Any Place but Here, Any Time but Now

He doesn’t send flowers anymore. She hasn’t initiated sex in months. Alas, life’s endless routines get in the way of most things sensual. Except, of course, travel. Something about luggage lifts the daily baggage from our heads and hearts: Minds roam freely with wanderlust. Lust wanders back into placid relationships. Fantasies shape up and romance happens.

Now, “romance” is a complexity of nouns and verbs, with almost two inches of definitions in Webster’s Dictionary. Throw in three more inches if you’re inclined to be “romantic” and by the time you untangle all the possibilities for romance, you’ve untangled all the body parts and failed to seize the moment.

So let me clarify: I define the true romantic as anyone who wants to be “any place but here, any time but now.” He’s hard to live with and she’s harder to travel with, but spontaneity is the mantra for both. More importantly, spontaneity is intrinsic to romance, adventure and travel, in general. Especially in the tropics. Especially in February when the cold, cold north turns icy white and valentines twinkle in your lover’s eyes.

Right now is the time to head south to recharge those numb nerve endings. In the Caribbean, nature heightens sensuality with warm breezes, barely clad bodies, exotic beaches and blue, blue water. Sooner or later, everyone heeds Mother Ocean’s call, for indeed, cruising is one of the most sensual ways to tap that primal urge. But giant, generic “Love Boats” in Big City Ports with a few thousand strangers do not hold the tickets. No, no. Spontaneity’s best friend is bareboat sailing in say, the Virgin Islands, or maybe the Grenadines, where you choose your own shipmates, charter your own course and arrange your own infusion of love, beauty and privacy.

Because we tend to behave differently on vacation, R&R (relaxation and romance) tickles our fancy and triggers our wildest dreams. Anything can happen day or night. Unless of course, your psyche has been penetrated too deeply with children and PTAs, or perhaps it's too tuned into computers and CNBC. For you, the following are some jump-starts direct from Cupid:

1. Convertible sunbathing. The aft deck of your private sailboat, crewed or un-crewed, is a natural for tops-down. Or bottoms-up, for that matter.

2. Skinny snorkeling. There are few finer reefs in the world for shallow water snorkeling than those offshore Virgin Gorda. Put on your mask, snorkel and fins…only. Just you and the angelfish hang out here, and they’re wearing birthday suits, too.

3. Protect delicate skin; use sunscreen. Slather it on her generously. Everywhere. Often.

4. Late night foreplay on the boat’s foredeck. In fact, spend an entire night topside watching stars fall into the sea. Their blazing trails are so sexy; that last great flash of light is akin to a great, er, well…use your imagination.

When the week is drawing to a close and every fiber and sinew in your body and soul has been replenished, a few of you will go that extra mile for romance: You will not allow yourself to be any place but here, any time but now. You will pull out the cell phone (which is on board solely for emergencies like this one), and cancel all of next week’s meetings and activities. You will apply the ultimate in spontenaity by remaining in Paradise one more week, and you will trust me when I say, phone sex doesn’t get better than this.

When You Go
Chartering a sailboat may be done with or without a captain and crew. Without a crew means cooking your own meals, charting and sailing your own course, and generally, looking out for yourself. Only seasoned sailors charter a boat in this manner. If you’ve had some sailing experience, but not enough to skipper a 40-foot yacht, charter a boat with a captain. You’re still bareboating, but not in the barest sense.

When you’ve had enough fun working the sails on a bareboat vacation and want to be pampered and coddled with much TLC, the following charter companies can set you up with everything from captains to gourmet chefs to limos. They’ve all handled business in the Caribbean for decades, and they’ve seen it all. Prices vary from as little as $1,250 per week to $200,000 plus expenses per week, depending on season, size of boat and number of guests.

Whitney Yacht Charters, http://www.whitneyyachtcharters.com/ (Chicago-based, 800-223-1426) and Nicholson Yacht Charters, http://www.yachtvacations.com/ (Massachusetts-based 800-662-6066) offer crewed charters only, throughout the Caribbean and elsewhere.

The Moorings, http://www.moorings.com/ (New Orleans-based, 800-535-7289) and Ocean Voyages, http://www.oceanvoyages.com/ (California-based, 415-332-4681) offer bareboat and crewed charters in various Caribbean locales.

Screwed by an Oosik at the Border

 

What he says doesn't register: "I'm sorry ma'am, but you can't bring that with you into Canada." I stare at the Customs Officer blankly. He's smiling, so he must be joking, right?

"I am sorry, but you can't bring an oosik into Canada,” he says. “If you like, you can go back to Alaska and mail it to the lower 48, but you cannot drive into Canada with it."

Wrong; he’s not kidding, and the 60-mile drive back to Tok, Alaska, where the nearest US post office is located, is nothing to joke about, either. Why, just the 20 miles separating the United States from this Canadian port of entry—which happens to be the widest border crossing at any point between the two countries—is the worst dust-eating, butt-bumping road I've ever traveled. Making that two-and-a-half-hour drive over it again requires some thinking.

"Please, take your time,” says the courteous, thoughtful Customs Officer. “Just pull out of line, park over there and let me know what you decide."

A jerk would make me angry and justify the nasty mood I'm in, but this guy is Mr. Nice Guy and now I have to be rational.

The hot August sun pierces billowing clouds and blazes through the windshield. The slowly moving line of cars stirs up dust particles so thick they turn the streaming sunbeams into impenetrable lasers of light. Loki, my Labrador retriever traveling companion, pants ferociously. I want to gag. I feel trapped. Mostly, I don't want to drive back to Tok.

I had just purchased the oosik this morning in Tok, the last Alaskan outpost before taking on the Alcan Highway through Canada. The oosik had cost a whopping $82.50. Never mind that I had traveled the whole state of Alaska and had made a last minute, emotional decision to buy one. Never mind that I knew I paid the highest price in all of Alaska for an oosik and never mind that even at that price, the oosik was on sale.

What really slays me, though, is that only three people know what an oosik is: The shop owner who sold me the bone; me, a writer who has researched laws pertaining to products made from endangered species and the customs agent who wants to take away the walrus bone—more specifically, the walrus's penis bone.

Yes, I had purchased the very essence of walrus masculinity. Something very simple, really; roughly the size and shape of a billy club, but with more rigidity. Oosiks tend to be the envy of lesser endowed males, the subject of northerly poems and songs and, no doubt, an item few people on earth would recognize. And in my mind of recognition, for some strange reason a walrus's penis bone and its ivory tusks don't fit into the same legally protected paragraph.

Harder still is understanding what separates these bones from grizzly bear skulls, caribou antlers, lynx pelts and ermine tails, all items for sale in every Alaskan shop; all species under pressure to sustain habitats needed for survival. In fact, how can shop owners anywhere in the US sell me anything from any protected species? And why can I mail it from the United States, but not from Canada? Aren't walrus protected in the US, too?

Because the shop owners didn’t feel compelled to mention its protected status, was this some kind of black-market deal? How can I be so stupid?

I need answers: I carry the wrapped oosik indoors and formally surrender my contraband to the Canadian Customs Officer for information.

Alas, very little is forthcoming. Oh, the customs official is as helpful as possible; he just doesn't know why I can buy or mail an oosik in the United States. Here on the last frontier’s border, in the very heart of the wilderness, Canadian authorities simply don't want to speculate on another country's laws. But of one thing Mr. Nice Guy is absolutely certain: I cannot bring an oosik into Canada.

Upon returning to the United States through the border crossing into South Dakota, US Customs and Border Patrol officials there have no more answers than did the Canadians. They give me a booklet, Know Before You Go, which is equally vague about wildlife. They mention that they think Native Americans in Alaska can kill and sell parts of animals as art. (This is true, and it's outlined under Alaskan Subsistence laws.) But the agents are unsure of specifics. They say maybe Canadian officials would have allowed me to keep the oosik if I had a note from the Native American who sold the artifact. Problem is, the couple who own the shop and who sold the oosik to me weren't Native Americans.

Back home, Customs and Border Patrol agents can't clarify matters any further, furthermore, they don't know what an oosik is. Because CBP officials check border crossings for some 40 different United States agencies, detailed information about one agency's policies is hard to come by. Information is out there somewhere, but in this particular case, I will have to call Fish and Wildlife, or the Department of Agriculture, or jeez, what's a traveling shopper to do?

Even as borders are being closely scrutinized for everything from terrorism to human trafficking, the best advice I could get is "call Customs immediately before you buy."

Yeah, right—even the customs official who offered this nugget thought it was unlikely I'd put my impulse to buy, say, a puma-claw necklace from a Chilean street vendor on back burner while I hunt down a phone.

Like me, thousands of uninformed tourists loose their souvenirs coming or going across borders. And becoming informed is no easy task. When in doubt, flip that coin you might otherwise use to make a phone call, and remember: You take your chances when you buy anything that used to breathe.

Footprints on Baja

The sensory thrill of being on the ocean amps up generously in Key West, Florida; not just because it's a tiny island with salty breezes damp enough to wear the air, but also because locals and visitors go offshore often just to keep from tripping over each other. Sunset sails. SCUBA diving. Yachting and fishing—indeed, world renowned fishing—wherein the shallow flats men and women chase dreams of trophy tarpon, permit and bonefish.

Such skinny water, though, is hardly conducive to one of my favorite on-the-water activities, whale watching. This natural attraction enriches Hawaii's tourism, as well as the Dominican Republic's. In fact, DRs Silver Banks Sanctuary has protected humpback whales since well before ecotourism came into vogue. But it was in Mexico at the turn of the 21^st century that I first heard the expression “footprints on water,” a concept related to whales as incongruous as it is miraculous given that God’s handiwork abounds throughout the Baja Peninsula. This is where gently sculpted, white sand dunes part water from sky on the port side of the motor vessel Sea Bird. Gnarly, green mangroves host white herons and egrets to starboard.

A cloudless horizon glows blue on Magdalena Bay’s flat surface, and only the sighs of gray whales blowing heart-shaped spray into the air rise above excited whispers. Since daybreak, our 62-person expedition has cruised in a northerly fashion up the bay, with dozens of these giant mammals moving majestically slowly ahead of us. For the last hour, though, we’ve been dead in the water: The bottleneck of Big Boat and Big Mamas with baby whales at the narrows of Hull Channel mandates queuing. Amidst the standing-room-only crowd at the bow of the 152-foot-long boat, the regular whirr of rewinding cameras and videos resounds louder than the hum of the boat’s engine.

“Big blow at eleven o’clock. Over there, at two o’clock, a mother and calf are surfacing. Look, look, straight ahead another pair—jeez, they’re everywhere,” says Steven Zeff, a naturalist and whale specialist on this particular Lindblad expedition. He's working hard to contain his enthusiasm while maintaining the hushed awe on board. Standing on a platform above the crowd, he passes off the microphone to his cohort, Dr. John Francis, who describes the play-by-play action.

One more time, Dr. Francis explains how whales walk on water.

“When a whale flips its tail underwater, water rushes in to replace it then wells to the surface, where it creates the glassy pools you’re looking at. The same thing happens when you slap your hand into a swimming pool,” says Dr. Francis, the leader of National Geographic Society’s research and exploration arm. “Whalers used to think these large circular slicks on the water’s surface were oil slicks washing off whales. Although the tail never surfaced and they couldn’t physically see the whale, by noting what direction the slicks were moving in, whalers could tell what direction the whale was going, and they actually hunted whales by following what scientists now call, 'footprints'.”

Francis hands the mic back to Zeff who surveys the crowd like a preacher from his pulpit. Then tongue-in-cheek, head nodding to the rhythm of the boat, Zeff says, “I am really sorry it’s taking so long to get through this channel.”

So goes this Sunday morning church service of sorts, and on this, our first day traveling “Among the Great Whales”, it’s been a quiet way to get acquainted with some of the planet’s largest mammals. Equally mild have been the weather conditions: sunny skies, flat seas, no wind whatsoever. But by late afternoon, I quickly learn that weather south of the border shifts in an eye blink, and much more than whales leave footprints on Baja.

Out of nowhere, the wind kicks-up this afternoon while we’re exploring Boca de Soledad. Dramatic and desolate, the northernmost beach tip of Magdalena Island connects its namesake bay on the western side of Baja with the Pacific Ocean.

Magdalena Island, Baja Mexico

Nothing grows atop these sand dunes; the wind keeps the powdered-sugar-fine grains of sand in near-constant motion. Here, time is a bottomless hourglass. Buried deeply in sand are branches from tree trunks that drifted ashore. New arrivals litter the beach: turtle bones, pelican skulls, Elegant Venus seashells--my own footsteps. Within an hour, though, the sand swirls up the dunes, rising like steam on hot asphalt, and pours over the sloping folds in the manner of water rushing down a hillside. It fills all man-made tracks.

Although this morning’s calm switched without warning to fast forward this afternoon, the sand blows only as high as my calves. It doesn’t blast me off the island or prevent photo ops. But the sting of sand on bare ankles is a subtle warning that Aeolus, the god of wind, owns these parts. Whether on land or sea, the wind’s footprints are visible in layered, undulating waves, and this particular dunes hike is a donkey walk compared to the bronco busting, late afternoon Zodiac ride.

I’m riding point. I get this lofty position because I’m wearing a wet suit. Eight of us hang on to the safety ropes surrounding the inflatable boat, and try to keep our butts steady on its sides while 20-knot winds and choppy seas work hard to unseat us. Sixty-degree water washes across my body. Salt cakes my sunglasses. Hair sticks to my wet face.

Just one close encounter with a gray whale (Eschrichtius robustus) could make this all worthwhile. But this is not to be, not today. And the next day is rougher. Four Zodiacs bounce and bang on white caps toward the narrowest end of the bay seeking protected water sandwiched between Magdalena Island and the Baja peninsula. Here, the lagoon’s current is stronger than the wind. And here, gray whale mothers with month-old calves collect to give their two-ton offspring some swim-in-place exercise.

“It’ll be another three weeks before the whales migrate north, and we think they swim in these shallows to help strengthen their babies for the trip,” says Michele Graves, one of the five natural history staffers aboard Sea Bird. She’s at the helm of the Zodiac, trying to keep bodies and cameras as dry as possible, but the surge of wind and water regularly washes over Janine Smith, a Los Angelina riding point this morning. She is not wearing a wetsuit.

At least six pairs of mothers and calves are nearby, maybe within 100 yards. When the little guys surface for air -- about every two minutes -- mama whale is always lurking close, surfacing with a much bigger blow. Her downtime can be much longer, too; up to 20 minutes, if she’s eating.

Farther off, a big gray has spy-hopped five different times, wiggling its huge tail underwater, thereby shoving its head high above the surface to survey surrounding activity. A lot’s going on: Heads on board the Zodiac crane left and right to see the spy-hops; bodies shift from side to side to catch a whale fluke here, spray over there. Whiplash goes unnoticed when a frisky calf strays from mom to check us out. It swims under the boat. Ten people hang starboard. The calf turns, comes back again, then it happens: A close encounter of a very personal nature develops as the tiny tot surfaces right next to us, peeks one eye over the edge of the Zodiac and quietly slips back into the sea.

“Where is that baby’s mama?” Smith wonders out loud; a question each of us ponders while scanning the chop for telltale clues to mom’s whereabouts. Then there she blows: Mother surfaces barely ten feet off port, spraying a geyser of saltwater, bad whale breath and snot into the wind. Her immense torso, maybe 30 tons of raw power, dwarfs the Zodiac as she rounds up her infant, and we wash off our faces.

The adrenaline rush from the whales’ nearness eventually gives way to the tenderness of a mother’s protective instinct, and the realization that it transcends all species. But of course, nature isn’t always so tender.

This afternoon's dunes hike is about a mile across a narrow section of Magdalena Island. Our destination, the Pacific Ocean. The stark, rolling mounds of sand are hot beneath bare feet. High contrast shade folds into the soft white sides of the dunes, occasionally punctuated by coyote scat or jackrabbit tracks. Twice we see the bounding bunny, its footprints a blur of rushed motion in the sand.

The ocean announces itself before we clear the last rise, and a beach of about five football fields’ distance separates us from the breakers. A green sea turtle greets us; it is dead. Within a half-mile, at least ten more turtles are in varying states of decomposition. The bodies of two sea lions have washed ashore, and skeletons of small rays, pelicans and other birds dot the barren landscape.

“No, I don’t think this is out of the ordinary because the turtles and sea lions don’t look like they were slain by men—their meat is in tact,” said Peter Rumm, the naturalist hiking with us. Later, though, I learn that the orange marks on the carcasses denote a tally by scientists who monitor this shoreline, counting what is probably sea life drown in drift nets.

On another day, everyone aboard Sea Bird watches a group of dolphin toss what appears to be a log into the air. Turns out this is not a log, and these are not trained dolphin. Hours later, when the dolphin group dissolves, staffers bring a dead baby dolphin to the shore where we’ve been kayaking. A mini-conference of biologists and naturalists and on-lookers try to make sense of this death, an infant guessed to be no more than 24-hours old.

The drama of life’s cycle is everywhere on Baja, but for me it's softened this evening. After another good dinner with good wine and good conversation on board the boat, I curl up with a blanket on the bow to listen to gray whales. Their spraying sighs sound so close, so reassuringly kind, it seems I could reach out and pet them. I imagine them eying Sea Bird with the same curiosity I have for them, and I fall asleep watching stars leave footprints on a black, black sky.

“Good morning,” says Bud Lenhausen, the overall expedition leader for Lindblad, who’s responsible for the impeccable operational flow. This is an earlier than usual wake-up call via the boat’s intercom, which can be switched on or off in the rooms. “It’s a little before seven, and you all might want to come to the bow of the boat to see a few long nose, common dolphin.”

Yesterday, we left the Pacific Ocean, rounded the tip of Baja and entered the Sea of Cortes. Following a dock call in Cabo San Lucas, the charming Mexican town built into the short, scrubby mountains on the desert peninsula, we sailed among humpback whales and a huge school of Mobula rays that leaped high and often. Now, at least 300 dolphin are soaring and splashing around us with as much gusto as did the rays.

“We estimate for every fin at the surface, there are six or seven dolphin swimming beneath,” says our underwater specialist, Iliana Ortega, clasping a cup of hot, strong coffee. Clearly, a jump-start is needed this early morning to count the fifty or so dolphin fins at the surface, and to register all that nature has delivered so far. But this is Valentine’s Day, and an already spoiled bunch of soft-adventurers is expecting nothing less than love notes from the sea. We are not disappointed. By the time breakfast is finished, a blue whale comes to call. Rolling at the surface, the biggest-ever-on-earth animal is also having breakfast. We watch it for more than two hours.

“Scientists can spend years studying whales and never get to see a big blue feed,” says National Geo's Dr. Francis. Apparently, working scientists can’t get enough of these illusive animals either, and a trace of reverence laces his words together. “Usually the plankton and krill they eat is deeper, maybe fifteen to thirty feet down. What you’re seeing is rare.”

An Old Faithful-like geyser of water shoots high into the sky, and the bathing beauty rolls over with its mouth open, baleen showing. It salutes us with a massive pectoral fin straight up in the air, and on board, Sea Bird tilts ever so slightly to starboard as 60 binoculared faces race to deck right, following the feeding blue whale.

More saltwater candy is forthcoming this day. Two fin whales drop by, the fastest of all whales with 25 mph track records. A small and distant Bryde’s whale is identified near shore. Then during an 11 a.m. showing of “Giants of the Deep”, a National Geographic TV special produced by Dr. Francis, about 30 pilot whales call us topside again. These guys are feeding at the surface, too. Up in tandem; down in tandem. Their broiling motion is like popcorn in oil. Playful, buoyant and exuberant, pilot whales are really dolphin that weight one-to-four tons.

In total, we sail the Sea of Cortes for four days. Jason Kelley, the on-board geologist, explains how the rift in this particular continental plate has created a 10,000-foot deep canyon of cold water. But before the Baja peninsula breaks away from the mainland along the San Andreas fault line in, say, 30 to 40 million years, everything from plankton to sea lions, from krill to blue whales is periodically condensed into this speck of liquid on the planet’s surface—not just for our viewing pleasure, of course, but we see all of this from Zodiacs, kayaks or hikes on shore. Birds and lizards, fish and turtles, in fact, we swim with sea lions, and remarkably in this chilly water, with tropical fish such as king angels and sergeant majors.

After a day when four different whale species hang around the boat – all at once – it gets harder and harder to rush to the bow in the late afternoons because, ho hum, there’s only one humpback a-visiting.

Lenhausen's last wake-up call proclaims, “the Sea of Cortes doesn’t get better than this.” Flatter than an ice hockey rink, people set off to kayak along its shores or hike among the scrubby foothills of Isla San Jose. I choose neither. Satiated with nature, I go into lizard mode; topside, I assume a reptilian posture lying on my stomach, body soaking up sun rays. While absorbing this life-giving energy, at any moment I can spring into action if, perchance, a giant squid approaches. Until then, barren landscape gets my undivided attention.

On shore, a little white house is tucked into the moonscape of mountain folds by the sea; on a wide, sandy beach back a ways from the water. Big boulders in the Sea of Cortes create a small, protected bay just south of the homestead. Clothes hang on a line between two out houses; a turquoise shirt, the only vibrant color among the shades of brown.

It’s hard to tell if a road leads away from the site. Probably not, this is an undeveloped island, and there are no electric wires, no telephone poles in sight. Two overturned boats on the beach are the likely sources of transportation. Nothing stirs, not even a breeze. God’s handiwork -- sparse vegetation and bleak mountaintops -- is incredibly desolate. If the miracle of life at all levels of the food chain weren’t so harsh here, this might be a testament to His/Her sense of humor. For sure, the surrealism is cartoon-ish enough. I roll over in the sun, close my eyes and smile: In my mind, Roadrunner beep-beeps across those irregular summits, a dust cloud billowing behind, and in the haze I swear I see Wiley Coyote doggedly pursuing his tiny footprints.

Lindblad Expeditions offers several cruises to the Sea of Cortes: 1-800-expedition or http://www.expeditions.com/.

Key West's World Records

Key West is the ultimate blend of sensuality, sexuality and reality; the very essence of what Travel Libido is about. But instead of just traveling to the island, I have chosen to live here. So let me help you get a handle on its many facets. For instance, you know you’re in Key West when the cock crows at 3 a.m.--or at 3 p.m. for that matter. On this southernmost island in the United States, it seems these feisty, free-range fowl party ‘round the clock with visitors, who also can’t seem to get their wake-up calls in sync with normal sleeping habits.

Duval Street in the heart of Old Town Key West (and the 'longest street in the world', which runs from the Atlantic Ocean to the Gulf of Mexico) is notorious for letting the good times roll until dawn, but daybreak is not the time to retire from this sinful seaport city. Sunup is also full of excitement: Cuban coffee shops open, fish bite, birds fly and boats gear up for SCUBA diving along the only living coral reef in the United States.

From snorkeling the near-shore waters to sunset cruises and world-class dining on balconies that overlook Key West’s harbors, time spent on the island is time wrapped in every shade of blue water and sky. Embraced by the Florida Keys National Marine Sanctuary, most everything underwater is protected here; conch shells and coral, for instance. On terra firma, tiny Key deer and yes, even raucous roosters are protected species along this international flyway, a migratory path for hummingbirds, hawks and most things winged.

Then of course, permeating the island is an anything goes, positive mental attitude accidentally protected by the island’s remote, tropical location at the end of the Overseas Highway—a 150-mile, two-lane sliver of concrete and bridges recently designated an All American Road. Closer to Cuba than to Miami, Key West is the absolute, dead end of the road. This vehicular lifeline is so crucial to the island’s economy that in 1985, when tourism came to a screeching halt following road blocks set up by federal agencies to snag drug smugglers, crafty city officials declared war on the United States. By announcing to the world that Key West was seceding from the Union, overnight, the two-by-four-mile island reinvented itself as the Conch Republic, an independent island nation. It then demanded one million dollars in foreign aid to compensate for the loss of income.

The money was never forthcoming, obviously, but the publicity stunt immediately ended the road blocks, and ever since, Conch Republic Days have been celebrated in April, with mock sea battles between the Conch Republic Navy’s flagship, Schooner Wolf, and the United States Coast Guard.

Somewhere, there must be a world record for a military encounter as bizarre as this one.

Attractive though the Conch Republic mindset is, weather is a bigger attraction, and potential visitors should never assume that weather forecasts for Miami are the same as for Key West. Indeed, South Florida's daily summer showers are not the norm for Key West. The island's tropical micro-climate ensures sunny skies, balmy breezes, lush foliage and a minimal temperature swing of ten degrees almost year round. Daytime highs hover at or near 90 degrees Fahrenheit; nights are 80.

In the winter, temps are usually 80 during the day, with nights at 70. But when bitter weather fronts ravage North America in January, the occasional cold snap can usher in a rare week of 60 degree days. And in spite of 2005's record-breaking, 41-degree nights on January 12 and 13, Key West is the only location in the continental US that never freezes. Never.

With stats like these, swimming suits and shorts are fashionably correct outdoors or in. In fact, sarongs run the gamut from beach wraps to wedding dresses, and flip flops--the ever present footwear of golden-tan girls and buff-muscle boys--go both ways, too.

Naturally, sway is in order for those who know the difference between high-fashion flips and low-fashion flops.

Although tongue-in-cheekiness applies to some of Key West’s records, some people are dead serious about the world championships they pursue in power boat races offshore the island each November, or the Grand Slam record catches of permit, tarpon and bonefish made in these waters; or the amount of sales in restaurants and bars along Duval Street, where arguably, more beer is consumed in a two-mile stretch than in any other two miles on the planet.

Travel to Die For

The side-glances are frequent and blatant; the eye contact prolonged. Shortly, he and his two sidekicks accept the unspoken invitation and meander to our side of the ferryboat...if you can call it that: a 20-by 40-foot wooden raft that hauls six cars via a stretched steel cable across a no-name creek flowing into the Gulf of Campeche is hardly a modern miracle of transportation, let alone a seaworthy vessel.

This remote part of the Yucatan peninsula between Merida and Campeche has already delivered an ample range of surprises. Uxmal, a Mayan temple hidden in the dense jungle is more sensual than any Caribbean nudie beach. All-you-can-drink, all-night discos in Cancun are wickedly physical. The half dozen or so “ferryboats” connecting the two-lane blacktop road that stretches 100+miles along this rural coast tweak an anything’s-possible attitude. And the broad-faced Mexican swaggering my way holds all the promise of temptation and thrill rolled neatly into one big, blond package.

My two amigas and I have been touring Mexico for 10 weeks in Libby’s VW convertible, and thus far, the quick shifts from pine-covered, arid mountains to sweltering palm-lined beaches peak our senses as surely as the local gentlemen have gone out of their ways to show us a grand time. Eduardo leans on the frayed rope railing and points to dolphin offshore. Says he’s a fisherman, has a five-boat shrimp fleet in some nearby village.

“Would you care to join me for coconut milk when the ferry docks?” he asks in fluent English.

A quick huddle with the girls, and “Yes, that sounds good,” I reply.

Sunglasses on, hair flying in the wind, we’d follow Eduardo and his buddies anywhere. Their valentine-red pickup truck turns left into the jungle here, right onto a gravel road there. We pass through luscious banana groves, up hills, down orchid-laced ravines and around massive banyans strung with Spanish moss.

“Are you keeping track?” Libby asks nonchalantly. I am, after all, the navigator riding shotgun: “Yes, and no I don’t know where we are. According to this map we’re going in circles. None of these dirt roads are on it and I haven’t seen anything that remotely resembles a coconut milk stand.”

As grim reality settles in, I shriek to nobody in particular, “What the hell are we doing here?”

We three glance nervously about the thick, treetop canopy and almost ram the back of the blood-red truck breaking to a stop in the middle of the road, in the middle of nowhere. Out pop Eduardo’s pals with machetes in hand, and our terrified eyes collectively scream: “This is the place; this is where we’re gonna’ die.”

Libby already has the VW turned around when Eduardo opens my door. From her position in the back seat, Adriana grabs at my sweat soaked shirt, but in a single swoop I’m lifted out of the topless Bug into Eduardo’s arms.

Libby screeches to a dirt-raising, rock-spewing halt: Real friends do not leave girlfriends stranded in the jungle.

“I own this island; this is my banana plantation,” he whispers smoothly and slowly into my ear as his arm sweeps my whole body in a semi-circle that lets me focus on two men shinnying up a tree.

“My men are climbing that tree to cut down coconuts for us.” And then Eduardo throws in the punch line: “Have you anything alcoholic in the car?”

“Oh sure,” I sputter weakly. “Wild Turkey or Absolut?”

With the precision of surgeons, these guys whack off the tops of six coconuts. Three strokes each and natural milk cups are readied for Vodka cocktails.

“Limes by any chance?” Libby wonders out loud. Better yet, Eduardo’s machete-swinging compadres serve up lemons, the only ones we’ve come across in all of Mexico.

And of course, this was just the beginning: Libby and I were invited to Eduardo’s village to partake of the already-in-progress weekend fiesta honoring the patron saint of fishing. Shrimpboat captains were partying-up for the opening season. Then Eduardo offered Adriana the services of his private airplane and pilot--she wanted to get on to Mexico City to keep her date with a man she met last week in Cancun.

Such fantastic events, and much, much more highlighted my South of the Border summer in 1976, when the United States was atwitter with its Bicentennial Celebration on a tourist-packed East Coast just a tad farther up the North American continent.

Back then, I was insatiably curious and hopelessly smitten with the heady stuff of adventure and romance and fantasy inherent in travel. Still am, in fact, these days I rarely bypass impromptu cocktail parties in the jungle. Join me in the Amazon, in Africa, in Australia and all over the world for Travel Libido, my new blog. Photos are coming shortly.

Brand New Blog

This is my brand new blog; just working on the design and details. Follow me from Key West, Florida to other exotic locations around the world. Look forward to hearing from you.