Pickles & Dimes

I loved wave jumping in the ocean. The waves were huge; huge enough that two guys were surfing. This was the best part of the trip. Especially since you could touch the bottom of the sea floor for quite a distance from shore. I especially loved the “I can still feel the waves rolling even though I’m sitting at the dinner table hours later” feeling. I loved that better than the feeling I had after I mistimed a jump and a giant wave slapped me in the back of the head so hard I almost cried.

Trident Tropical Twist is the best gum ever. It retains its fruity taste, even after swallowing five gallons of saltwater. Not that I would know, because I’ve never not paid attention to the waves and been thrown backwards underwater 15 feet.

Jetskiing looks a lot smoother from land. After 10 minutes of riding behind Jason, I had to politely ask him: “Could you at least TRY not to hit every single wave?”

I had to buy new sunglasses, because mine were suited only to shield against domestic sunlight, not international. I lost them on the 4th day for 30 minutes, until a nice maid returned them to me.

Banana daiquiris for 5 days straight? Hell, yes.

Apparently, applying SPF 30 five times a day still means you burn. I burned the tops of my hands, of all places.

Two pelicans dive-bombed the water constantly. Pelicans rock.

We also saw a barracuda that had gotten washed up into the shallow water by the waves. We followed it around for 10 minutes, until it got really, really close to me and I panicked and fled for safety. (I mean, until I had a very important previous engagement on the beach.)

I got sand everywhere. In places you never, ever want to see sand.

Worst part of the vacation? The part where we went out to eat at Ruth’s Chris and I swallowed a teeny piece of steak that decided to take the scenic route down my throat and become lodged in my esophagus.

I took a drink of my water, thinking it was just stuck. Nope. So I sat at the table for a few seconds thinking, “Aw, great. I’m choking.”

So I reluctantly turned to Jason and gave him the universal signal for “I’m choking and about to make a big scene in a crowded, fancy restaurant.” He started to give me the Heimlich, which only succeeded in me spitting out the water I already had in my mouth.

Three waiters came and took over. At this point, I was still pretty calm, because I was able to take huge gasping breaths that allowed in a pinprick of oxygen, but already I was calculating how much longer I could keep it up before I passed out. Also, I was hoping that my piece of steak didn’t go shooting out of my mouth and land on some guy from Nebraska’s plate. That was my primary fear, with the whole possible death issue a distant second.

Eight to 10 Heimlich thrusts later, the meat moved just enough for me to swallow it, proclaim that I was OK and thank the waiters profusely. Good times. Good thing I had enough of a sunburn, so people didn’t see how mortified I was. Jason’s face was ashen, his Mom was teary-eyed, but I just sat back down and said, “Well. That was exciting. Now we have a story to tell.”

Then I cut the rest of my steak into millimeter-sized pieces and chewed the hell out of it. I even ordered dessert. So, how much extra do you tip a waiter that saved your life? I’m curious.

Right now I am dealing with the knowledge that I am doing inventory until 10pm Friday and from 7am-6pm Saturday, and that I will be stuck with countless coworkers who are sick. I already have a sore throat. You know what cures sore throats? Saltwater.