Conscious Choice: What I Did On My Vacation

May 2004 | BackWords

What I Did On My Vacation

by Terry Loncaric

How could I possibly know that a little rubber raft would become the conversation piece of my first trip to Cancun? I am such a tourista. I knew I could buy the same raft at home for half the price. But the $9 raft in the hotel gift shop seemed to call my name. The ocean was so calm I could just imagine myself floating in the sunset in that cute blue raft.

So I forked over hundreds of pesos and began to blow it up. I kept huffing and puffing. I began calling the raft every dirty name in the book, in English and Spanish. “Nine dollars, I paid for that damn raft,” I complained to my travel companion, who continued to snooze in a chaise lounge while I hyperventilated. “I blew out all 40 of my birthday candles,” I boasted. “Why can’t I conquer this dinky raft?”

My partner tried to talk me into renting one at the hotel. “But I paid good money for this raft, and it should work,” I said with irritation. I had it. I took the raft back and asked the clerk in the gift shop if she had an air tank. She kept shaking her head and telling me in Spanish, “No, no.” I had to use my boca, she said pointing to her mouth. “But I used my boca — it just isn’t working.” I could tell a refund was out of the question.

So I talked to a hotel employee and asked if he could interpret for me. He asked the shopkeeper if she would just blow up the raft for me. She looked at him like he was crazy. But she was tired of seeing me. She blew into the raft as if she had lungs of steel. She took six deep breaths, glared, then handed me the raft. She looked relieved I would finally be out of her face. Me and my pretty blue raft left.

I hit the water like a kid with a new toy. I found ways to float on the side of the raft, then on my belly. My partner and I even gave each other rides.

After all that fun, I was a little mopish. The raft would end up in the trash. I knew I couldn’t take it home. With my luck, the raft would still be deflating, and our plane would be taking off. I decided it had to be shared. I kept asking Mexican children in the best Spanish I could muster if they wanted the raft. I guess Mexican kids are not eager to take gifts from strangers.

Finally, an adorable boy, about 10 years old, grabbed the raft, and ran right to the water to play with it. I told his mom I hoped they would enjoy the raft as much as we had. She smiled and thanked me. The mom and the child’s aunt were also soon giggling and riding the gentle Caribbean waves with it.

I was happy the raft had a home. The two women saw me gathering seashells near the shore. They stopped and talked. They wanted to know if this was my first trip to Mexico. I told them in my best Spanglish, I had enjoyed the hospitality of the Mexican people and would return to Chicago the following morning with a tinge of sadness.

I continued digging for seashells. A few moments later, one woman returned with a container for my shells. The other woman dug in the sand and kept handing me pretty shells to drop in my nearly full cup. I could tell they were touched I had given them the raft. I, too, was moved by their kind gesture. Their happy faces told me the raft that caused so much trouble had become a cultural bridge. I made three new friends.

I know I will never see these people again. But the delight in their faces reminded me that even in the smallest acts of kindness we learn so much about ourselves and others. Every time I look at my seashells, I see a blue raft and think about the cute little boy, his friendly mom and aunt and the warmth of the Mexican people.

Terry Loncaric is a Chicago-based writer who’ s brushing up on her Spanish and practicing deep breathing exercises.

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