The 22 hour rule

It’s no secret that Dan loves to drive. Anywhere and everywhere, Philadelphia, New Orleans, Los Angeles and even Texarkana Texas, for a Saturday lunch at Bryce’s cafeteria! (Lamb stew and pecan pie--I kid you not). I’m not so enamored of long-distance drives. My legs get jumpy, I get irritable and I’m not a big fan of Dan’s books on tape (Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy and the Harry Potter series being notable exceptions). Bottom line, it’s the 21^st century, give me a plane ticket and I'm good to go.

Dan’s quite vocal that he always prefers to drive anywhere he can get in less than 22 hours. Our latest adventure to Cozumel requires an airplane because it (happily) crosses over Dan’s 22-hour rule and also includes a ferry, because--island! I manage the booking, through Funjet vacations, because they'll let us depart from Milwaukee. Our outbound trip was uneventful and reinforced my superior view that air travel is the best travel. Of course, superior travel views must be crushed by reality and our return trip was anything but uneventful.

I need to back up a few days into the vacation. I had some kind of something brewing. Dan and I had four dives over two days, and took a surface day on Tuesday. Wednesday I woke up with sinus congestion and a sore throat. Never dive with congestion as it’s extremely difficult to equalize and if you are able to reach max depth you can really hurt yourself on the ascent. No worries though, in a dive community strong decongestants are not hard to find – it’s a diver’s heroin. We missed three dives on Wednesday, including our night dive. But after 24+ hours of self-medicating we were back on the dive boat Thursday afternoon for two more great underwater adventures.

On decompression day Friday the congestion returned to my chest, along with a nasty cough. We had planned a trip to Tulum, followed by a stop over in Playa del Carmen to visit an old friend. In Playa, we stopped at a pharmacy, and were surrounded by shelves full of medical miracles. I’m sure I could have purchased all sorts of narcotics or sedatives or (the mind reels) stuff that would have had some street value in the US. Geez, at the very least cough syrup with codeine. I spoke with the pharmacist, some 16-year-old, and described my symptoms. I was given a magic elixir and money changed hands. Dan was also perusing the shelves and noticed those magic blue pills that require a prescription in the States. He’s tried them, on rare occasions in the past, and I will admit it does take things to 11 (Spinal Tap reference—look it up.) Those went in the bag as well.

I stepped outside and was encouraged by Dan to take a big swallow – blessed relief on the way – only to discover I had been sold what tasted suspiciously like what every mom knows is Dimetapp. I've never felt so ripped off. By Saturday, I was done in with an uncontrollable cough, anxious to head home and first world medicine.

The first flight from Cozumel back to the states went as expected and we landed in Charlotte early. Our connecting flight was marked as delayed, so we stopped for dinner. When we returned to the gate we found that the flight was cancelled. Over at customer service we got a hotel voucher and were scheduled on the 5:30am flight to O’Hare, so now we had two flights instead of one. I coughed maniacally all night long, logged about 45 minutes of sleep, keeping Dan awake as well. We left for the airport at 4am and made the first flight.

Landing at O’Hare we were directed to the connecting gate for Milwaukee. “Everyone going to Milwaukee on this flight goes to G3!” we were told three times as we landed. We sat at G3 for about 90-minutes waiting to board. When I handed my pass over to the gate agent, it was rejected. The agent then said we were “not on a US Airways flight, we were on United.” What? How would we know that? “Look at the code,” she said. “What?” I burst into tears and she happily pointed to the exit and the United terminal. She said to Dan “This happens all the time.” Feel the love.

Dan took off in a sprint and I did my best to keep up, stopping along to way to hack out pieces of lung. As I rounded the corner of the United terminal I realized I had lost Dan in the crowd, which only exacerbated my overall sick-feeling. Ready to just sit down and give up, I heard my name from a gate and saw Dan waving me down. He was already negotiating with a gate agent to get us on a new flight, any flight, which would get me home. He had deployed the “sick and weeping wife” defense in hopes of avoiding another trip to customer service.

(This is from Dan: I push past a bunch of people to get to the front of the line, asking what gate our flight is at—it’s not on the boarding pass. “That flight left 10 minutes ago.” Where does this boarding pass with the full color American Airlines logo indicate it’s a United flight? “It’s the “U” in this line of code right here—you will need to go down to Customer Service to get this straightened out.” I look up to see my coughing, sobbing zombie wife shuffling down the aisle. I yell her name at full volume twice before she sees me. She starts shuffling in my direction. I turn back to the clerk. “In a moment you will have a very sick, sobbing woman standing here. How do we get on a plane to Milwaukee now? “Sir, as I said you will need to do downstairs to Customer Service.” In my former Customer Service days I hated when people did shit like this to me, but in my lowest, quietest my-wife-is-sick-and-I'm-done-dicking-with-airplane-people I hissed, “and where the fuck is customer service?” We stared at each other and she started typing. We had two boarding passes for a flight leaving for Milwaukee in 30 minutes in my hand before Paula reached the counter. End of Dan comment.) It worked; we were on a new flight within 30-minutes and home within 90. I love my knight in shining armor.

We figured our luggage would be waiting for us, having already arrived on an earlier flight. We were half right as one of two bags had been set-aside by the United baggage service. The United luggage attendant was super. Sizing up the situation she apologized for all of American’s failings and hustled us over to the US Airways baggage area. Looking it up in their system, our bag was safely sitting in Chicago in a US Airways terminal.

“And what was in the bag?” she asked as she typed up a claim form. About $1000 in dive gear, my tripod, most of our underwear, the souvenirs we bought and the keys we need to get into the house if we ever get home. “There’s a two year supply of happy pills in there,” Dan whispered in my ear. I think it was the first time I smiled in 24 hours.

The bag arrived home two days later—safe and sound. I know this is just a collection of first world problems, but when you're tired and sick, all you want to do is get home.

In summary, departure time from our hotel in Cozumel – 2PM CT on May 30. Arrival time at our home in Wauwatosa? 10:30AM CT on May 31 = 20 ½ hours, still beats the 22-hour rule, so what am I complaining about? And while we were on vacation, we investigated a new spot for retirement—Playa del Carmel on the mainland across from Cozumel. Affordable, colorful, and lots of fun. 85 and sunny almost every day. Close to a beach and close to diving. And you don’t need a prescription for any of that…either.

Music that resonates:

Driving all Night - The Tubes

The spy who loved me ... and other pirates

I met him two years ago. Handsome and quite tall, he spoke several languages. He was traveling with a friend and the two would stand off to the side speaking quietly to each other. They had a look of mystery about them. He wore top line dive gear and carried an amazing camera. When he ascended from a night dive the light on his rig lit up the ocean. On the dive boat, in my rental gear, I was intimidated. But not shy. When one collects pirates one simply can’t be shy.

International Spy, Jacques

I approached them both and asked if they were international spies tracking a criminal in Cozumel (spy movies are often set in exotic locales, aren’t they?), it seemed a reasonable question. They laughed pretty hard and we struck up a conversation. They both assured me that they were not international spies. (Yeah, right). Jacques (yes, that's his name) offered to share pictures from his dives. True to his word, I had them in my in-box about a week after vacation.

This last spring my office phone rang and a mysterious voice asked me to confirm the date our next vacation. Confused I asked who it was. “This is Jacques.” Really, how did you get my work number? “I’m a spy, remember?” Yes I do. We aligned our calendars and planned to meet in Cozumel in May. It’s awesome that his work takes him there so often – must be a hotbed of international criminal activity.

In the middle - Michael, James and Vince

I’ve met a few other interesting pirates in Cozumel as well. There is of course, Michael, a true pirate of the Caribbean. He’s even had me smuggle things into Mexico for him, like Everclear and Lipton Onion soup mix! (Never argue with a pirate). And Vince, the guy who talked Dan into his tattoo. And James – you’d know him if you saw him. He is the “world’s most interesting man.” And he borrowed my red bikini bottoms to wear as part of a costume. That’s a confident pirate.

Partying at the dive shop a couple years ago with Michael, Vince, James and the beautiful Laurie Ann, hilarity ensued until Vince said “In the years we’ve worked here you two are the freakiest women we have ever met. Let’s all go back to our house for dinner.”

Years ago there was pirate Bruce (before I even knew I collected pirates). A few of us were whooping it up one night at the long-gone Wimpy’s Hunt Club. Bruce and I were particularly boisterous. Wimpy approached Dan and said “If your wife and her friend can’t settle down you’re all out of here.”

Then there is my Wisconsin pirate, who we don’t see enough since he moved farther north. DJ, the most adorable bartender ever, had stories of Key West and run ins with police. His stories always stopped just short of disaster, but you knew he had lived a wild life. His margaritas remain the stuff of legend.

Three of my four current pirates have facial hair. As my seven loyal readers know, Dan shaves twice a day, and I remind him to shave when he’s stubbly. But when my pirates greet me I get a kiss and I don’t mind one bit.

A few weeks back Dan apparently missed his Friday evening shave. Saturday morning one thing led to another. Later Dan apologized for the stubble. No worries I told him. Show me a woman who doesn’t fantasize sometimes and I’ll show you a woman who stopped breathing six minutes ago. It’s good to have pirates. 

No-decompression limit

The day before we left on vacation, Dan sent me an e-mail stating he was “crispier than bacon.” Several incidents at work (details deleted) where his employees had been complacent. Had done things “the way they always did.” Had skipped procedures because they just didn’t see the point. As Dan explained, there but for the grace of God he would have had to tell three women that their husbands were not coming home from work. Ever.

Dan’s tension, coupled with significant changes in my job left us both ripe for some time off to decompress. We welcomed our annual dive trip to Cozumel.  We signed up for a “scuba review” to refresh our underwater skills, then launched into a week of diving. The one skill we’ve been less than proficient at maintaining is understanding our “no-decompression limit.”  Most divers these days wear a computer that calculates how much time they have at various depths against the amount of time needed for a 15’/3m safety stop before their final ascent. If you dive within the no-decompression limit your safety stop is 3 minutes. If not, you need extra time during the safety stop for your body to eliminate the nitrogen that collects in your bloodstream during the dive. As we don’t own dive computers (yet), manual calculation between dives is required, or you must rely on the dive instructor for direction.

Looking good underwater.

On our last dive of the week we hit our maximum dive time at depth and Sven, our dive instructor, had us follow him up from 90’ to 45’ to stay within our no-decompression limit.  Careful attention to the physics of diving and adherence to expert guidance resulted in a 67 minute dive, our longest, with "air to spare". It was the perfect way to end a week of diving, especially after a bit of a down note on the day before.

On the previous day, we learned (after our two glorious cenote/cave dives) that exactly four weeks before three divers had been complacent. Had done things “the way they always did.” Had skipped procedures because they just didn’t see the point. A dive guide with 15 years experience and two guests never finished their cenote dive. The guide and the woman were dead with empty air tanks. The guy still had 200 PSI (not a lot, enough to get out) but was dead as well. All in the cave we’d finished diving minutes before.

This got me thinking about the need for reflection. For decompression. For keeping a fresh perspective on the things, people and relationships I’ve known and had for years. For fear that if I get complacent, they (and I) may not fare so well. My personal self, my work self and my relationship self all do so much better when I’ve had time away from the routine. The need to decompress can not be underestimated. Inadequate decompression in diving will get you “the bends”.  Insufficient or infrequent decompression in life will result in all kinds of physical and mental side-effects, and they are not pretty.

During our first introduction to diving we learned that the number one rule of diving is to “look good”. We later learned that the real number one rule of diving is to not hold your breath. But we have always clung to the “look good” rule because it’s true. If you hold your breath, your lungs will pop, your eyes will explode, and you will not look good. So my hope for you is that you find your safe way to decompress. Because you have such lovely eyes.

10 things I learned in Cozumel

Bad Pancake Dive. Thanks to Kate (the girl with no first name—long story—for this one). The first dive of your vacation. It’s always bad, like a “bad pancake”, burnt on one side, raw on the other – you’ll eat it in your kitchen, but won’t serve it to guests. Make it a shallow dive and don’t dwell on the problems because the rest of your dives just get better. Blame it on a short fill tank and your partner. This worked for Dan.

Underwater photography. Awesome. This point and shoot girl found a new reason to dive more than once per year. I was surprised by how much I enjoyed it. For the first time ever I understood the importance of getting the right angle on a subject and patience for the right natural light.  One out of 30 pictures is a keeper, but when you get it right it’s really satisfying.

It’s about the light. Our little camera did a yeoman’s job, but a bright strobe is required to bring out the color in underwater life (It's not all blue and green, depth washes out the red). We’ll be stopping by the dive shop to rent the right gear before we dive again. I now (slightly) regret the Evil Eye I gave Dan when he bought the dive case last year right before we went to Key West. Sorry sorry sorry.

  

Pay for quality. We dive with the same dive center (Dressel Divers based in Spain)  every year. We trust them, their equipment and their expertise. We pay extra. Unlike divers who debriefed with us at the pool bar, we’ve never been LEFT BEHIND by the boat or been forced to squeeze an air hose to keep the air flow to a manageable level. Vince, Jake, Eduardo, Nat, Kate, Mattan, Michael to name a few—Thank You!

Don’t dive wearing green eye shadow. Or perhaps it would be better if you just say NO to the Star Friends when they want you to be in the show. Dan said yes and found himself wearing a dress, covered in make-up. He effectively removed most of it, but the next day, in the sunlight, his eyes were nicely framed by vibrant green eye shadow.

Air pig. An air pig is someone who uses up the air in the tank before their dive buddy. That would be Dan. Except twice, when I was taking lots of pictures and working hard to get close to subjects, then I was the air pig and Dan was forced to ascend with 1000 PSI.

Neutral buoyancy.  Dan is the master of “neutral buoyancy”, in which the diver’s body mass equals the mass it displaces in the water. A diver who has attained neutral buoyancy won’t sink or rise without physical exertion. If you struggle to achieve neutral buoyancy on your own, then dive with a partner that can. And never do a safety stop (15 feet/3 meters for 3 minutes) without one.

Bacon is universal. This highly sought after food is desired by every dive master in Cozumel, a big stack (on bread with cheese, please) will bring a ready smile and extra attention. Jake: “My Precious.” Nuff said.

You need a pirate in every port. (OK, I knew this already) It’s especially important when you are going to miss a pirate kiss on “spontaneous Thursday night at Hector’s”.  Then a pirate kiss in Cozumel, in another Mexican restaurant named after a Pirate, by a friend who IS a pirate is just as wonderful. It really is good to have pirates everywhere. (And Dan had no issues getting the Ms. Pirate kiss on the cheek from the very pretty Sandy in congratulations for our 33 year wedding anniversary.)

L-R: Pirate Michael, barman, France, Sandy

It’s not a party until someone smells like Tequila. So put down the camera. You watch the barman bringing seven two-ounce shots to the table. As he gets close Dan reaches for the camera, and two people leap into poses—and knock five of the seven shots into France’s lap (the person, not the country.) He brought more.

In summary, if we don’t move to Key West I could be talked into moving to Cozumel.  Can’t wait to dive there again next year.