Yawnless Dawn

It wasn’t easy getting up at 5.00 a.m. when the salsa party next door didn’t finish until 2.00, but I didn’t want to miss the tour I had booked. I met my tour guide and fellow tourists at the main road at 5.30, and we quietly walked through the pre-dawn darkness to board our launcha, stopping briefly on the way to move a young and reckless pup from the middle of the road.

Once the six of us had boarded, our guide gently punted us out into the canal with a shunt of the pole, and we glided silently into the mangrove-lined waterway. As promised during the sales pitch, the infamous four-eyed fish frequently skimmed its way between the lily pads just beyond the bow. Other, smaller fish caused the surface of the water to bubble as they panicked away in tightly coordinated shoals. In the distance, a large flock of white herons or egrets took to flight as the rising sun gave away our silhouette.

Dawn is the busiest time on the canal, for all the animals, including humans; many boats carried a silent fisherman or two, with one on the bow continually casting a net across the water and loading the wriggling catch into the hull. I felt like I was inside a National Geographic article. It was magical—well worth the pre-dawn rise.

I was sad when we headed back to the dock, but on the bright side was thankful that it was still early enough to get some more morning sleep in. But that dream was dashed when I arrived at my room to find the country-and-western fans in the building next door were blaring their passion from just outside my quarters. So I hit Johnny’s for breakfast, and planned a day relaxing on the beach, with the intent of proving that Englishmen with Irish blood really can get a tan without going red first. (I failed).