Nica post #5, May 3 & 4, 2013:

(Note: First read Nica Post #3, Am I There Yet?, to put this post into context.) 

When I went to bed a few hours later that evening --  feeling quite exhausted--  I was a guest at Big Corn Island’s Arenas Beach Hotel.  I stayed in a one-room bungalow with adjoining bathroom. 

There was a consistent, soft breeze, coming off the ocean, which was at most a 3-minute walk from my door.  The humidity and daytime temperatures were high, but the latter at least subsided markedly when darkness fell.  I had some luxuries: wireless internet, hot and cold water (though I was admonished not to drink the tap water and I purchased bottled water even to brush my teeth), and air conditioning.  When I returned to the Nicaraguan mainland a few days later, I knew I would lose all three. The Corn Island phase was the “me time” part of the trip.

The next morning I took a 5-minute taxi ride to Nautilus Dive Center, the only dive center on Big Corn Island. There I met the proprietor, Chema Vides, a.k.a. Pirata Chema.  I was his only customer that morning, and soon he, I, and his assistant were a mile or so off-shore preparing to dive.

 

As Chema donned his gear, I noticed that he had several quite pronounced gashes around his abdomen area. Scar tissue. He explained that he had fought – as a Contra – during the Nicaraguan civil war of the 1980s. Interestingly, although he has lived in Nicaragua for years, he originally hailed from Guatemala City, at 5,000 feet elevation and far from the ocean.  Chema was quite a character, and his “pirata” moniker was a good fit. 


The last time I had gone scuba diving was in June or July of 2010, almost three years previously.  Whenever I experience a diving hiatus, I am usually a tad nervous about jumping into open ocean again. This day was no exception. 

Pirata Vides

Scuba diving is awesome; it puts me into a state of awe than can border on anxiety.  The anxiety almost always ends once I am in the water and safely through the first 35’ or so descent. This is largely because at around 35’ – if I make it that far having successfully equalized my ears – I usually experience no further ear problems or related issues. I am a slow equalizer, however. I am almost always the last one down. I must have a narrow Eustachian tube.  

The dive was enjoyable – even highly enjoyable – but it was not an A+ dive.  Part of my mild disenchantment had to do with our not going to Blowing Rock, the “go to” diving site on Big Corn Island.  Chema explained in broken English that, with only one customer that morning, the trip to Blowing Rock, which is considerably farther off-shore, could not be justified.  Blowing Rock aside, though, the underwater scenery, however enjoyable, never got out of the "B" range. Visibility was good, but I'd seen better at places like Grand Cayman, Utila, and Roatan.  The reef looked reasonably healthy and beautiful, but not as much as some other reefs I'd seen.


Me, 60 ft. down.

Following the first dive, we briefly returned to shore for what were to me ambiguous reasons.  I waited onboard and about 20 minutes later Chema returned with another customer, a woman who I quickly learned was named Arianna (Ari for short).  Ari lived in Havana, Cuba, until she was 25, at which time she left that island nation, living (as I recall) for a while in Argentina before marrying a Spaniard and taking up residence in Spain.

Ari spoke limited English and I spoke limited Spanish, but we managed. Despite the language limitations, and the drone of the engine as we headed toward our dive site, the two of us began exchanging stories.  My curiosity about Cuba, which is by far Latin America’s most interesting nation (in my estimate), along with Ari’s intrigue upon learning that I, an Americano, had spent some time there (where Americanos are rare), left us with much to talk about. After all, her country and mine have perhaps the most paradoxical relationship in the history of New World geo-politics. Her love of scuba diving, moreover, equaled or surpassed mine.  Ari was by nature enthusiastic and optimistic, constantly smiling and laughing.  


The ferry ride from hell. Before boarding.

The next day, May 4, Ari and I left our respective hotels and met at the dock. There we took the 45 minute ferry ride to Little Corn Island (LCI). It was perhaps the most miserable 45 minutes of my life so far.  As soon as we left the harbor, waves began to heave and the boat began to “jump the water,” rising upwards and slamming back down with great force.  It was nightmarishly painful and there was absolutely nothing that I – or any of the other miserable passengers – could do about it.  I heaved to vomit several times, though (thankfully) nothing came out. (I’d positioned myself so that, to my left, was the open ocean, the best place to direct one’s vomit.)  I heard the sound of several others heaving, but luckily none were immediately behind or next to me. The small boat was crammed with passengers to the maximum and, while life preservers were on-board, they were not distributed to the passengers. (OSHA would not have approved.) It felt unsafe, and it was. Such are the adventures of traveling in a developing country. 
 

The joy of deboarding.

LCI was beautiful. Unlike Big Corn Island, which had been ravaged by a hurricane some years before, Little Corn’s tree canopy was in much better condition.  Little Corn was a tropical Haight-Ashbury. Fair-skinnd Caucasians from places like Belgium, Germany, Britain, Canada, and the United States were all about, most all of them 20-somethings, many of them pot-smoking 20-somethings.

"Downtown" Little Corn Island.

Our hopes of diving on LCI quickly turned sour as the two dive shops near the dock were booked solid for the day.  Since Ari was heading back to Spain the next day, this day offered us two the only hope of diving on Little Corn. So we began what we thought would be a short trek across the island to a third diving establishment, one away from Little Corn’s mini-urban madness.

In spite of the heat and the intense tropical sun, the hike across LCI was fun. However, we made a wrong turn somewhere, so upon reaching the north end of the island we were nowhere near where we wanted to be. We walked along the shore, which in places was very rocky and where we were continually under the sun. Since we were on the north side, the currents and wave action were far more aggressive. That we could see without even going into the water. We briefly stopped at a small-ish resort under construction, where we found some shade and asked for directions. We pushed on, and on some more, until we found the place we were looking for.

We did get to go scuba diving that day, but I wish we hadn't.




On Little Corn Island's north shore.

 





Capt. Chema

On Little Corn Island, looking northward.