This is how I'd describe the U.S.-mainland-priced Cuban restaurant on
Little Corn Island. We walk by to find light skins attracted like
flies to honey after a great day of diving. I won't assert Amanda or
I are amazingly intelligent or athletic, but I know at least she is
pretty fucking tough: she's feeling shitty and turning pale on the
water right after a greasy pizza lunch, so she gets in the water with
all her gear on, bounces around on the waves for a few minutes, pukes
he brains out (it looks oddly artistic sinking below the water with
the light bouncing off red chunks), and then announces she's ready to
dive. Yeah, she's a keeper:)
Maybe it's partly fueled by Amanda's chum, but either way we see better fish than either of us have ever before. My favorite is the multiple ~4-foot-long barracudas halfway between us and the surface. Or maybe it's the one stingray we see right before ascending. Swimming through arches and navigating upside-down with my head inches from the sea floor to explore nooks below outcrops further cements my interest in going for a divemaster certification.
Then, talking to Karl our instructor cements it. I think he said he paid $675 to get unlimited dives and earn his full instructor license in Honduras. From there, it's paperwork, some equipment, and a few fees to setting up your own shop. I am definitely thinking about how much people would pay to come hunt treasure off the coast of Libya with me...