Kayaking Belize
From a paddler’s perspective, an atoll is a dream come true. Imagine paddling around an 80-square-mile aquarium loaded with tropical fish, flame-colored coral, and protected from rough water by an outer reef. Glover’s Reef has more than 700 patch reefs, each loaded with a galaxy of colorful fish where the snorkeling is world class. Sea turtles, rays, and conch shells are common. Our second day on the island, we load up the kayaks and head out to a nearby patch reef for snorkeling. To paddle over the calm, clear waters is hypnotic. Overhead, delicate black frigate birds play in the trade winds, occasionally dropping to the ocean to snatch an unsuspecting fish. Below my orange kayak, spotted stingrays glide along the sandy bottom, and occasionally a needlefish swims just below the surface. After a short paddle, we anchor the kayaks in a shallow, sandy area and don masks and fins. Snorkeling from a kayak is great—just roll out of the cockpit into water.
“Hey guys, take a look at this lobster,” Alex says to our group, pointing to a small hole beneath some rocks. “Since we are in a marine reserve, it is illegal to fish here, so there are lots of them.”
Alex isn’t kidding. After learning to identify the crustaceon’s protruding spiky antennae, I start seeing lots of lobsters. It seems as if every patch reef has its own lobster community, not to mention an endless variety of colorful fish. Schools of 30 or more blue tang swim in unison, resembling a shimmering indigo curtain blowing in the breeze. Pairs of foureye butterflyfish hover near purple sea fans, while my favorite, the stoplight parrotfish, swims around table-size patches of brain coral. The water is warmer than a bathtub, so I snorkel until my skin resembles a dried peach before paddling back to camp at sunset.
“Tomorrow we are going to sail the kayaks to the western wall,” Alex announces over a tasty dinner of lobster and fried jacks (biscuits similar to sopapillas). “The winds should be favorable. There is a 90 percent chance we can sail there, and a 75 percent chance that we can also sail back.”
The western wall is part of the outer coral reef protecting the atoll, a great place to snorkel in deeper water beyond the patch reefs. Sailing kayaks is an energy-efficient way to travel, but I’m having so much fun that I opt to paddle a single while the rest of the group sails. Four miles into the trip, forward stroking at a frantic pace, shoulders and abs burning, I’m reconsidering my decision. Ahead, the ocean turns from emerald green to royal blue, signaling the border of Glover’s Reef and the western wall. We anchor our boats in the shallows while another of our guides prepares a lunch buffet on the deck of a double kayak.
After letting our lunch settle, we start snorkeling toward the western wall. Alex is going to give us a free-diving demonstration. When he isn’t guiding, Alex fishes for grouper and dives for conch 50 feet beneath the water’s surface while holding his breath for nearly two minutes at a time. Without any fanfare, Alex pikes on the surface and slowly descends into the inky depths. The water clarity is deceiving. The bottom looks close, but judging by how small Alex looks, I know he is at least 40 feet down. He seems to stay on the bottom forever, then slowly drifts back to the surface.
I’ve snorkeled and spearfished a lot, so I’m convinced that I can also pull off the same dive without a problem. I suck in a big breath, perform a perfect pike surface dive, and begin my descent. My illusions of native free-diving begin to fade as the ringing in my ears increases. I kick harder, propelling myself deeper. Now the ringing in my ears takes on a new and particularly painful pitch. My eyes feel funny, like someone is inside my head trying to push them out of their sockets. The bottom still looks far away, and I begin to wonder just how deep it really is. Soon, my tingling lips start to curl back off my snorkel, like someone peeling a banana. That’s it, I’m going back up. Unlike Alex, I break the surface like a breaching orca, spitting out my snorkel and gasping for air. Alex just smiles. Okay, I’m no Jacques Cousteau.
Our last night on the island is one of singing, dancing, and revelry. We are celebrating a few birthdays and a joyous week of sunny paddling and snorkeling. Drums materialize in the evening twilight, and our guides give us native Punta dancing lessons around a large bonfire on the beach. Belikin beers chase down the rough local ginger wine, and before I know it, even I am dancing around the fire. I never dance, just ask my wife, so it can mean only one thing. I’m cured of my SPAD.
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