We met Robin and Sheldon while boarding the ferry; the laid-back couple was driving from Canada all the way through South America. In Roatán we agreed to split a cab, as Coxen Hole was a long way off from West End. Ken was actually headed to West Bay, but he'd still save some money.

The process of getting our luggage back was bizarre: the handlers would either hold up a bag waiting for recognition from the dense crowd, or they'd state the numbers on the bag tags but not quite loudly enough. And of course, multiple handlers would speak at once. It was kind of like the stock market, or at least the Hollywood version of such.

I knew hotels in West End close early, but I'd hadn't expected to arrive past 7. The cabbie tried a few hotels but we found many shuttered receptions. He was really pushing for Dolphin, so much so that I suspected he was getting a commission—but Dolphin's only vacancy was a dorm room that at $40 would only be considered reasonable if Sheldon and Robin shared with me. What vacationing couple doesn't dream of that?

Hell, if I'm paying for 3 beds I'm using them all!

Chillies—my original goal—was still open, so we got off there and bid farewell to Ken. The receptionist put me in the only room available, which had 3 beds. There was no dorm option on Chillies' pricelist, so it was unclear if the $18 I was charged would have reduced if the room were full; I just knew that for a shared bath, $18 was crazy steep. [Prices have raised since 2/2007]

The room was stuffy so I unpacked with the door open. A friendly girl named Jenny peeked in and told me she had a cabin in the back, and her roommates were leaving the next day. As we were both staying until Saturday, it made sense to room together. The private ensuite cabin was quite pleasant, surrounded by tropical plants and set back from the road. Sharing it was a relative bargain at $13.

The private hut

Scenery in Chillies' back area is much prettier than the front

I hung out with Jenny and her friends Jamie, T.J. and Jake the rest of the evening rather than exploring. T.J. cooked up a huge batch of cheese-covered pasta, which was just what my tired body wanted. The group had met in a Guatemalan Spanish school, but while Jenny, Jamie and T.J. were heading home soon, Jake had settled into Roatán to get his divemaster certification. Jake was a gregarious Chicago boy who'd done a fair bit of traveling; he peppered his passionate speech liberally with "man," "shit" and "fuck" and dreamed of improving his underwater photography.

With plenty of beer and weed to go around, the long travel day quickly took its toll. I headed to bed early, fantasizing about snorkeling.

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