The Online Dating Adventure

The Scuba Jedi is tired of always having to do everything alone. Well, I do have a large circle of regulars that I hang out with and do things with, but I think you all get my meaning when I say being alone kinda sucks. So where do you go to meet a decent man? I'm asking you gentle readers, because I really don't know. I joined a singles activity club and have met some really great single women. It is actually a lot of fun and I have met some good friends and done some cool things like traveled to Bonaire and Peru with the group.

I've tried the speed dating thing (see The Dating Adventure ) and that was fun but unfruitful. Now I am trying the online dating thing. I have actually tried this on and off for several years, and as I am still single, it doesn't seem to be working either. Lately, however, I have been going on a lot of first dates. In the past I got nothing, not even an electronic wink, but maybe my pictures look better this time around. Also, something else I'm trying differently this time is I have dumbed down my description a lot. I don't mention that I am The Scuba Jedi, or that I am a Sierra Club Wilderness Guide, or that I have traveled to 11 different countries, play musical instruments by ear, speak French, make art, used to drive a motorcycle, can make my own clothes, make pottery, work for Microsoft, have a graduate degree in Forensic Psychology, am a voracious reader, and dress up for Renaissance Fair. Men don't give a crap about any of that, I have figured out. As a matter of fact, this all goes to work against me. All they think about is sex, and all they care about is if they think you're hot looking. So I have a couple of portrait pictures and a couple of paragraphs about how nice I am, would like to meet someone who can make me laugh (all guys think they're hilarious), and that I like to cook and wouldn't it be great to have someone to cook for...giggle giggle giggle. Excuse me, I have to go throw up right now, when I'm done I'll finish the blog.....

One might wonder why I even want a man if I think so little of them? Well, let me tell you. I have met and know some pretty terrific guys. They are mostly all married, and understandably so. So this gives me hope that there might be one out there for me. The dumbed down profile isn't a lie, it's just not disclosing all my information at once. I think this is what was killing me in the past. I put it all out there and it was overwhelming. So I just reeled it back in a smidgen and will dole out the rest of me in little pellets like from a Pez dispenser.

So I have had a lot of first dates. Here's the drill: They answer my online personal ad and we e-mail back and forth for a couple of days. Then they give me their phone number and I will usually text them so they have my phone number, because I won't call a man to start off with. Nor will I let them trick me into asking THEM out. I read "He's Just Not That Into You", I know the game. Then we'll either keep texting or he'll call me. We set up a time and place to meet and then we meet. We'll have a nice chat, a couple of drinks, or a coffee, and say so long. Then one of two things happens. I will either never hear from them again, or they will contact me a couple of days later about seeing each other again. And here's the thing, my amazing blog readers, it's always to GO OVER TO HIS HOUSE! Can you say "Booty Call"? Not only am I not interested in a booty call buddy, but that is just creepy and makes me uncomfortable. I am a fairly good judge of character and I know these guys are mostly harmless, but the one time I judge poorly I am going to regain consciousness and find myself in a hole in some guys basement hearing "It puts the lotion on its skin, or it gets the hose again". No thanks, Buffalo Bill, I am not coming over after only meeting you in person one time. When they find out I'm not coming over, they dump me. One time a guy actually took me out three times before abandonment. He wanted a bed buddy for an upcoming weekend in Sedona. When I told him I was doing a camp out that weekend and couldn't go, he disappeared.

All in all it should really be discouraging. But it has actually toughened me up and I am using this as educational material. The trick is to have no expectation. Then when you're treated like this, you aren't surprised or hurt. I am very grateful that these guys show their true colors right in the beginning and I don't get dragged into a mess that will lead to hurt later. I am truly blessed.

And so, I will persevere.

Until the next adventure, your Friendo Platonico,

The Scuba Jedi

Grand Cayman Adventure

Every year the Professional Association of Diving Instructors (PADI) Diving Society hosts an event called Total Submersion. It's a week of boat and shore diving, parties, food, hanging with other divers and maybe even making new friends.

I managed to wangle some vacation time from May 1 to May 8, which when you work shifts punching a time clock, is no small feat. The weeks leading up to the event dragged on and on and the night before I left seemed to take a lifetime. I had to work until 9pm the night before and I had a 7 am flight the next day. Once again, I procrastinated packing, thinking I am such a pro I can do it in 15 minutes. But not only did I have to pack some clothing, but all that scuba gear. But I prefer packing the gear last so that I can make sure I don't forget anything. From time to time, I have dreams that I am going on a long, exciting, exotic diving vacation and as I am boarding Air France or British Airways and the cabin door is closing, I discover that I didn't pack my mask, or my fins, or my BC. Things you really can't dive without. Occasionally I will dream that I forgot my purse with all my money in it, and very occasionally I'll dream that I am boarding the plane completely topless.

But I digress.

I ended up not going to bed until 12 or 1. I had to leave the house at 4:30 in order to get checked in for an international flight. I couldn't get any of my so-called "friends" to take me to the airport. I mean, they could go back to bed, or get an early start on a Saturday. But it all turned out well, as I ended up waking up at 4:30 am. I didn't even have time to shower, I just threw some clothes on and bolted out of there. I just did make it in time. I only sat at the gate for a few minutes when they called my row and off I went. I didn't forget to pack anything and I was wearing a top.

The flight was uneventful except for the male flight attendant trying desperately to flirt with the busty blonde in the row across the aisle and in front of me. From Houston to Georgetown, Grand Cayman, the guy was chatting with her stooped over leaning on the arm of her seat which put his ass directly in my face for approximately two and a half hours. Nice. He did manage to serve a couple of drinks but it took a lot to distract him from the blonde to, you know, do his job. I am pretty confident he struck out anyway.

The humidity festival is ongoing in the Caribbean and in Georgetown, the airport is the small Banana Republic type. They wheel the stairs up to the jet and we de-plane to the open air so the moisture can hit you like a bus right away. There was something new this year, they have enclosed the rolling stairs in some sort of plastic covering that quite frankly, looked like a giant hamster tube. That made it even hotter.

The Cayman Islands are made up of three small rocky clods of dirt called Grand Cayman, Little Cayman and Cayman Brac. They are located south of Cuba and west of Jamaica. The Cayman Islands are famous as an offshore banking center in the Caribbean. The islands are actually the peaks of a massive underwater ridge, known as the Cayman Trench, standing 8,000 feet from the sea floor, which barely exceeds the surface. The islands are therefore at sea level and this leaves them vulnerable to the sea, and worse, hurricanes. Grand Cayman is the largest, with an area of 76 square miles. I have never been to either of the two "Sister Islands" of Cayman Brac and Little Cayman, and I hear the diving is very good there. They are located about 80 miles east of Grand Cayman and have areas of 14 square miles and 10 square miles respectively. All three islands were formed by large coral heads covering submerged ice age peaks of western extensions of the Cuban Sierra Maestra range and are mostly flat. One notable exception to this is The Bluff on Cayman Brac's eastern part, which rises to 140 feet above sea level, the highest point on the island and where everyone rushes when a hurricane approaches.

Grand Cayman was obliterated by Hurricane Ivan in 2004. Hurricane Ivan was a category 5 storm (the strongest rating on the Saffir-Simpson scale) and was the size of Texas. Think about it, Grand Cayman is 76 square miles. The state of Texas is 268,820 square miles. It swirled over the island for two days and basically ate it. There really wasn't anywhere to go, not even The Bluff on Cayman Brac.

Fortunately, Total Submersion takes place before hurricane season. The weather is usually pretty clear when we're there. The first day of diving was Sunday and after an orientation session we were off to the boats. At Total Sub, everyone is divided up into teams with a color designation. The first year I went I was on the Red Team. Since then I've been on the White team consistantly. There are repeat guests who go every year and some people who attend every other year or couple of years. I have been going back every year since 2007. I like the event, have made friends, and the diving is always a sure thing, unlike places like San Diego where the conditions can be unpredictable. However, the first day of diving was a little unusual as the seas were what could be considered rough for the Cayman Islands. The boat was rocking and bouncing and this, gentle readers, makes The ScubaJedi nervous. It's the same feeling as when I'm on skis (read Adventures in Skiing) or on an out of control water sled (read Whale Riding in Rocky Point). I guess I feel a bit helpless as I know that no matter what, the water is always the boss and can knock you around any way it wants. Once I splash though, everything is much better. For the second dive we moved the boat to calmer waters to a dive site called Eden Rock. The first one was Little Tunnels because it's full of little tunnels. Eden Rock is a popular site for not only divers, but for snorkelers as well. They come off the cruise ships that dock not too far away. I've heard of snorklers near divers will sometimes swoop down and grab a puff of air from a diver's spare air hose. That, to me, is an invitation to having my fin shoved up a snorkeler's ass.

The first two days, I am usually very tired after the morning boat dives, but on the second day, which was Monday, I managed to get in around 4 dives before becoming unconcious. There are optional dives you can pay for like a night boat dive. I got a rough start with night diving but now find it very comfortable and like it as you get to see all the creatures of the night that venture out to look for food. I signed up for the night boat dive and was looking forward to it to the point that I forgot my regulator. I left it in the room. A lot of people leave their gear laying around as it's pretty safe but my regulator was expensive enough that I didn't want to leave it laying around with the rest of my gear. It has a wireless transmitter that talks to my wrist dive computer and lets me know how much air I have and neat stuff like that. So I usually tote the wrist computer and the reguator assembly with me. So we're under way out to sea and I commence to setting up my gear and lo and behold, no regulator! For those non-divers reading this, the regulator is the thingamajig that screws on to the air cylinder and a hose comes out of it and to your mouth, which allows you to breathe. It's kind of important. So I began to whine and bitch that I was going to miss the night dive. I was pissed. But there was a spare reg on board and Scotty, one of the boat captains, helped me set it up. But then the low pressure coupling didn't fit my spare air assembly so I began to kvetch again. Another diver on board happened to have about 5 spare low pressure hoses with him as it happened, and one of them fit. I was still a bit twitchy about using different life support systems, but I splahed anyway and saw many wonderous things.

I completed my 100th dive on this trip, and the last dive of my journey was the most spectacular of all. A site called Big Tunnels, which has, big tunnels to swim through. But it was like diving in the Grand Canyon only you don't have to stop at the ledge and look down, you can cruise over the deep chasms and even dive down in them. I saw the biggest Super Male Parrot fish. Super Male Parrot Fishes are Parrot Fishes that were once female then decide to switch. The process is more than likley much cheaper and easier than when humans decide to do this. The life cycle of the Stoplight Parrotfish, which is most commonly found in this area is complex. But the SuperMales are really friggin big fish. They school, so you have to wonder what is after them, as there is always a bigger fish.

After Big Tunnels we went to a site called The Aquarium where, after I descended to a depth of about 30 feet discovered that my transmitter was no longer speaking to my wrist computer. The two obviously had a quarrel and were no longer communicating. Bummer. I went up and boarded the boat, switched off the air, switched it back on and everything was fine. But I didn't trust it and decided to stay up top. Big Tunnels had been so spectacular I wanted to remember the trip with that last dive. I stayed aboard with Scotty and Trevor and took pictures of my feet.

The next day consisted of shopping so I swooped into Georgetown and spent money like a drunken sailor. I regretted it when I looked at the receipts and saw that I was going to have to live on peanut butter for a couple of weeks.

But, I can't wait until next year when I can do it all again.


Until the next adventure,
The ScubaJedi

Adventures in Skiing

I had never been downhill skiing. The opportunity arose where I could go with my social group up to Flagstaff, Arizona for a day trip with a ski lesson for $57. I decided that sounded like a fun idea so I signed up.

I did have an ulterior motive in that there was a certain guy I was interested in whom I had met at another gathering. He is from Brazil and I happened to speak a little Portuguese so we kind of hit it off. We had a lot of common interests like scuba and backpacking so I thought it would be fine to get to know him a little better. We'll call him Paulo (not his real name).

We all met at a Starbucks to carpool up to Flagstaff. I was hoping to beg a ride from someone as I don't know how to drive in snow and I wasn't sure of the conditions. I was hoping that Paulo would drive and I could ride up with him. When I got there, he said he didn't know whether he was going to stay up there for the night or come back, so I said that was okay as I would pile in with someone else on the way back as I knew there were pleanty of people returning that same day. I was signed up for a 9 mile hike the next day and wanted to come back.

I rode up with Paulo and another guy I'll call Edward. We had a great time yukking it up and chatting and listening to Edward's enormous collection of 80's music. When we left the Verde Valley to climb the mountain into Flagstaff, Paulo announced the the gas gauge "Empty" came on and we needed to stop for gas. I said, um, there won't be a gas station for quite some time. there is literally nothing between Camp Verde and Flagstaff except Munds Park and that was some way up the road. I was concerned. Paulo had never been up to Flagstaff before as he has only been living here a couple of months. Edward re-iterated my concern saying that we were pretty much in the middle of nowhere. Paulo said that there was about 30 miles of gas left when it was on empty so no worries. I said that was great except we need to go about 50 miles.

We just did roll into Munds Park on fumes and stopped at the first Shell station. I was never so happy to see that obnixious yellow shell.

On to the mountain, we made it and met with the rest of the group. One woman there had come up the night before and she was all in her ski outfit as she had her own stuff. She swooped in on Paulo and started taking over his day. She enthusiastically asked him if he were going to stay the night, what he was doing for lunch etc etc. He replied that he would stay the night and she whipped out her cell phone like it was the Bat Phone or something and started calling her hotel to see if there were rooms so she could book his room for him. Then she grabbed his ski pass and started helping him attach it to his coat and I was getting a little annoyed. What was she, his mother? I had told this woman prior that I was interested in Paulo and I guess there are really no rules in love and war, and this was a little of both. But, I have a personal rule that stems from self-worth and integrity and that is I don't fight over men. I was having fun and was going to learn how to ski and that's what I would concentrate on.

The line was long to get the rental equipment and we missed the 10 am lesson and the next lesson was at 1. We got our skis and boots and were left to our own devices. Paulo said he wanted to just get out there and do it, and I admired his fearlessness. I am relatively fearless myself, but there is something about sliding down a mountain on a pair of sticks that does unnerve me slightly. I really wanted to wait for the lesson, but that was not for another three hours. So I went along with the crowd and donned my $75 ski pants and had someone show me how to strap into the skis.

Ski boots were invented by someone who loves pain. They keep your ankles extremely rigid, which I supposed is to your advantage, but I was pretty confident that my legs were both going to snap at the shins. Then you have to get your skis and carry them outside. They weigh slightly less than that boots, which is to say it's like trying to carry a couple of lead telephone poles. I slung mine over my should to try and look like I knew what I was doing but at the same time trying not to render those around me unconcious by hitting them with the skis. Then there was the walking around in ski boots. Everyone was clomping around like Herman Munster with a gate like Jar Jar Binks. Sort of a drunken bobbing.

So I hit what was called the "bunny" slope for beginners. Me and a couple of other women sort of stuck together. Paulo took off with his mamma, the woman who was intent on taking care of him. I wondered if at dinner she was going to cut his meat for him. Anyway, I was busy trying not to die, I couldn't worry about them. I ended up aimed downhill and started sliding. I got up to speed close to say, mach 2, and discovered I had no idea how to stop. I had these visions of Sonny Bono and that one Kennedy smashing into a tree. I, however, would not be as lucky as them and die on the spot. I would probably be left quadrapalegic and live another 60 years until I could talk somone into feeding me strychnine. So I purposely fell. I sat down, rapped the back of my head on the ice and skidded on my back a few more feet before coming to a halt and laying there dazed. That's how I stopped from then on, just flop down. I was sure there had to be a different technique to stopping on skis. Paulo yelled for me to get up off the snow before I froze but he was too late. I was already frozen. I took the skis off, got up and went to find a place to sit and cry. I am usually pretty good at anything I try but this was going to be a challenge. I saw snomobiles go by dragging a litter to pick up bodies with and thought I would pay real money to get a ride on one of those. Instead I cambered back up the hill and decided to chill out until the lesson. I met some of the others for lunch, then it was time for the lesson.

I learned how to stop which was nice, but still, if I got going too fast, I still had to fall down. I was hating skiing more and more. I looked around at the others who made it all look so easy. When we made our way ( me skidding on my butt mostly) down to the ski lift I decided I had enough. It just wasn't fun. I told Ryan the Ski Instructor that he was a wonderful teacher, but I was just not going to be a skier. I went and turned in my things, changed into some dry clothes and hung around until everyone was back and ready to go to dinner.

We all went to the famous Beaver Street Brewery, then Edward, Paulo, and I headed back to Phoenix. Paulo is magic. He transformed from a affible, nice, funny, interesting person into an arrogant, preachy, nonstop talking know it all in the space of an hour. He started getting really philosophical, and would not let anyone else finish a sentence before he would interrupt and tell you you were wrong and we might as well be talking about flowers. He all but called me stupid. I am hard enough on myself and really don't need anyone preaching to me and telling me that I am not equipped intellectually to converse with them. I almost asked him how to say "You SUCK!" in Portuguese. Don't get me wrong, I appreciate the guy. Hate is not the opposite of like or love, indifference is. I hate him and that means I care somewhat. He's nice, funny, animated, and interesting as long as you stay in the shallow end of the pool with him. Don't go deep into anything. I am not in the least bit worried about him reading this either. Inasmuch as him reading this would indicate some interest and curiosity in something other than himself, and that just won't happen.

I was really happy to return and get into my own car where I am the Captain. That was the end of my ski adventure. I'm not sorry I went, I did have a good time. I also learned a lot and have been feeling a lot better about things.

I also heard that Paulo got in a fight with another guy at a group event the following Monday.

The ScubaJedi