Facing down fear took more than courage; it took love

I promised myself I would sign up for one particular excursion on my southern Caribbean cruise to St. Thomas, U.S. Virgin Islands, in 2013: I would sail and snorkel with the turtles at Buck Island Reef National Monument.

On an overcast November day, my 23 snorkel partners and I met at the Fat Turtle Restaurant (didn’t look promising for the turtles) near the Yacht Haven Grande Marina. A Fury Charters rep met us and escorted us to the boat. Capt. Mike Fury was waiting for us.

Capt. Mike gave instructions: Use sunscreen (no oil or spray), have a towel at the ready and cash to tip the crew. Then he passed out the snorkel gear. Everyone had to wear a life jacket.

Dick, my husband, hadn’t been wearing a life jacket two years previously when he went snorkeling in Christmas Cove off Great St. James island between St. Thomas and St. John. I tried to persuade him to wear the jacket, but he refused.

His answer: “It isn’t macho.”

It was probably a heart attack that killed him in the middle of a shallow dive. Later, I wondered whether I should have forced the life jacket on him. That wouldn’t have worked. Should I have tried to reason with him? That wouldn’t have worked either. I backed down.

When I think back, I don’t know whom I was angrier at: him for being macho or me for letting him go without it.

Dick’s doctor said later that wearing that jacket might have made a difference, but I will never know.

Fates and fears

Events moved quickly that dark day, and I arrived at the funeral home wearing a coverup I had thrown over my still-damp bikini. Once arrangements were made, my cousin drove me back to her tiny St. Thomas apartment.

I was blind to the lush, green hillside dotted with small homes in every color on a painter’s palette. I was supposedly in paradise, but it was hell to me.

Two years later, I was ready to do battle with the fates and my fears.

I intended to turn my last snorkel into a sort of pilgrimage to the land where my husband died. To use the psych term, I wanted closure. I hoped good memories would replace the bad ones if I could complete the snorkel my husband had not been able to.

I had told Capt. Mike what had happened on my previous snorkel. He showed compassion as he outfitted me with the compulsory jacket and fins, but he also gave me enough buoyant noodles to keep me atop the water’s surface.

All I could do was dip my goggles an inch or two into the cloudy, green water. Swimming with the turtles was out of the question. I couldn’t even see one.

But I didn’t care. I was doing what I had come to do — float in the water, dip my head in now and then, and not give a flying fig about what the turtles were up to.

One of the ship’s staff members swam to the bottom with the camera I had bought for the occasion and took some shots of the green turtles, which were almost camouflaged by the green muck of the bay.

To my surprise, I was calm in the water. I was doing what I had set out to do.

Triumph, finally

About 45 minutes later, my mission complete, I headed back to the boat. As I mounted its steps, I felt like the conquering hero. Trumpets should sound. Cymbals should clash. Nothing of the sort happened, of course.

We docked at the pier. I took photos of my cousin and her family. On a whim, I bought a pair of black diamond earrings from the ubiquitous H. Stern Jewellers. I’ve never worn them since.

But St. Thomas gave me more than baubles; it gave me the courage to turn tragedy into triumph. I had completed my husband’s last snorkel.

Departure Points, a monthly column, explores the ways in which traveling changes us, whether it’s a lesson learned or a truth uncovered. You may submit a first-person essay of 700 words or fewer to travel@latimes.com with “Departure Points” in the subject line. Please include your first and last names and your contact information for editorial consideration.

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