COZUMEL: October, 2005 (Part 5)

By the final slurp of our Brandy Alexanders we had a course of action. If the weather was no worse in the morning, I would go off in search of Dramamine while William packed the snorkeling gear. We would take that glass-bottom boat trip, we would see pretty fish, and we would not vomit.

Later in our room, while brushing my teeth, I drifted over to the television and clicked on CNN. I froze mid-brush and stared at the weather graphic in front of me. I made a gurgling noise to get William's attention.

The tropical depression now had a name: Wilma.

And she was a Category 5 hurricane.

This is the worst storm in Atlantic history for as long as storms have been recorded, the broadcaster intoned.

The map on the screen didn't target the Yucatan. It didn't target Cancun.

The single location pictured was a tiny island: COZUMEL.

Toothpaste dripped down my chin as I pointed to the TV. We have to get out of here. Mierda.

After umpteen futile attempts to reach the airline by phone (at $3 a minute), we had no choice but to wait until morning to seek help from the concierge.

We crawled into bed, exhausted from stress and hard thinking. After flopping around on the bed, smashing my pillow and uselessly squeezing my eyes shut, I gave up. I exhaled shallow, anxious breaths and tried to imagine how events would unfold.

Thanks to CNN, my head was filled with terrifying facts.

The power would go out early in the game, probably when winds reached Category 1 status at 74 mph. Our room would plunge into blackness. The air conditioning and refrigeration would shut down. An ocean surge would flood the hotel and the streets.

A Category 2 force of 110 mph would shatter those floor-to-ceiling windows in the lobby and blow out the sliding glass door in our room.

And when the Category 5 gusts hit at upward of 155 mph—

COZUMEL: October, 2005 (Part 4)

That evening, the weather forecast on CNN remained indeterminate. The tropical depression over Jamaica still looked far off.

Despite that, over a bottle of wine at dinner, we discussed our options.

We quizzed our waiter about management's contingency plans in the case of a storm. He told us during Hurricane Emily, in July, the hotel ferried its guests across to Cancun and another resort. He also reminded us this brand new hotel was substantially built. No worries.

We knew it was unlikely we'd be reimbursed if we left early. People save for years for a vacation like this. Were we alarmists to consider bolting?

Do you think there's a tiny part of us that would like to experience the drama of a hurricane? I asked William.

Possibly.

That isn't a good reason to stay, is it?

No.

An employee at the front desk informed us that in the event of a natural disaster, the hotel would look after its guests. We would be granted "refugee status" and be "cared for."

Mildly assured, we went to the bar and ordered Brandy Alexanders. William wondered if the tourists dragging their wheelie suitcases down New Orleans' flooded Canal Street after Hurricane Katrina were also told they would be "cared for."

By our second drink we asked ourselves what we'd be staying for. We couldn't snorkel as long as those black flags continued to billow. We'd pretty much done the "all-inclusive" eat-what-you-want thing and enjoyed Jacuzzis every day in our room.

The only item left was a brackish trip on the glass-bottom boat.

Sometimes I wonder if it isn't better, in the case of a natural catastrophe, to have it just happen. In Los Angeles an earthquake shows up whenever it wants, full of surprise and gotcha!

With a warning, decisions have to be made. I knew I was being childish, but I wanted the vacation to last. I wanted it to be everything I read and everything I saw in those photos. I wanted, I wanted, I wanted....

COZUMEL: October, 2005 (Part 3)

The glass-bottom boat docked at the hotel pier and I asked a few disembarking passengers about any seasickness. The men said they got ill and the women laughed, but everyone agreed the snorkeling from the boat was worth the rough waters. As they walked away, one fellow looked back and said, You may want to get out there sooner than later. Weather doesn't look good for the next couple of days.

The television in our room offered limited local news. We watched CNN International and learned that a tropical depression had formed in Jamaica with a possibility of heading toward the Yucatan. And a possibility of gaining strength and becoming a Category 2 or 3 hurricane.

We came into our room after dinner and from the balcony I could hear waves lapping at the rocky shore. Karaoke singing floated up from the bar. The black warning flags flapped over the railing. We went to sleep with the balcony doors cracked open to the sounds of the sea.

At four a.m. I awoke to hear loud crashing waves and something blowing in the wind. Creaking chains or rope. In the dark, I started across the room to close the doors and forgot about those hazardous two steps down. Suddenly airborne, I flew then landed on both feet like an action hero.

A lucky break.

At breakfast, I pointed out a couple of hotel guests with their legs in casts and, over there, a man with his arm in a sling. Perhaps they had not been so fortunate with their steps.

You know how things happen in threes? I said to William. Well, I nearly lost my contact lens and I nearly broke my foot....

William, not easily impressed with omens, nodded and added sugar to his coffee.

It was Tuesday and we were off to Chankanaab for some spectacular snorkeling. On the tour bus we met a couple from San Antonio and asked if they'd heard any weather news. Not really, but the woman had asked her sister back home to call with updates. Originally from Florida, they'd survived Hurricane Andrew, a Category 4 in 1992.

You were lucky.

Yeah, I guess. We came home to four walls on a slab of cement, but we got through it.

CNN reported the possibility of a hurricane coming our way.

Possibility is the key word, the woman said. They can easily drift in another direction. We've lived through so many of those warnings where nothin' happens.

These folks knew a thing or two about hurricanes.

William and I struggled to snorkel in Chankanaab. The rough ocean made William queasy and I had to constantly stop to clear my snorkel. We were knocked against rocks and spent most of our time trying to avoid cuts and bruises. The water was cloudy and, frankly, any colorful fish seemed to have vacated the area. Perhaps they knew something we didn't.

We found a pair of lounges on the beach, opened our books and held tight to the riffling pages. I glanced up at the palapa above our head. How do its branches and leaves stay together during a storm? Still, the sun shone brightly from a nearly cloudless sky and we lathered up with suntan lotion.

COZUMEL: October, 2005 (Part 2)

Down below, I noticed red warning flags fluttering on the deck railing. On closer study, the ocean was actually jumping with whitecaps. We were prepared for rain but hadn't considered wind. Snorkeling off the hotel deck would be impossible in such strong wind. We'd be bashed into the rocks. I pushed aside the worry. The gusts will calm.

The room was tastefully decorated in dark brown, blue and beige. A split-level design had two steps leading from the bed to a sitting area. Hmmm. The combination of the glossy marble floors and those steps could prove deadly after one too many glasses of champagne.

In the evening we took a stroll and explored the hotel. We sipped piña coladas and peered over the deck at crashing waves. It was not looking good. Maybe tomorrow will be calmer.

With my back to the ocean, I faced the hotel. Guests chatted over cocktails at the warmly lit bar. The lobby and the hotel's three restaurants were all visible through tall windows. Because there was no beach it felt as if we were on an ocean liner. Laughter floated from across the pool. Glasses tinkled and a balmy wind blew strands of hair across my cheek.

I thought of the Titanic.

On Sunday afternoon we wandered through the town of San Miguel and made our way north along Cozumel's coastline to a park. The beach was filled with locals. We sat on a log and watched families picnic. Dads drank beer, moms cradled infants and children threw themselves fully clothed into the warm sea.

When we returned to the hotel we noticed the red warning flags had been replaced with even more serious black ones. The wind had intensified.

The resort offered us two free tours from several options, including the Mayan ruins of Tulum, a glass-bottom boat ride and a snorkeling trip to the national park of Chankanaab.

We picked Chankanaab for Tuesday and the boat ride for Wednesday. Until then we'd read and lounge by the pool.

Poolside on Monday morning, I knocked out a contact lens while putting on swimming goggles. I managed to snatch it up before the strong breeze did.

A lucky break.

COZUMEL: October, 2005 (Part 1)

Once we became snorkeling and vacation addicts, William and I researched new spots and discovered the much-lauded Cozumel, an island off the Yucatan Peninsula of Mexico. Because it sits on the world's second-largest coral reef, Cozumel is an ideal location for snorkelers and scuba divers alike. It called to us.

We chose a brand new "all-inclusive" five-star resort. Its website boasted of snorkeling access directly off an infinity pool. Photos enticed us with crystal-clear waters lapping a rocky bank. It called to us.

The resort didn't have a private beach and we were fine with that. We didn't need a beach. With only 175 rooms, each with a large Jacuzzi tub, we figured we would avoid noisy tourists.

Weather reports indicated it was Yucatan's rainy season. Rainy (but warm) was all right and snorkeling in a drizzle is completely doable and actually quite lovely.

We were also aware that hurricane season wouldn't officially end until after November, but Cozumel and neighboring Cancun hadn't been struck since July. As we were already into October, we felt we'd be fine. Entranced by the resort's online photos, we saw what we wanted to see and we read what we wanted to read because: It called to us, and we were willing to take the chance.

We booked a one-week stay and left on an overnight flight Friday, October 14.

A perfectly logical thought ran through my mind: There have been quite enough hurricanes this year; I'm sure they've run out. Even though we'd seen coverage on the handiwork of Dennis, Emily, Katrina and Rita, this was my thinking despite scientists' warnings in May of 2005 that the hurricane season would be "above normal" and active. As it turned out, 28 tropical and subtropical storms formed and 15 of those became hurricanes that year.

We arrived in Cozumel on Saturday, entered the hotel and were greeted with glasses of chilled champagne. Nice touch. We sipped, looked up and gasped. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, there it was: a vista of blue-green ocean dancing in sunlight. Exactly like the photos. Around the infinity pool guests lay on chaise lounges, browning their bodies. Next to them, colorful exotic drinks sat on small tables.

William took my hand and I kissed his cheek. Vacation. We would spend time together. Perfect. We look like the people on the website.

I nibbled a guacamole appetizer and William registered at the desk. I suddenly regretted we'd only booked one week. From our air-conditioned room we stepped outside to a large balcony. Tropical humidity embraced us. A hammock rocked in the breeze and waited for someone with a book. The Mexican Caribbean spread before us in a stunning endless view.

KAUAI, HAWAII: Spring, 2005

Travel versus vacation. Here's how I see the difference:

Travel = in motion.

Vacation = stationary.

William was raised in a household where true vacations didn't happen. His family trips always included an obligatory visit to some relatives or some other function. The idea of just tanning on a beach or lolling in a hammock didn't exist for him.

I grew up in a home where vacations were barely affordable, but made to happen because of my father's determination that we abandon the city and explore "God's country." Dad folded up our gigantic orange tent and packed it along with sleeping bags and cooking utensils. He stuffed everything into, and on top of, our small car.

Mom gathered up stray pots, Melmac dishes and a Coleman stove. To this day, the scent of summer pine evokes memories of dawn in a forest camp and waking up to the smell of that hot canvas tent beginning to bake in the morning sun. Of my mother, frustrated to the point of tears at having to whip up one more meal in the midst of dirt and cigarette butts while Dad trucked the kids off for a day of trout fishing.

Travel set William on edge. He didn't want to get the money wrong, or make language errors, or offend another culture. Because travel didn't particularly interest him, I assumed he felt the same about vacationing. But I also thought he might actually get a kick out of a few weeks in paradise. In a place where "What do you want to do?" is answered with "Doin' it."

Nothing but sleep, sun, food, drink, books, Scrabble and, even for a couple of weak swimmers, a little snorkeling.

I did some research and found a house to rent for two weeks in Kauai. William wouldn't have to worry about currency or language. But as we packed I could see his edginess start. What to bring? What would we need? At LAX he barely spoke to me and on the plane my mood cranked up to pissiness.

I'd arranged this trip and he was being a bear. Couldn't he at least try to have fun? As we shuffled off the plane, we were enveloped in warm, breezy air. He remained silent. We lined up for our rental car where it was decided that I'd drive and he'd navigate. These decisions were made using maybe eight words.

I wanted to scream. We pulled on to a two-lane highway edged in red earth, rolled down the windows and sped past green hills on one side and a crystalline blue sea on the other.

The ocean crashed white foam on long beaches. Tropical air filled our car. William's arm dropped out the window and I could see him nearly liquefy.

I could live here, he said.

Like that the tension was gone.

We launched ourselves into a vacation of oceanic discovery, long, languid days of relaxation, and a commitment to vacate forever, whenever we could. William, never an early riser, was suddenly up at 6:30 every morning. He mapped out snorkeling excursions for us while I packed our lunches.

We hiked through forests and over cliffs to sandy paradises, where we would often be entirely alone. We read, snorkeled, napped, played Scrabble, ate our lunches and soaked up sunshine. In the evenings we sipped wine while I made fresh fish and salads for dinner. We went to bed early and slept deep.

Vacation became a new word in William's lexicon. It sat right next to dream.

A BEAUTIFUL LIFE IN A SWEET-SMELLING HARBOR (Part 5)

On a June evening in 1997 Prince Charles lowered the Union Jack in Hong Kong. Fireworks lit up the sky and rain poured on the harbor. People said, "Heaven cried on Hong Kong that night."

Hong Kong is neither city nor country, but a "Special Administrative Region." Many feared that as the British flag was lowered she would no longer remain a free democracy, but rather would become a controlled state under the thumb of Beijing. China promised Hong Kong "universal suffrage," meaning free elections, but they've reneged on that agreement and created a politically tender climate of regular public protests.

Still, every night joyous laser light and firework shows exploded over Victoria Harbor. They ricocheted blues, reds and greens across our faces as William and I walked the promenade. On just such a night we celebrated my birthday.

Should anyone ever ask How would you like your birthday in Hong Kong? don't think and don't hesitate. Silently nod because here's what could happen:

You put on a string of pearls and stroll the harborfront to the Star Ferry dock. You slip across the brilliantly lit water in a cool breeze with your loved one who, after years of careful training, understands that during such a ride a kiss is required and there you are lip-locked and surrounded by skyscrapers reflecting myriad colors.

You've entered a movie called: Hong Kong.

Then it's up to the tippity-top of the Peninsula Hotel and the Philippe Starck-designed Felix bar for a strawberry champagne cocktail and a stunning view of the cityscape. After that, a window table at a restaurant in the Kowloon Hotel for delicious grilled New Zealand lamb.

A few kisses later it's a creamy, dreamy, sweet vanilla cone from the Mr. Softee ice cream truck parked on the side of the road and you walk home with your true love. Happy Birthday indeed.

My last day in Hong Kong was spent on a final tour of our neighborhood: the grocery market, the teddy bear museum next door (which featured a ten-foot tall specimen), the mall below our apartment for any last-minute shopping (I resisted), then a stop for one of my favorite Hong Kong food items: tea.

In the Metro stations, clinical-looking shops serve "Chinese Urban Herbal Teas." The sales staff wears lab coats with badges identifying them as Customer Ambassadors. Condensed tea is siphoned and mixed with fresh fruits into a cocktail that far surpasses Jamba Juice.

The drinks bear titles of enlightenment: Wake Up Passion, Excellence Memory, Morning Blessing, Speed Up Power, Awakening for Spring, Delivery of Happiness, Living Present, A Blue Clear Sky, and Immunity Warrior.

On my final pass of Hong Kong I marched up and ordered: A Beautiful Life, please.

And I got it.

The Chinese translation of Hong Kong is: A Sweet-Smelling Harbor.

I couldn't agree more.