Molly Ivins, �Molly Ivins Can�t Say That, Can She?�
This is the final entry of an eleven-part story about Kaua�i, which begins here. Part six of the story is here. The rest, you�ll have to find on your own.
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After reading hearing my friend Fern complain about meat, I thought about the show I heard on NPR today about having cloned meat for sale and it made me smile. No, it�s not enough to slaughter a cow (or pig, or chicken or cute little children) just so we can eat, now, thanks to science, we can eat the same cow over and over again.
Not that this has anything to do with anything, but I did find it amusing.
Anyway, it�s my last full day on the island. We decided to do a family outing on a catamaran boat that culminates in a snorkeling stop around a cove that supposedly features lots of sea turtles. This is the same tour I went on last year where I was mistaken for a movie star, albeit on a different boat. I knew there was no possible way this trip would be as memorable as the last one, but it ends in two hours of free drinks!
Last year on this trip, I decided on the early tour. My sister said there was no way they were travelling 3/4th of the island at four in the morning, so this time we went on the afternoon tour which ends with the sun setting while you�re still on the boat.
Gullible ladies from Texas who think everybody is a movie star apparently only come out in the morning, as I was totally ignored on this trip. In fact, most of the people on this tour were close to my age. There was still the newlywed problem, but at least the people were better to look at.
I pointed out one particularly striking blond bimbette to my sister.
�So, tell me, as I don�t know how to judge these things,� I said. �Are those real?�
�The rule of thumb you should use,� she answered, �is if they don�t move, they�re not real.�
I watched her sit near the front of the boat in her tiny white bikini. The boat was moving fast at this point, and spray kept going over the side, dousing her in an effect that could only be deemed contrite in a music video.
They didn�t move. I didn�t care.
The catamaran reaches the snorkeling spot and the crew kicks us off the boat. Tiny white bikini girl decides to stay aboard.
Damn. Those would have been some good underwater pictures, although with as much silicone as this girl had, she probably wouldn�t be able to do anything but lay on her back.
Knowing how the big dumb ugly gray fish hang out by the boat and the crowd, I separated from the others as quickly as possible, all the while thinking about how we�re not that far from where I was pissing off sharks. But I forgot about all of that as soon as I saw the turtle.
This one was larger than the ones I hung out with last year, with a shell size bigger than my torso. This tour group has better equipment than the one I went on last year, so I dive down, feeling my eardrums strain from the depth of the ocean and swim close until I�m about six inches from the turtle, who is feeding off the coral. I hold my breath and position, just watching, when the turtle stops eating and looks at me.
Turtles, despite having a face full of wrinkles like a long term smoker, have amazingly expressive eyes. And now he�s looking at me with these eyes.
Can I help you?
No, I think, I�m just hanging out.
You find watching me eat fascinating, do you?
Well, sort of...
Aren�t you about out of air?
Now that you mention it...
Me too. Let�s go.
We both head to the surface, getting air. I hear a guide yelling to the rest of the crowd. �There�s one, there�s a turtle over there!� From the surface of the water, I can see a dozen people headed our way.
Fuck this, the turtle thinks, still watching me. Nice meeting you, but I�m gonna bail.
I don�t blame you. Though if this one girl was here who decided to stay on the boat...
Seen it before, buddy. I�ve seen it all before.
The turtle dived down again just as the first couple showed up with a video camera in a plastic bag. I left him alone. Nothing else turned up.
We get back to shore and announce that we�re going to hit the hotel with the pineapple drinks. My father, who has now seen more people in seven days than he�s seen in the last three months, says he�s not interested. If I want to go to the hotel, I�m going to have to drive myself there.
I�m not excited about the prospect of driving a car after two hours of free drinks, only to go to a hotel for more drinks, and then drive home again. But I had already thrown away my last pineapple souvenir. I follow behind my sister, giving her the stern warning that I have no intention of racing after her.
The night crew at the hotel bar is surlier than those I met previously. Our drinks have no bite to them whatsoever, and when we try and get them refilled the barkeep refuses, only making a normal drink and pouring it into our container. The bar closes at 10 p.m. and my sister and I part company.
And now I�m driving back on the one-lane freeway. I�m not feeling any effect from my booze consumption, but that�s probably only because any amount of intoxication I have has been replaced by sheer terror.
There are no streetlights, no light from passing houses, and only a scant few cars on the road. The freeway twists and turns suddenly, without warning or design. On one side of the road is the side of a mountain. On the other, the face spirals down onto the jagged cliffs below. Some areas of the edge aren�t visible due to coffee fields or tall reeds, but you know the edge is there.
To compensate, you speed up to gain on the distant car in front of you, following his path. Your speed grows. Sixty miles an hour, then seventy. Eighty. The locals know these roads like the backs of their hands, and they know they are difficult to navigate. Thus they know when a car is barreling up behind them, it can only be a mainlander, scared out of their wits. And they speed up.
You have two choices at this point � let them go and try to return to navigating the roads by yourself, or try to stay close to them, close enough to see when they start to curve. I opt for the latter, and that�s when they know they�re dealing with a tourist.
That�s when they turn their headlights off.
Not wanting to be discovered as a mainland dork, I turn my lights off as well.
It�s now a game, racing along the highway, using the dividers as your gauge even though the dividers are only located on the left side to keep you from speeding over the edge of the cliffs. This won�t save you from smashing into the flimsy guardrail, which will certainly give way and after that, there is nothing to do but plow down the side of the mountain.
You can hear their engine, and you plunge the accelerator down, utilizing the sound as your guide in the black night. Then the car snaps his headlights on, only to turn down a side street, leaving you to navigate the highway at 90 miles an hour, afraid to take your hand off the wheel to turn your headlights on.
It�s at this point that the world slows down for you. Your actions are a hair trigger away from death as you make the sudden sharp left curve. You reach down and pull the headlights back on, but it�s too bright, and so you turn them off again. The only sound you hear is the engine from the vehicle and the trade winds whipping though the open window, trying to whip the lit cigarette out of your clenched lips. You see the signpost up ahead: two miles until your exit.
And with the lights still off, you press down harder on the gas.
