Update at the end of week 2. It seems every time I come here I cannot leave without having sustained at least one bodily injury. Every year, without exception. And it's usually something unusual.
Some may recall how last year I was literally being eaten by fire ants in my sleep. This time, though, I really thought I'd broken the curse, given my improved tropical survival skills so hard-won by experience. Oh, but no.
Yesterday we went to The Beach. Not our own rocky beach, but the nice one on the other side of the island with powdered white sand and ice cream vendors on bicycles. I was looking forward to a nice swim, the first with my recently-repaired spine. It started out fine. Better than fine, it was absolutely wonderful, right up to the point of incapacitation.
As I strolled back toward the beach to dry off and have some lunch, an enormous pulse of pain shot up from my right foot that sent me crashing into the surf. I thought I'd stepped on a rock, although there were no rocks in sight anywhere on that perfectly smooth white sand. I fell down a few more times before eventually making my way back to the little rented hut on the shore, where Dr. Wife performed an inspection.
My first thought was a stingray. These beautiful, docile creatures hide in the sand and you really don't want to step on one. You may recall that it was a stingray that killed naturalist Steve Irwin, although that was a freak accident. Normally, stingrays scoot off in a hurry when you approach them.
It wasn't a stingray. It was something even more innocuous - a sea urchin. At least, I thought they were innocuous. But those little buggars are covered in barbed spines like a porcupine's quills. They can be safely picked up if you're gentle. But jeesh, don't ever step on one!
The bottom of my foot had a dozen tiny spines embedded in it. When we got home, Dr. Wife performed field surgery on me with a needle, tweezers and peroxide. Ouch, ouch, ouch. How many more? Just one big one, she said. It was planted right in the arch of my foot, the most sensitive zone. My screams were drawing a crowd of children, fascinated that this big white guy could be such a wuss.
Fortunately, I had added some of the painkillers left over from my back surgery to the first-aid kit. After popping a couple Percosets, I was able to endure the removal of the final quill. High as a frickin' kite, actually. She could have cut off my whole foot and I would have just asked for more ice cream.
Now, these little spines are designed by nature to inflict maximum pain. Not only are they barbed, making them difficult to extract, they break off when you attempt it. Bottom line is a fragment of one of them remains in my foot, and will likely require a real doctor for removal.
I'm looking forward to the check-in at the doctor's office, where the bored receptionist, staring at her computer, starts with "was this a work-related injury?". I bet I can make her look up from the computer for a second.