The morning comes and we are in Ocho Rios, Jamaica. The cattle call off the boat led us past barbwire into the tourist loading zone onto our bus to Runaway Caves. In the bus our guide showed us three James Bond sets (the mini sub scene from Thunderball was one) and taught us a few slang terms used widely in Jamaica, such as “Trash”. Its used like:

“You look TRASH!”

Meaning: You look good. Not sure why, but if you add “like” in front of “trash” then it reverts back to the insult we’re use to. Go figure.

We arrive at the cave and don our protective sweaty head things and enter into the cave. It was very interesting. I was once inside a mine in Kentucky that must have been 100 ft high and wide for as far as I could see into the mountain.

Runaway Caves looked like a movie set, it was so surreal. This was the place where slaves escaping plantations would come as well as a Spanish general escaping the English. Dark, wet and smelling of bat guano, I think I picked up some lung infection there. It was worth it.

At the end, we were treated to Jamaican rum at 150 proof. A headache set in quickly after and I fell asleep in the bus to Dunns River Falls. Seems like you couldn’t visit Ocho Rios without being dragged to this place. It was fun and we got to use our Labadee water shoes (mine fell apart half way up the climb). The tour description was ambiguous about getting wet but when we got there, we got wet. Oh so wet. We even did a flip off one of the falls.

This is where Souvenir Tragedy #1 happened. Our tourguide had a friend with a video camera follow us up the falls recording our reactions to climbing the falls and sold us a tape at the top for $30. It never made it back to the boat in time, I guess. More souvenir tragedies happened…keep your eyes peeled!

We went back to the Tourist Compound and shopped a bit and managed to send off a quick Blog entry. While watching Sharkboy troll through his email, a guy across the street from the internet cafe we were in tried to sell me pot. Ah Jamaica.

Back to the boat and the usual dinner, dessert and walk about. I decided that we were going to take a midnight hot tub while they set up a midnight buffet around us. It was so extravagant. So much food… We didn’t indulge and were in bed soon after the hot tub.

The next day was Caymen Islands, shopping mall of the Caribbean. Whisked to a small port for our “intimate” stingray petting tour, Sharkboy was visibly nervous as our boat hit the choppy seas. To make things worse for him, the boat listed to one side as 15 out of the 25 of us onboard sat on one side, accentuating the bigger waves, making the waterline near the back rise close to the lip of the boat. We chugged on out to the sand bar.

Our guide, a rather good looking young woman of 20something, wearing not much more than a bikini and wrap, taught us that stingrays were a mix of housecat and vacuum cleaner and would only sting if cornered and stressed. We were asked not to step on them. Our guide was a blonde knockout born in South Africa, educated in Toronto and living in GC with her parents (I thought she was an American ex-pat with her accent) and she took instant liking to me for some reason and we chatted about tattoos and Toronto. I noticed that the four English men (two woofy dads repleat with yobbo tats and no necks) were giving me jealous glances as we laughed and talked animatedly about stuff.

She told us that on every boat she’s guided, one person would be a screamer. That is, if a ‘ray brushed up agains this certain person, they’d panic. One of the humpy English dads turns to his nervous looking son and said “You hear that? Nothing to be worried about so no yelling, ok?” He looked up and caught me watching him calm his son. We instantly knew that we’d both be the ones screaming, not the kids. We laughed as this was telepathically sent between us.

Arriving at the bar, we joined 10 other boats and loads of screaming people.

It was fantastic. Sharkboy and I were the first ones to touch, kiss and hold a rather large specimin caught for us by our boat captain. The sexy guide took pictures for $20 the first one and $10 every one after (Souvenir Tragedy #2 coming up, thankfully we only bought one). We frolicked for about an hour and it was at that moment, the highlight of the trip for me. They were so graceful and beautiful. I managed to kick one in the head and expected to be stung but it just flapped it’s “wings” and glided away into the ocean.

On our way back our captain stopped the boat in the middle of nowhere and one of the crew jumped over the side and started to haul out Conch shells for his dinner. He poked a hole in the top and stabbed the snail inside and yanked out the meat. He gave us the shells and instantly Sharkboy and I stared into a long debate as to weather or not we could actually bring this shell (which I decided to name “Shelly”) back to Canada. The sexy guide, who sussed me out in seconds, sidled up to me and wispered “You have the best one of the lot. The colours are deep and there’s very little white in the inside. Very valuable…” and she smiled. I was hooked. The English dads were jealous. I bought a disk from her and it turned out less than what I thought the picture was when I viewed it on her laptop (ST #2, folks)

We decided to do some no-pressure shopping in GC and wandered the touristy area near the docks. We found a place called Black Dick Liquor and I should have got a t-shirt (ST #3). Cayman is known for its jewelry and Sharkboy managed to find a nice watch for $3000 which made us run from the shop in seconds. We were having a great time and suddenly Sharkboy decides that we’re going to get rings.

Rings?

Rings. We start to wander in and out of jewellers trying on masculine gold rings. No gemstones. Thankfully we share the same taste in men’s rings. Plain. Symbolic. Masculine. All the time we’re doing this I am thinking “Is he going to propose? He said in the past he didn’t believe in marriage? But this trip has been so perfect and wonderful…bla bla bla” To quote The Pet Shop Boys: “Now… my head is spinning.” We enter “Diamond Marquise” and find a nice pair of brushed titanium rings that fit. $500 each, the clerk says. $200 total for both, Sharkboy says. $300! $200! $275! $200! $250! $200! You get the gist. She was coming down, Sharkboy wasn’t budging. The rings were beautiful, especially in their symbolism, and I was worried that the clerk would kill Sharkboy’s patience and we’d be leaving the store soon. The clerk wanders off to ask the Manager if Sharkboy’s offer is ok. It is. Right up to the pen to credit card, the clerk tried to squeeze more out of Sharkboy. “$210?” she asked finally as she handed over the credit card slip. No.

We walk out of the store and I wasnt sure what was going to happen. Was Sharkboy going to go down on one knee right there in the street? Was he going to hang on to the rings until we walked the deck of the ship in the moonlight and then ask me there to be his other half? Was he going to bake a cake–

“Here,” he says, handing me my ring.

Oh. Well. Uh. Thanks! I take the ring happily as a gift. A memento of our trip and yet we both wear them on our left hands, to make people talk or speculate. I see the rings as a symbol of what we got. Call it an engagement. Call it “married in the eyes of God”. Call it what you want. I’m happy!

The rest of Grand Caymen was a bit of a blur. We went back to the boat and did something and ate food and wandered the ship and maybe even played the slots. I can’t remember. I just remember playing with my ring halfway through dinner and looking up at Sharkboy’s face thinking I was the luckiest guy in the world.

PS: Shelly started to smell up the cabin and was exiled out to the balcony where she was rinsed repeatedly by torrential Tropical Storm Gamma rain. More on Shelly later.

Add water to see your Gallery grow 10000%!