I had just enough time for another morning dip. Jenny left in the early hours; her quiet departure was my gentle alarm clock.

I breakfasted in Half Moon Cabins' outdoor restaurant, where the pineapple pancakes compared poorly to the banana pancakes at Rudy's. And the service, while gracious, was incredibly slow. My waiter forgot tell me the restaurant was out of bacon until after serving the pancakes. Oddly, when Robin and Sheldon entered and took a table near mine, I overheard him listing bacon as one of the side dish options.

I sauntered to what already felt like my spot in the seating area. Previously, I'd followed the reef along the edge, where I found it a bit too shallow for my comfort. This time, I swam straight toward the cone in the middle of the bay and marveled at the difference: just shallow enough to feel close to the reef without chancing any contact.

I needed to check out by 10:30, so after an hour of snorkeling I decided to sun myself dry instead of going back in. I fell into conversation with a sweet elderly couple. The Honduran man with obvious European ancestry and his American wife were embarrassingly impressed at my evident swimming prowess. He'd visited West End back in the 70s, when there were no hotels or restaurants at all, and seemed excited at the difference.

I cleared out of Chillies and tucked my backpack firmly under wetsuits in the equipment room. I'd managed to work up an appetite again, but when the highly-recommended Velva's Roadside Restaurant was closed until 2pm, I resignedly headed back to Half Moon Cabins.

Ken was there. This was getting spooky. Turned out he was on the same flight back through San Salvador, so we had the airport in our future as well. I felt a little guilty for interrupting his journal-writing, but then again, he'd been under no obligation to invite me over. He was such a nice, pleasant guy, but our age difference—he was 44—may have led to some moments of disconnect. Still, knowing random people around West End made me feel at home.

Ken headed back to West Bay to pick up his luggage and a taxi, while I went cheapass and grabbed the 20Lps minibus from West End's main intersection to Coxen Hole. That bus...oh man, that bus...it was a short-distance chicken bus. The van barely broke walking speed, picking up everyone in sight even as some riders stood crouching. Squeezed next to the driver, I was hyper-aware of being touched every time he switched gears.

Coxen Hole looked much more intriguing than the guidebook implies. Yes, it was dusty and there weren't any nice beaches, but it seemed like an energetic mix of Latino and Caribbean cultures; and it may have been a market day. There was a distinct lack of tourists, who pass through in taxis to the more beautiful parts of Roatán.

A taxi cost 20Lps to go to the airport; I shared with a woman on her way home. She loved Brooklyn and noted that many "island people" lived there. She was an embroiderer and asked if I'd taken any special souvenirs from Roatán. When I realized I hadn't—and regretted not getting chance to see her work—I knew despite the fun I'd had on the island, I missed the local connection. I would like to visit Roatán again, but after some quality time underwater, I hope to explore a different side of the place.

<   previous      •      next   >