I’d been so immersed in observation that I didn’t realize how hungry I was until I stepped onto the sandy beach and my stomach growled angrily. Ken emerged from the ocean a few minutes later, and I could tell by his expression that he was feeling similar pangs. We slipped off our flippers and re-moved our sandals from a mesh bag that he’d been wearing as a backpack. The walk up to the restaurant was strewn with pointy rocks (a lesson he’d learned the hard way on his last trip) and shoes were quite a blessing. I stuffed our snorkeling gear back into the pack and shouldered it for our hike to the summit. The sun beat down on our bare backs, but even the mid-90s heat felt nourishing and merited on my shoulders.
For all the ocean’s beauty and splendor, however, I still couldn’t avoid the tangy grit of the salty water. Our snorkeling equipment was far from the top of the line, and multiples times I’d needed to re-adjust my mouthpiece, inadvertently sucking in huge mouthfuls of ocean water. Fortunately my mask was adequately airtight and I’d avoided eyefuls of saltwater, but my mouth was still awash in a briny bath that I couldn’t escape. It was like being ten years old again, except at 26 I wouldn’t have the same excuse for crying and pouting that I did back then. I bore my salty cross stoically as we marched up the hill, thinking about something—cold beer, soda, anything—to get the taste out of my mouth.
That something came in the form of a great feast at Top of the Baths, the restaurant perched quite literally at its namesake. Its patio, complete with freshwater swimming pool, offers 360-degree views of the surrounding islands, which, in the crystal clear noonday sun, were nothing short of breathtaking, as beautiful a view above sea level as we’d just seen below. Even though we’d only left the ocean 15 minutes earlier, after we placed our order my father and I slid into the pool, where our waitress brought us ice cold concoctions called Bushwhackers, local libations consisting of Amaretto, Bailey’s, Kahlua, vodka, rum, Coco Lopez, and freshly grated nutmeg (thankfully, they held the kitchen sink). The drink was noticeably stronger than the Cooper’s Dreams yesterday, and my dad laughed as I winced my way through the first sip. While it wasn’t a drink I’d order on a regular basis, it did a hell of a job of getting the taste of saltwater out of my mouth; I only wondered if I’d be conscious enough to swim back to the boat after I finished it.
Lunch consisted of crab fritters (rolled balls of crabmeat and breadcrumbs, fried golden brown), hamburgers adorned with juicy slices of fresh pine-apple, and gazpacho (which truly hit the spot on such a scorching day). Exiting the pool as our food arrived, we sat in the shade under a large awning, grateful for even a brief respite from the sun. We’d both earned some color in the past few days, but thanks to Ken’s constant badgering to wear more sunscreen (which, in turn, came directly from my mother—whenever he ordered me to reapply it to my nose, I could hear her tone echoing in his voice), we’d avoided any burns. Instead my pasty, chalky skin was slowly growing to match my father’s bronzed tone. I hadn’t shaved since leaving Santa Barbara, and after a few days, the scruff accumulating on my face and neck was also growing to match his. I ran my hand over my patchy beard, wondering how Bridget would react to it. She was easygoing by nature (which was quite possibly her most attractive feature) and would most likely rib me good-naturedly—calling me the Mitchum Man or Grizzly Adams—but take it all in stride, much like the aquatic world I’d just swum through had for eons.
We bandied about more names for the boat as we lunched, re-hashing Pelican and El Draco and adding new ones to the list, like Cooper’s Dream and Angelfish. A long series of sports-themed names bubbled to the surface: Ryno, a reference to former Cubs second baseman Ryne Sandberg, one of my childhood heroes, 23 as a nod to the ubiquitous number of Michael Jordan, and Sweetness for Bears legend Walter Payton, one of the greatest running backs in NFL history. None really fit, however, and we decided to go back to the proverbial drawing board and wait for something to jump out at us, confident that when the perfect name reared its head, we’d both know it.
Note: here's a photo of the view from Top of the Baths for reference.
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