CHAPTER ONE  Catch Dat Lobsta!
Clear aqua water.  A man and a woman who’ve been told more than once they look like Demi Moore and Will Ferrell.  Demi’s okay, but I’d rather be told I’m like Jacqueline Bisset.  Frankie, on the other hand, gets off on being called Will Ferrell.  That I don’t understand his fascination with Ferrell is matched by my needing his translation to actually get these comedies.  The guy can make me laugh at anything.  On my own, well, let’s just say Comedy Central is not usually where I spend my time.  Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

Frankie and I are diving.  We’re swimming together, matching our motion to the ocean.  Kicking when the surge goes our way, floating above an amazingly beautiful reef when the water goes the other way.  My gaze is fixated on the purples, pinks, oranges, and a few smaller bright red crown-like corals that encrust the underwater canyon walls.  It’s like flowers lining a Monet painting.  Bright fish surround us, decked out in every color — translucent yellow, fluorescent royal blue polka dots, oranges and yellows so vivid, so vibrant that no flower garden compares.  Huge waves crash only a few feet over our heads onto sharp pointy rocks that erupt through the water’s surface.  It’s like an underwater peaky Swiss Alps scene, with only the uppermost tips breaking the surface.  When you’re on the boat, it looks like the peak of the Matterhorn.

We swim to the closet.  Our name for a little coral dugout in the canyon wall where lobsters love to hang out safely out of reach, watching what swims by.  Turtles use it to bunk up for the night too.  Every so often, sharks buzz by.  Usually, it’s just a nurse shark.  Nurse sharks appear scary, but they are really in the ray family.  They don’t even have pointy teeth.  Theirs are more like saws designed to cut through lobster and crab shells.  They pretty much leave people alone, except if you pull their tail.  But if you pull my pigtails, you’ll probably get a reaction too.
Just like when the school bully walks into the room, when those sharks pop in looking for tonight’s dinner, everything ducks and tucks backwards into openings in the coral or rocks.  Only an unlucky few get caught not paying attention.  The rest pop back out about 5 minutes after the sharks leave the scene.  Somehow they know.  They must pick up the energy or the movement.
Divemasters have different spins on sharks, including one who asked me for a job long ago.  He literally tells me a story in the interview, bragging that one day when a bull shark swam up, he grabbed the closest diver by the arms and moved him around in front of him like a shield.  I flip.  ME?  I tell divers nervous about sharks to keep me between them and the shark.  That I have a written agreement with the sharks—if they don’t bother me, I won’t bother them.

Lobsters are equipped with a hyper-sensitive trouble radar.  They know when we’ve got our snares along.  They disappear.  The little guys must pick up our energy.  Usually, they peer out at us from under colorful ledges, watching us watching them.  Until we get a little too close.  Then they bolt.  Pfft.  They are gone, tucking their tails under themselves and snapping backwards, closing tight like a clamshell.  These guys jet backwards and bounce 20, 40 even 80 feet in a single second bounce.
Lobstering.  Who’d ever thought it’d be such fun?  If we get one, we’ll splurge on champagne.  The big guy is home today.  He’s 25 pounds if he’s an ounce.  He’s so fast.  No one can catch him.  That’s why he’s so big. 

But it’s been a good week.  Might be our time.  Everything’s flowing smoothly.  I work my way into the orange and pink coral-encrusted cutout in the wall that’s like a Monet painting.  Can’t reach him.  I debate, but the only way to get to him is without my tank.  I take my gear off to sneak in behind the big guy.  Frankie is there after all.
Definitive Trust.  Trust is all-important.  It must be backed up with follow-through, consistent and effective action.  You gotta know he will be there, and you for him.  At the critical moment.  I’ve gotten used to it.  When I look over my shoulder.  When chips are down.  There you gotta be.  Frankie distracts the lobster, waving 2 fingers between two long antennae as I slip the snare over his body.  I pull the noose tight.  Feeling the trap, his whole body flares open. Every muscle tightens like a ballet dancer in full body leap across the stage.  The wire holds.
Must get regulator back into my mouth.  It’s been a minute.  I find it.  Clear it.  Just like I’ve taught students 10,000 times.  Slip back into my gear like the pro I am.  Only then, in amazement, I remember and smile!  Damn.  I caught the big guy!  I should let him go, pops into my monkey mind.  That thought zips out as fast as it zips in.  Just making way for new thoughts.  I’m too hungry to let him go.
Getting the big guy into the bag ain’t easy either.  He flares open as soon as he barely touches the bag.  This guy’s almost as big as the opening, and he’s not holding still.  Frankie reaches over and skootches the bag over his body.  Granddaddy lobster almost slips the noose, but I’ve got the death grip on the snare.  The string is holding him tight.  He tries to use his scissors-sharp antennae to cut the tie, but I know that trick.  I’ve lost other lobsters that way.  I’ve learned how to hold the noose at the bottom to keep the momentum on my side.  He’s finally in the bag.
On our way back to the boat, we find a hole with 4 lobsters standing watch.  Antennae peeking out gives them away.  They all zip back into the overhang when they see the big guy in the bag.  But curiosity gets to them.  They creep back out again one by one.  They just can’t resist coming out to glimpse with glee.  Now one of them has a chance to become King of the Hill, Cream of the Crop and all that.  You can sense the testosterone flow.  Now what do we do?  The “Do I let the big guy go?” thought pops back into my head.  We could happily feast on the smaller 4.  Tough decision.  The kind I dread.  There is no right one.  Looking back?  That’s why I don’t look back.  We swim to the boat with 5 lobsters.  We could call friends over, but that means less time for after-dinner play.  And that is the best part of the day.  Even better than lobstering.
We ascend to another beautiful Galaxan sunset.  Reds and oranges streak across an ever-deepening blue sky.  That’s the best time to lobster.  Late afternoon into evening they are all starting to come out, just like the topside nightlife.  After all, “Happy Hour is the reason I get up”, is a favorite local saying.  We leave our gear in the water tagged onto the boat.  It’s so much easier to haul it over the side than climb up with it on, especially when you’re with a young buff guy who can lean down and pull it up with one hand.  Not that I let him.  For we all could do that once upon a time.  Even me.  It’s just that we all do it one too many times, and then snap.  No longer can we do it.  Best to stop that before someone pulls something bad.  There go the charters.  There goes the lovemaking.  With Frankie?  Who knew there was such a thing as White Light Sex?  The night it flashed green?   I’ll get back to that.
Back on my 32-foot Go-Fast boat.  Crack open a couple of beers.  Nothing better than an ice-cold Bud after a dive.  Start engines.  We’d spent the morning doing maintenance.  She’s purring like a kitten.  Just like me, looking at the hot young man beside me.
Turning Cougar wasn’t easy for me.  Raise your hand if you believe that. There ain’t none who do, but that don’t change the fact that it’s de truf.  Just like so many surmise that I prefer women.  That too couldn’t be further from the truth.  The thought of a woman touching me that way leaves me repulsed.  People’s imaginations, and the gossip generated, is mind-boggling.  It’s even crazier when there are no facts in evidence.  Judgment is only based on their own view of the world.  Surprising how warped that can be and how they use so little facts or evidence to jump to their nonsensical and mean opinions.  This effect seems to be worse where there’s not much to do, for that’s when living your life through the acts of others, real or imagined, fills a need for excitement.  It keeps people going through the mundane humdrum of daily life.  Talking smack is so much easier than living your own life.
Friends had been telling me for years to go younger.  I just couldn’t get past the social stigma.  In high school and college, I wouldn’t even date someone a year younger.  Talk about limiting your options junior and senior year!  Times were changing, thank God, and Hollywood.  Funny that both Jaclyn Bisset and Demi Moore shattered those younger man ceilings, or is it floors?
10 years.  Not such a big difference when you think about it.  It’s much easier to swallow and justify after the fact.  Staying the course once sober, well, that’s a whole other, and harder, matter.  I think the key for me was when I got past the fact that I could have changed their diapers.  That was a real stopper.  I started babysitting and changing diapers at like age 5.  Once I got past that, it got easier to date younger men, so much easier.
I also had to hurdle the belief that if I dated someone, I should be able to see myself married to him.  That thought was not an original either.  Catechism brainwashing instilled that belief.  Besides, who really believes that when a woman’s body sags and her face and chin look like linen left in the dryer too long, that a man 10 years younger than her is going to stand by her, or more importantly have her back?  I’d say raise your hand if you believe that, but no one would, so why bother?
Besides, it’s not my fault that I love men between the ages of 32-38.  Ever since college.  When I was 23, I dated 38.  At 25, I dated 37.  At 31, I dated 36.  At 34, I dated 34.  That pattern lasted until not long ago when a break-up nearly broke me.  He, a vindictive sort, sabotaged my attempt at creating a Mom n Pop Scuba Shop dream after he opted out.  God, we were great on paper.  Business-wise and life-wise.  We both loved the beach and diving lifestyle.  Both were great instructors.  He was an expert in paperwork and maintenance; I was in business, marketing, and getting people hooked on us and diving.  A match made in heaven turned out to be a match made in hell.  It didn’t survive the test of reality.
That led to a several-year hiatus from dating, leading many to wrongly conclude I prefer women.  Whatever.  In the absence of fact, people create fiction themselves.  I could only bury myself in work for so long.  When I pick men back up again, or I should say, the man who manages to pick me back up again, is between 32 and 38.  Something about men in that life mode fits my idea of living.  Now?  Well, we don’t have to complete that age sequence, do we?  Let’s NOT address my history of serial monogamy interspersed with bouts of celibacy, alternating with bouts of cattin’ around.  That would take a couple of volumes.
On the boat coming home, “Tonight’s Gonna be a Good Night” swirls our airwaves.  Did I mention Frankie could sing?  Lobster, champagne, red hot lovemaking in paradise. What’s better than that?  Isn’t that why we work so hard?  Vacas.  Every day looks like that for us.  What few see is that it takes 10 hours of hard work to get you there.  We have very few days off.  But when we get one, we are in paradise and we know the waters and watering holes like the back of our hands.  Diving is a sport.  Taking people diving is work.  But your commute home is a boat, your wind-down spot is a beach bar with good music playing against the setting sun.  On a good day, my favorite musician times my favorite song with the drop.  On a great day, we get the green flash against a bright orange backdrop.  No matter what, we are done for the day, ready to start the night.  If the timing is right, that includes lovemaking.
Turning around, I can see the orange and reds of the setting sun.  We’re out on open water so we put the boat into neutral and watch for the green flash. Deep Purple’s “Feel Like Making Love” is playing.  No boat in sight.  No reason to wait until we get home.  He leans over and kisses the back of my neck.  That’s the spot.  He works his way down my spine. Tingles shoot through my body like I just touched a 10,000-volt power line.  Enough teasing.  I turn full into him.  We’re off to the races.  Again and again and again.  Fade away as I kiss his chest, working my way down towards his… belly.
We put the engines back in gear.  The boat flies over the waves.  We feel the sea air whipping through our hair, the movement of the boat and water and our bodies is one.  The islands surround us, green, tree-covered red mounds get bigger as we near our crystal clear aqua blue bay.  The full moon is rising over the tops of El DiMontana y La Punta Esmerelda, glistening off the silvery surface of the sea.  The long and winding rock road shines under the light of the full moon.  Vividly front and center are the 9 tight switchbacks through Pardier’ Pass.  Ironically that pass separates the Wild Wild West side of the island from the Pueblo Amor side.  Literally Love City.  If only I had understood that the other side of the mountain is more than symbolic.
I learn to tend bar in a beachfront Cuban restaurant owned by a couple who’re always fighting.  He nitpicks, pinches pennies, and rides the staff.  She’s a fun-loving Trust Fund Baby.  Her third childless aunt just passed away, leaving her another $2 million.  Her brother wants to marry me.  He just inherited the first of three sets of $7 million.  I couldn’t say yes.  He’s too annoying.  That was the end of that.
Moving on up like we all aspire to, NOT, instead I went with the bartending gig at the Playa Sand Bar.  It had just changed owners, a routine thing down here.  People buy something, move down.  Then they are in for a rude awakening.  It takes 5 times as long and is 3 times as expensive as what they budgeted for.  A sort of local Unwelcome Wagon Moving Tax.  And that’s in addition to the community property concept that exists in some parts of the island.  If it’s in the community, then it is mine.  Anyway, three of us lady bartenders with warm, welcoming, friendly personalities make the sand bar the place to be.
Dude, I made that man a million dollars.  Twice.  And he’s not the only one.  If I had a nickel for every million I’ve made for someone else, I’d, well, I’d still be writing this, I just wouldn’t have to charge you for it.  I really should make a list.  Note to self:  Put making a list of millions made for others on my TODO List.  But I got a little something back from this one too.  Not cash, but that gig helped me build out my own dream.  Every day my conversation is the same with the tourists who ask, “Do you live here?  What brought you down?”  Every day I tell them.
ME:  The diving.  It’s so fabulous under there being a part of everything, the turtles, the eagle rays, and the fish. There’s nothing in this world like it.  You lie on the bottom of the clear blue water, looking up at sun streaming down.  It’s like being on the bottom of a champagne flute watching the bubbles float up.  Bright coral like every kind of flower imaginable on the wall beside you.  It’s like being in a Monet painting.
The people I chat up at the bar ask me to teach them diving.  Or if they aren’t taking the plunge, they send me their children and friends.  My passion, enthusiasm, and ability to make people feel safe and part of the underwater world are my allure.  Locals who need a little more time and attention come to me as well.  They tell everyone who asks them who to dive with, “Brooke, she’s the best.  She’ll take such good care of you.”
I find a unique ability.  Adapting things I learned from yoga and while overcoming my own early fear of the water, I get to the root of what makes people nervous about diving and help them overcome it.  Hard to believe