Ambergris Caye

I wanted to delete the Belize photos but couldn’t. Despite the pain, I liked the memories. The tiny shack of an airport in Belize City. The air, thick and sultry. My hand on the small of your back, a drop of sweat rolling over it. The water taxi. The Caye through a porthole window. The sea breeze as we stepped onto the dock. Conch Republic flags rippling. The view when we opened the condo door. You found Fifty Shades of Gray in the basket under the TV and laughed, then spent hours each day alone with it in the hammock or a beach chair by the water. And when the mood struck, you lead me to the bedroom where you slid your bathing suit to the side and pulled at my drawstrings. The scent of tanning oil. We were years and miles from harsh winters in new places, the cross-country move that doomed us to grow apart. I squeezed your shoulder and watched the color leave your skin and return. Ebbing curtains, the swinging blades of a tropical ceiling fan. Much of that Belize trip was like that. Or at least what I can remember. The memories now lather together like foam atop a curling wave. There was that perfect boat trip day, picked up before sunset. Beyond the reef, you landed a snapper, then an angel fish. We went to what the captain called the conch graveyard and free dove and searched the seafloor for shells buried in the sand or hidden under sea plants. The first mate made ceviche right there on the boat. Squeezing fresh lime in the wind. He separated the sea snail from its home with something long and metal. In the afternoon, we spearfished lobster. You floated on your back kicking your flippers, not wanting to shoot because you found them cute. I speared one and swam it to the surface, then dove back under. Finally, you went after a lobster. I swam along beside. You fired errant and shot off a leg that slowly floated to the bottom. The lobster pulled itself in and whooshed away in that peculiar way they do. You never managed to get that lobster, chasing it too far from the boat until the captain called you back. On the beach, we cooked the lobster and the fish over an open flame. The roasting skin burned our nostrils. Back out on the boat, we bobbed with the engines off, and ate and drank good Belizean Rum as the sun set quietly behind the reef.