At least, until everything went horribly wrong.

After two days lounging on the beaches of Sihanoukville with coctails and brand new tans, Ellen and I decided we needed an expedition of sorts to avoid feeling slothful. We decided on snorkeling, since I'd never done it, and to be honest, we weren't looking to be TOO active--it was, after all, vacation. There were several outfitters that offered snorkeling day trips for the outlandish cost of $50, which is pretty offensive when you consider that one dollar equals four thousand Cambodian riel. Minding our budget, we waited for a better deal, and sure enough, found a place offering a half-day trip for the more reasonable cost of $15. And it included lunch! What luck!

We piled into a 1973 Mercedes van with nine strangers and drove to the port side of town, where we met with the rest of our thrifty crew, comprising about twenty people in all, plus our Cambodian captain, who sported neon green floral shorts and a ball cap worn to the side in a brash manner that did not inspire much trust. We waded out to our craft, a thirty-foot dinghy painted a gaudy orange with eroded two-by-fours for seats, and not a life-jacket in sight. It called strongly to mind The Life of Pi, and I fought the urge to look for tigers in the stern. "I hope we're not going far," Ellen said. "You know how I get motion sickness."

It turns out we were going far. Very, very far, across the open South Asian seas, filled with sharks and rays and all manner of sea monsters, in an oversized outboard, whose steering mechanism was a wooden rudder linked by what appeared to be dental floss to a piece of driftwood which Captain Hooligan manned with one foot, his hands being occupied by cigarettes. Huge swells swamped our boat, making the other daring vessels around us seem to disappear as they were thrust up and dunked down by the waves. Ellen got more than a little sick, but managed to hold it together until we finally stopped at our snorkeling destination a good hour and a half later. I am lucky not to suffer from seasickness, so I was still in a chipper mood, ready to explore the coral reef beneath us. Even when our guide handed me the sort of snorkel one buys at WalMart for their six-year-old to explore the shallow end of the kiddie pool, my enthusiasm wasn't dampened. "Also," said our guide, "in the sea, do not touch the urchins. They have the black spikes, and you will hurt the self."

Donning our snorkel gear, we jumped out and began to swim inland. I looked down, and to my surprise, big black spines reached towards me from all angles. Our boat had landed us in a forest of sea urchins. They were everywhere, and there was no way to stop swimming and set your feet down without coming into contact with at least one. But we were there, and we still wanted to observe the sea life, so we took our chances, pondering all along the many implications of the vague phrase 'hurt the self.' We saw bright coral and big fish that looked like they were wearing zebra skins. There were little yellow fish and rigid tubular organisms that looked like portals to another world, and tons of spongy somethings dotting the reef and sand.

And thousands upon thousands of sea urchins. You see where this is headed. Before long, I was distracted by something colorful, and forgot the no-touching rule, got a little too close, and ZAP! the urchins got me. I would describe the immediate resultant pain as a combination of a deep scrape from a sidewalk, and a shot at the doctor's office, but with more blood. My right thumb, left ankle and right shin were now bleeding into the ocean, where the sea water continued to extract it's own revenge; I now understand the phrase 'salt in the wound' with brand new clarity.

We got back in the boat and headed to the island for lunch and some down time. Once again, Ellen almost lost it all in transit. When she felt a little more settled, we decided to take another dip in the ocean, assuming it was safe since the area was clear of the monstrous urchins.

Silly girls. The ocean is never safe. We hadn't been frolicking more than six minutes before I cried out at yet another searing, whip-like pain, this time across my shins. A second later, Ellen shouted, too, and I watched several filmy and translucent somethings cruising by. Jellyfish! Son of a...! We hurriedly swam ashore, but not before getting the business end of three or four more tendrils...each. One of them even re-stung my previous urchin sting, adding insult to injury. After that, we stayed ashore. Burn me once, shame on you, burn me twice, shame on me.

Back once more to the boat, where Ellen was dreading the two-hour trip home, and with good reason. After all her efforts, the incessant rolling of the seas got to her, and with resignation, she leaned over the side of our dinghy to lose her lunch. And breakfast. And possibly last night's dinner. As I watched from a sympathetic but cautionary distance, a sting ray with a two-foot wing span passed right beneath the surface next to our boat. I wanted to point it out, but this seemed like an inappropriate time. Additionally, I was afraid that if it knew I'd seen it, it would somehow leap into the boat to open my previously suffered wounds with a lash of it's tail, and that would be how I died, like Steve Erwin, but with less fanfare. Ellen finished puking, and sat back up, glancing back to Captain Hooligan, who seemed not only unconcerned, but delighted with her plight, laughing and pointing out the spectacle to his rag-tag first mate.

End score: Ocean 17, Alli and Ellen 0. Lesson of the story: with budget snorkeling, you get exactly what you pay for.

written by  alli_ockinga on August 11, 2009 from Sihanokville, Cambodia
from the travel blog: I go Korea!
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Wow, I think you and the Ocean might be mortal enemies? This is like the eighth time that its bested you since we've known each other. Seriously.

written by  Ryan on August 19, 2009

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