It’s Utila Adventure Eve—like Christmas Eve, only without the milk and cookies—and I’m totally stoked. All my bags are packed, my papers are set, and I’m ready to get a good, long night’s sleep. Well, that’s what I plan to tell my grandkids one day.
Truthfully? It’s three in the morning, even the weight of my fat ass can’t get my bag to zipper shut, my passport is under a stack of books recovering from its earlier trip through the washing machine, I have spent the last three hours putting together a makeshift bag for my freediving fin and mermaid tail using leftover canvas and safety pins, and my contact lenses are lost amongst the rubble of the nuclear war zone I call my home. I have reached my breaking point, and there is only one thing left to do. Call my dad crying. (Yes, I am an only daughter.)
Thankfully, either my father has come up for sainthood in the past twenty-four hours or he can tell that I’m about five minutes from shoving half a bottle of booze, my passport, and my plane ticket into a juicer and laughing maniacally as they swirl into a cocktail of insanity, because he calmly assures me that anything I’ve left behind can be air mailed to me (without even mentioning the no doubt absurd cost of doing so) and sends me off to bed.