Eventually I thought I heard yelling in the distance so I opened my eyes.  Four male crew members were standing over me, holding empty wine bottles and shaking their heads. Apparently the deck chair I choose was the prior scene of a small party, but to them it looked like I was drowning my sorrows.  Really drowning my sorrows.  In the dark, I’d somehow missed all the bottles surrounding me.  I tried explaining that they weren’t mine, but they weren’t buying it.  Especially when I stumbled over while trying to stand on my still sleeping legs.  In my head I was hoping my final night may turn out like the happy parts of Titanic, but it was more like Bridget Jones minus Colin Firth.

Two minutes later, there’s a knock at the window.  Of course.  I have no sheets, noclothes and only a small corner of divider wall between me and the knocker, so I lie motionless, hoping he goes away.  No luck.  He knocks again.  I hold my breath.  Oh my God, so this is how I die – naked and sweaty by the hand of some polite knocking criminal.

For a few moments I don’t hear anything. Maybe he left?  Maybe I do get a second chance at sweating to death instead.  Then it happens – he starts playing the guitar. Strumming away, he serenades my open window.  He plays and hums, and I lie naked listening because I can’t move without being seen.  As I listen, I wonder how long I may be stuck like this, and am very glad I didn’t answer.  I think having to make eye contact with a serenader would be much more awkward. Do you smile? Bob your head to the music? I don’t know how that works. Three songs later, he calls it a morning and I hear him walk away. I quickly close the window and put on pjs. Lesson learned.

I’m the only one in a group of eleven without a kayaking partner, so they pair me up with our 250 lb Spanish-speaking tour guide, Marco. We paddle out about three miles into the Strait. Well, I paddle. I don’t think he’s actually doing any work back there. We’re pretty far from land and it’s starting to feel like I’m pushing plywood through tar, but I don’t want to be a baby and ask him if he’s doing his share.  Plus, he’s making some strange squishing noises, so I don’t know if I want to start interacting.  I’m sure it can’t be what it sounds like, but in case he’s having good times back there all by himself, I’d rather keep powering through without knowing.

Another mile out and my arms are burning.  I’m positive he’s not doing any paddling.  One more dip into the water and I think I may die, so I suck it up and ask, “You okay back there, Marco?”.  He’s quiet, for a long time – too long. The squishing noise continues. I don’t dare look back, for fear what I might see. Finally, in a thick Chilean accent, he slowly says, “There is a hole”.  I can’t completely turn around, but get a glimpse of Marco’s seat, full of water.  Water squirts through his hands as he scoops it from our kayak back into the ocean.  Damn.  That’s worse than a party for one.

It almost kills me, but I wave my arms towards the shore, as Marco scoops. Eventually, a rescue boat approaches us.  Barely big enough to fit its driver, he won’t let us on.  Instead, he hands Marco a toothbrush-sized pump to drain water faster.  So Marco pumps and I paddle.  Two hours later, we reach the shore. Soaking wet, we’re pulled in by a husband and wife kayaking duo.  They help me out of my suit and hand me a glass of wine, but I’m too tired to lift the glass to my mouth. Instead I manage to get a Dorito in there and chew it before passing out in a chair. Next time, no matter what I’m afraid the answer is, I will ask before venturing farther.

After a week in Rio I’m not tanned at all, except for my upper lip, which decided to go way darker than the rest of my face. Now it looks like I have a permanent five o’clock shadow. The doctor said that it’s ‘odd’ sun damage and should take a month (A MONTH!) to go away. Tans never last that long on me when they’re even!  Moral of the story: corpse-white skin and the South American sun don’t mix well.

All that said, it was an unbelievable week and I would do it all again (maybe minus the mustache rash, but if it must be, it must be).