A Matter of Life and Locked

(This is the first of four stories from YAB Editor-in-Chief Chris Condon’s “Island in the YAB” vacation. Enjoy.)

Yes, it’s true. Watersports were included in the Sandals all-inclusive package. Water skiing, kayaking, paddle boats, catamarans, snorkeling – yeah, all fine choices. However, it wasn’t until one fateful morning where I chose to indulge in the greatest Caribbean water sport of them all: deep sea diving. But fish and coral were not the focus of such an excursion. Nay, this particular sightseeing mission was for a far more beautiful vista. That’s right.

Our missing room keys.

The water was, well, okay fine, warm and quite pleasant that fateful Thursday morning in the pool at the Bluff. This aquatic spelunking locale is not unlike most other standard swimming pools – well, except the aforementioned swim-up bar. As Katie and I spent the morning relaxing and floating our way around the premises, lying on floatent floatables (yep, making up words, just like old times), the bottom of the pool held only feet and mosaic printings of ancient Greek icons and astrological symbols.

Until, of course, I carelessly let our room key slide out of my pockets and become a captive of Davy Jones’ locker.

It wasn’t until I had exited the deep and was about to head down the hill to lunch when I did my standard cargo pocket check. On such a vacation, my pockets ran a little thinner, having no need to truck my wallet, car keys, and cell phone everywhere I went. But that did not mean it was acceptable to reach down to my side and pat my pocket to only find air. No, there should have been something there to find. Namely, a set of dark golden metallic keys on a neon green bungy designed to be stored on ones wrist.

I’d store said keys on my wrist, but let’s face it. Kind of hard to bring that rum and coke to your mouth without getting a housekey in the eye.

As I scrambled through the dining area and back down the steps, I knew exactly where I had left my treasured amulet of entry, in a precise generality sort of way. The only thing between me and lying down in my hotel room was four feet and six inches of the Sea’s finest. And to make my excursion a fraction of a league under the sea exponentially harder, God decided now would be a fun time to open up the heavens and drench those below with a St. Lucia-patented 12 Minute Rain Storm.

Crap.

As Katie kept watch from the balcony above, looking, hoping, and praying for just a glimmer of metal at through the driving splashes of rain, I launched head first into my adversary. The fun thing about searching for such a variety of key was that while keys no doubt sink, I had to consider the possibility that the neon green phone cord they’re attached to just may float. This means that my bounty could quite possibly be residing at any vertical depth of the fifty-four inches of rain-pelted water I now found myself surrounded by.

Don’t I get a treasure map or something?

I was methodical at first. After checking the poolside filters (those things have traps like sharks’ mouths), I began my sea-bed patrol of the outlying points below. Most of my time had been spent around the edge of the pool, anyways. As that phase of my search turned up no more than a leaf and somebody’s discarded beer bottle peeling, my heart decided to kick into the second gear. I came to the surface, dismayed and ready to regroup.

Did I mention it was raining cats and…island goats?

The scene up on the balcony had turned far more frantic, as dry diners noticed the weird kid patrolling the pool’s floor. Katie had set out to get a temp key in the case that I return to no avail. The current of the pool had since picked up, as if it knew it had an audience. Needless to say, gale force winds that would toss a tiny ship persisted, while I remain below the surface, feeling my way for both keys and now, for hope.

About to give up (had I been underwater for hours? days?), I plunged to the depths for one final scouring of where humans should not go. Now criss-crossing the pool, my search pattern had grown erratic and desperate. With one final stab out with my left hand, I grasped and like choir of angels had opened their hymnals to Handel’s Messiah,

I found them.

Am I a hero? No. I’m just a guy who likes his all-inclusive watersports.