investigative work at WBZ, I need the downtime. And Iâm actually interested in really getting to know someone: Mary Beth, the graphic artist at WBZ who Iâve always found to be a little mysterious and intriguing in her graceful silence. Weâve dated for a month, and now weâre on this adventure together.
Mary Beth and I have been here five daysâfive restful days on a remote little island in the Bahamas called Elbow Cay, sunning ourselves on isolated beaches ringed by palms, papaya trees, and tropical pines. In the morning, we snorkel with giant manta rays and tropical fish. As evening nears, I drift our tiny motorboat over crystal-blue waters, dive over the side, and swim down to coral reefs in order to grab spiny lobsters for dinner. At the end of the day, we watch thesunset color the horizon through our wine glasses, then gaze into the skies until the first stars appear.
Itâs amazingly beautiful, and getting to know Mary Beth better is a joy, but I just canât relax. Iâm dying to get back in the groove, break another story, or pitch another international trip. When Iâm in the field confronting the target of an investigative report, or even on turbulent foreign soil, like I was with the mujahideen in the Afghan war, I feel perfectly calm and stress-free. Here in paradise, Iâm stressed out and distracted, consumed with thoughts of getting to network news. Itâs an obsession that even a romantic vacation canât drive away. Iâm Type A, healthy as a horse, and I feel invincible. Iâm also dying to know whatâs going on in the world as we wake on our last full day of vacation. Little do I know that the worst accident of my life is screaming across the ocean and heading straight for me.
Mary Beth and I plan to spend this final day soaking up the sun, eating cold lobster salad, and snorkeling in the shallow inlet of our favorite little beach, where weâve never seen another soul. The beach is just a short walk from our vacation rental home, and todayâs another perfect morning, with calm breezes and tranquil waters. When we arrive, the beach is all ours again, and we spread out our towels on the fine sand, dab on some sunscreen, and agree to take a swim after a little sunbathing. I doze off but soon awaken with a start. A thick black mass of clouds has appeared on the horizon, and the ocean is starting to roil and froth. The wind is kicking up hard, wailing through the island pines, and bending the palm trees sideways.
Not wanting to get soaked, Mary Beth and I jump up from the beach and run back through a small forest to our vacation rental home. It sits alone in a pine forest at the oceanâs edge, facing the approaching storm. As we arrive, the entire sky turns black. A torrential rain slams into the house. Its large, plate-glass windows vibrate and hum as the tempest descends on us. The force of the wind is so powerful we wonder if itâs a hurricane.
I have just a few minutes to batten down more than a dozen storm shutters before the brunt of the storm hits. I run to each window, yanking hard at the heavy wooden shutters as their rusty hinges resist. I finally close them all, except one. Itâs stuck. As I strugglewith the rusty latch, it punches a hole in my thumb before I finally secure it.
Completely soaked and with blood trickling down my arm, I dash inside and slam the door. The whole house shakes as the storm lashes against it with amazing force. We hear a loud-pitched scream and look up to see a small, open window at the top of the vaulted ceiling in the bedroom where weâve taken refuge. Itâs shaking so hard I think it might burst.
âIâve got to close that,â I say to Mary Beth.
âWhy?â she asks softly.
âIâm not sure,â I answer, laughing a little at myself. âIt just seems like the right thing to do. Maybe the glass will break and the room will be damaged by the rain. Besides, I
Mary Beth and I have been here five daysâfive restful days on a remote little island in the Bahamas called Elbow Cay, sunning ourselves on isolated beaches ringed by palms, papaya trees, and tropical pines. In the morning, we snorkel with giant manta rays and tropical fish. As evening nears, I drift our tiny motorboat over crystal-blue waters, dive over the side, and swim down to coral reefs in order to grab spiny lobsters for dinner. At the end of the day, we watch thesunset color the horizon through our wine glasses, then gaze into the skies until the first stars appear.
Itâs amazingly beautiful, and getting to know Mary Beth better is a joy, but I just canât relax. Iâm dying to get back in the groove, break another story, or pitch another international trip. When Iâm in the field confronting the target of an investigative report, or even on turbulent foreign soil, like I was with the mujahideen in the Afghan war, I feel perfectly calm and stress-free. Here in paradise, Iâm stressed out and distracted, consumed with thoughts of getting to network news. Itâs an obsession that even a romantic vacation canât drive away. Iâm Type A, healthy as a horse, and I feel invincible. Iâm also dying to know whatâs going on in the world as we wake on our last full day of vacation. Little do I know that the worst accident of my life is screaming across the ocean and heading straight for me.
Mary Beth and I plan to spend this final day soaking up the sun, eating cold lobster salad, and snorkeling in the shallow inlet of our favorite little beach, where weâve never seen another soul. The beach is just a short walk from our vacation rental home, and todayâs another perfect morning, with calm breezes and tranquil waters. When we arrive, the beach is all ours again, and we spread out our towels on the fine sand, dab on some sunscreen, and agree to take a swim after a little sunbathing. I doze off but soon awaken with a start. A thick black mass of clouds has appeared on the horizon, and the ocean is starting to roil and froth. The wind is kicking up hard, wailing through the island pines, and bending the palm trees sideways.
Not wanting to get soaked, Mary Beth and I jump up from the beach and run back through a small forest to our vacation rental home. It sits alone in a pine forest at the oceanâs edge, facing the approaching storm. As we arrive, the entire sky turns black. A torrential rain slams into the house. Its large, plate-glass windows vibrate and hum as the tempest descends on us. The force of the wind is so powerful we wonder if itâs a hurricane.
I have just a few minutes to batten down more than a dozen storm shutters before the brunt of the storm hits. I run to each window, yanking hard at the heavy wooden shutters as their rusty hinges resist. I finally close them all, except one. Itâs stuck. As I strugglewith the rusty latch, it punches a hole in my thumb before I finally secure it.
Completely soaked and with blood trickling down my arm, I dash inside and slam the door. The whole house shakes as the storm lashes against it with amazing force. We hear a loud-pitched scream and look up to see a small, open window at the top of the vaulted ceiling in the bedroom where weâve taken refuge. Itâs shaking so hard I think it might burst.
âIâve got to close that,â I say to Mary Beth.
âWhy?â she asks softly.
âIâm not sure,â I answer, laughing a little at myself. âIt just seems like the right thing to do. Maybe the glass will break and the room will be damaged by the rain. Besides, I
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