I was excited. The day was fine, and the ocean sparkled in the sun as the engines of the old boat began to turn over. It was March 1992, and only the week before I had acted on impulse and booked this last-minute trip to Club Med. Now I found myself on the exotic eastern Caribbean island of St. Lucia. White sand beaches, black sand beaches, volcanoes, rain forests, and deep turquoise water—the stuff that make up dreams. Born a water baby and beach lover, I loved doing anything by, near, in, or on the water. 

Only six weeks out of a long-term relationship, I was suffering from a badly broken heart. But I was determined to let the universe know that even though it felt like my life was over, I knew it wasn’t, and I was prepared to do my part to move on. Now a single woman of forty, the Club Med option to book as a single and share my trip with another made taking a vacation a little more doable. But I’d never taken a vacation alone before, and I was full of trepidations.


I was quickly seduced by the tropical air, the white sand beach, the friendly people, the mixture of French and Latin music, the fabulous food, and the laughter and continuous activities. Although there were only a few other singles there that week, the staff, known as “GOs,�?were all single. They’re not THAT much younger than me, I rationalized, I’ll make friends in that quarter.

And so I did. Although my heart was filled with sadness and loss, the week began to shine with a new kind of magic. I anticipated a lot of different things, and I particularly looked forward to doing some snorkeling.

Twenty years before, I had snorkeled off a gorgeous white sand beach in the Bahamas, and I could hardly wait to do it again. Memories of kicking through warm turquoise water looking for shells filled my mind. I quickly discovered that here, snorkeling right off the beach was not really possible, but every morning at ten, a boat took vacationers out snorkeling. So on the second day, after applying a 40 SPF sunscreen to my winter-white Canadian skin, I arrived at the dock ready to go, along with twelve other eager beavers. My mind danced with visions of lovely, crystal-clear, turquoise water shifting over white sand, where we would explore colorful reefs surrounded by exotic fish.

Our leader was a young man from the island of Eleuthera. A self-starter, Wesley had learned French from the local tourists, and now he shared his engaging smile and fun-loving personality in two languages. Wesley entertained us all.

The old boat motored out on enormous deep-blue swells to the bottom of a great black cliff, where only a few yards away the water crashed into the base. The captain cut the engines and dropped the anchor. We would snorkel here, announced Wesley.

I was aghast! This was not my vision. Where was the beach? My lovely and quiet turquoise water? As the boat rose and fell on huge dark-blue swells, I was filled with anxiety. One by one the others donned their gear and with little hesitation jumped in. Now I was not only frightened, I was mortified. The water baby—the beach lover—was scared. And I was suddenly the last one on the boat.

With a gentle kind of patience, Wesley coached me into my gear and waited until I was in the water. The enormous swells surged around me, blocking my view of everything. Although crystal clear, the water was deep, in constant motion and quite cold. I could hear it crashing onto huge, jagged black rocks not far away.

With my heart pounding I let go of the ladder, put my face in the water and kicked along after Wesley, trying to rise above my fears. I longed for my partner of the past four years. I imagined him there at my side, taking my hand while we shared this experience. I really missed him. But he was not there—and never would be again. I was overcome with sadness and loneliness. I began then to talk to God, asking for courage and help with my fear and loneliness.

Suddenly I felt Wesley’s hand reach over and gently slip into mine. The gesture was so unexpected, so comforting, that my eyes filled up while a huge lump immediately rose in my throat. Blinking fast, I chided myself, Don’t lose it now, girl! You can’t cry into a face mask!

For the next few minutes he held my hand reassuringly while we kicked along under the surface. Suddenly I did not feel so alone, and I began to calm right down. He pointed at coral here, a fish over there, smiling at me through his facemask. After a few minutes he turned and looked directly at me. He let go of my hand, asking with his eyes if I was okay now. To my amazement, I was, and I gave him a grinning, thumbs-up nod. Twenty minutes later I climbed back up the ladder, ecstatic at my simple accomplishment, with the memory of that kind and gentle gesture imprinted on my heart forever.

During the Friday night sports awards ceremony, medals were given out with a lot of hoopla and applause to those who had won events or performed really well. Imagine my amazement when Wesley called my name and presented me with a special award for participation, for simply showing up that week more than anyone else—to go snorkeling.

Reprinted by permission of Janet Matthews (c) 2006 from Chicken Soup for the Beach Lover's Soul by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen, Patty Aubrey and Peter Veqso.  In order to protect the rights of the copyright holder, no portion of this publication may be reproduced without prior written consent.  All rights reserved.

I saw her across the room, sparkling with sequins. She flipped her eyes up at me under a heavy fringe of false eyelashes and my knees turned to water. Patting her bouffant hairdo, she wiggled her way upstream, through the crowded party, toward me. She looked like an enchanting mermaid in that silvery dress, and as she neared I felt for the first time in my life like a piece of bait.

It was Halloween 1964. I was wearing hip waders and a fishing vest because my passion in life was fishing, and I indulged my passion every opportunity I got. As she neared, gazing at me hypnotically with her sea-green eyes, she told me she was born under the sign of the fish. I laughed, not knowing whether to believe her or not. One thing I knew, I was in trouble. She told me I was tall, dark and handsome. I told her she was bewitching. By the end of the evening she had me hooked, and by the end of the following summer, she had me landed in a small courtroom, slipping a gold ring on her dainty finger.


On our honeymoon I took her from the lights of the city to a remote valley nestled deep in the heart of grizzly bear country. For one week, we pitched our tent by an emerald-flowing river and fished to our hearts�?content. But wait. She liked to fish too, didn’t she? I asked somewhat belatedly as we rumbled down the dirt road in a battered pickup truck. Her answer? She batted her magical eyes and just smiled.

Every day of our honeymoon, I fished. Every day, she also fished; precisely at noon, she donned a fishnet bikini, toss her gleaming black hair down her back and walk barefoot to the river. I, too, was in that river, chest deep, casting my line far downstream. She always managed to lure me to shore. Well, almost always. Sometimes a line would tighten, or a reel would spin crazily, a conquered fish leaping to the surface. At those times I’d see her shrug her shoulders and head back to the tent.

I took her canoeing and she managed to look impressed at the salmon I threw at her pretty painted toes, telling me I looked like a Greek god throwing tribute at her feet. One day we rounded the corner, heading back to camp and saw the savage evidence of a grizzly bear foray. Our belongings were strewn everywhere as if they had been chewed up and spit out. Upon investigation, I noted claw marks imbedded deeply in the lid of our food chest. Giant paw prints in the soil left no doubt whatsoever as to whom the predator had been. She broke down in tears and started to pack.

I prepared an airtight plea bargain that got me three extra days on the river. That evening she dabbed on her favorite perfume and I smiled as I hung my chest waders in the log cabin I rented for her.

The day of our departure arrived, and I didn’t share her feelings of elation at going back to the city. As I closed the truck door, I tried not to appear morose. Looking longingly at the crashing waterfalls that tumbled over the majestic mountains, the deep secret forest and the shining river that I loved, I asked what she thought of the valley.

“Very beautiful,�?she replied absently, checking her makeup in the windshield mirror. I thought she was beautiful as I saw the eagerness on her face.

I made up my mind then and there, kissed her soundly and told her bluntly, “I’m glad, because this is where we’re going to live.�?BR>
A look of horror crossed her features as I realized my blunder. That eager look of hers had been to high-tail it out of the wilderness, not live in the wilderness. Desperately, I began to play my line. I was a new stepfather to her five children—I had to think of the welfare of my new family, didn’t I? In the valley there was no danger, except for bears, and I had a rifle. There were gardens, and game to hunt in the fall. I always hunted with a fishing rod in one hand and a rifle in the other, because I never knew when I might run into a stream. There would always be plenty to eat for the children. And—I told her dramatically, saving the pièce de résistance for last—I would build her a dream house.

That did it. She agreed. But somehow I suspected she knew the real reason for my wanting to move the family twelve hundred miles—for the fishing. I hadn’t mentioned that little fact, but if she had asked, I would have confessed. I knew I had married a wise woman when she didn’t ask.

Happy with her dream home—a beautiful custom-made log cabin—we moved the entire family to paradise. On our first Christmas, I bought her a fishing rod. Now she could fish with me! Our girls took me to task, and on her birthday I bought her perfume with the money from the sale of the rod. But, to her chagrin, I also bought her a canner to can the steady supply of coho and spring salmon I regularly brought in from my daily forays to the river.

She always wondered where I got the feathers to tie my flies. One day she pulled her hatbox from beneath the bed, lifted the lid and gazed into it, stupefied. Like naked chicks, embarrassed for lack of feathers, laid her hats. One by one she picked them up, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. A lone feather floated to the bottom. I had forgotten one. She picked it up and stuck it in my wallet beside my credit card. That year she had the best vacation ever.

Time passed. The children left home. She packed away her false eyelashes and got rid of the bouffant hairdo. I packed away my rifle, but there was no way I was going to get rid of my fishing rod. As much as my declining health allowed, I still fished.

On our thirty-fifth anniversary, outside a log cabin not far from where we had once pitched our honeymoon tent, I unwrapped a framed collage of photographs. Stormy rivers bleak with snow, rain swollen or hotly sun dappled, fishing through the years, casting, reeling, angling, in the glory of it all, I stood. Wiping a tear from the corner of my eye with an arthritic finger, I told my femme fatale that she was the best thing I had ever caught. Then I kissed her and together we walked into our log cabin and closed the door, forgetting my fishing rod outside.

Reprinted by permission of Janet Hall Wigler and Angela Hall (c) 2003 from Chicken Soup for the Fisherman's Soul by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen, Ken McKowen and Dahlynn McKowen.  In order to protect the rights of the copyright holder, no portion of this publication may be reproduced without prior written consent.  All rights reserved.