visible. As they swim across your plane of vision, they make flashes of blue and green, like a galaxy of stars. When you surface, you get to see the real thing. Google it bitch! (don’t believe him; he isn’t angry) (Did I really just invent speaking in the 4^th person?)

My thoughts are a jumble. I can’t make much of a story out of all of this, but it’s better than nothing.

I’m off to Utila in Honduras which is one of the more reliable places in the world to see whale sharks. This will hopefully be my second dance with the 40 foot shark.

Snap, crack, boom! I feel like a trillion bucks, and if I had that much, I’d buy all the Jello and cover you in it #&^%#$^(&*

Here, people tend to make it a point to strike up a conversation with you if they can speak English.  Most of them, in my short experience have learned English on the fly.  Never in a formal setting, yet they can still hold conversations for hours.

So far, the fruits are not as sweet as in Costa Rica, the water is not as warm, and the jungles not as lush.  But this place is different.  I passed a bunch of trees near the boarder that were infested with green vines that seemed to snake their way along the branches, instead of hanging down.  I arrived in San Juan Del Sur which is a small fishing town with waves near bye.  It is also known for its party atmosphere.  Initially when I got to the down it seemed all but deserted.  I decided to have a walk down to the beach.  It was a long and flat bay with dozens of fishing boats peppered just off the shore.  I saw a point at the end of the bay and decided to walk to it.  Before I knew it, I was balls deep in a flurry or unforgettable rock formations.  Slanted at a 45 degree angle, the layers of crumbling rocks attempted to dump me into the sea as I traversed.  Then I came upon a quarry of round stones, so picture perfected, they belonged in the menu of I-phone wallpapers.

I kept rounding corners with benefit of more and more bizarre findings.  By fate’s hands, I slipped on a few rocks covered with moss.  I fell hard on the stones, yet emerged healthy.  Just as I was wondering if someone had seen my blunder, I heard someone else fall in the exact place.

I passed several sea level caves that waves washed into like a slot.  Depending on the surface of the caves, the different sounds emerged unique and indescribable.  The real gem of the journey was a particular rock that was covered with blue green iridescent crabs.  Only 2 inches long, these spies stood 7 inches wide.  They looked and moved much more like spiders that the crabs they claimed to be.  Mesmerised by these armies, I took moments to reflect.  I came up with a phrase that I know to be a new found truth.

Beauty, in its highest form, is to commit the impossible.

I returned back to the hostel after my five minute wander developed into a 3 hour adventure.  Soaked from the sun, I watched it set from the rooftop as night would bring me back to my familiar surface.