Thirteen - Lorena

This is the worst idea I've ever had.

'It's a safe way to go snorkeling if you don't like swimming,' they said. 'It'll be fun,' they said.

Yeah, fuck that. No job is worth this. I will spend the rest of my days living with my actual mother if it means I can get the hell off this boat.

When I heard the term 'glass bottom boat', I imagined a nice above water vessel where I could safely see shore the entire time, completely ignoring the glass floor that would let the other guests see into the water.

Yeah. Ha!

This boat has me down a whole flight of stairs, trapped in some sort of bunker. Or, it would be a bunker if it weren't for the fact that there is glass. Everywhere. There is nowhere to look that isn't either glass or small space.

Claustrophobia and whatever you call a fear of sea creatures are crushing in on me before I even reach the bottom of the stairs, but Óscar's standing there holding out his hand with a smug smile, helping me over the benches and down to my seat.

I'd been really smug about the whole thing about ten minutes ago, too. Because I managed to get the captain's number for an exclusive interview about her life. Which is exactly what I was hoping to achieve today. But the further I get into the boat, the worse I feel.

Deep breathing is only getting me so far and I focus on Óscar's hand on my arm.

"What did you get up to over our break? Ready to concede defeat yet?" Óscar asks as the boat slowly fills with Enrique and Bianca's guests.

"What I did or do is none of your business. Soon I'll be winning this bet and you'll be out of my hair for good."

"Until the wedding," he reminds me with a smirk. "I am the best man after all."

"Well, you'll be out of my hair while I'm planning, at least. I find it very relaxing organizing things."

I want to say more, but I accidentally glance up and see a school of fish swim by. They are the smallest little silvery-yellow things but I still jump half out of my seat, somehow managing to suppress the yelp that wants to escape.

I don't realize how much I actually jumped until I land with a hard thud against the metal seat.

"You really have to stop falling down," Óscar points out, popping a candy or something into his mouth. Where does he get these things?

"Yeah, I'll get right on that."

But he doesn't reply. And his conversation seems to have been the only thing keeping me from a full on meltdown here in front of everyone.

"Tell me about your life," I say suddenly, and probably louder than necessary—I can't tell.

"What?"

"Just tell me something about your life," I say again, pulling myself back from panic that I know to be irrational. "Tell me about your work."

A bitter laugh fills the room and I'm sure heads spin toward us.

"I'm serious." I can't keep my voice from shaking, and it comes out in a low whisper.

Marcia shoves her elbow into his ribs and gives him the eyes which I'm guessing are supposed to convey, 'Hey, you're supposed to be pretending to work together' or 'Remember she's scared of the ocean like an infant?'

I'm not sure which.

Neither, apparently, is Óscar. But he turns toward me anyway. "Well, the story of how I became a fútbol player is—"

"Extremely well known, actually, and not at all interesting."

"What do you know about it?" He looks back at Marcia briefly, like he's seeking approval or assistance.

I close my eyes and take a big breath of the artificially cool air. "I know you and your family were poor and you were discovered or something. I know you were trained at the National Fútbol Academy until you were old enough to play with professional teams on the practice roster or farm teams. And I know you were contracted to play for Real Barcelona and made such a name for yourself that you've never left, even as your salary demands increased to a point of infeasibility for the team. I'm surprised they've kept you on this long."

"So am I," he agrees. "Thought they'd have let me go years ago."

"So why do you do it, then? Why ask for so much?"

He doesn't answer the question, just draws my attention out one of the many windows as he stares down a nearby reef.

Oh, great, we're moving. My ears flare up as the anxiety grips me, but Óscar brings me back to our conversation.

"What do you know about Porfirio Lopez?"

"Porfirio Lopez? I don't think I've ever heard of him. Should I know him?"

He shakes his head and twists to face me as well as he can in the crowded boat, eyes still focusing past me. "No. He's one of the richest men in this country, which usually means..."

"Corruption?"

"Not always. Sometimes it can be a lot of good luck or something else."

"But in his case?" I press.

"Probably the first one." His eyes meet mine. "But I don't like to be too hard on him. His money saved my life and my whole family's too."

"And that makes the rest of it okay?" I can feel the heat rising up in me for a different reason now.

"No. I know it doesn't make it okay but no matter how he got the money, I had to make the most of the opportunity. Do you know how many kids want to get even half what he gave me? Do you know what that man's money could do for so many families in this country?"

"Yeah, but has he done any of those things? How can you justify working with him when you know... what you know?"

"I kind of make him give back," he laughs. "Part of the deal is I continue to prop him up, allowing him to tell everyone at his benefits that he has a personal connection to me. Then I show up to some of his events and in return he gives me connections and a budget to make some things happen for the kids. I might be rich and famous or whatever, but I'm not connected enough to really fix those problems, you know?"

"Don't you have your own budget for that sort of thing?" I press, almost completely forgetting the outside world exists.

"Of course I do, but that doesn't mean I can't use some of his as well. Next week we're going to be opening another National Fútbol Academy location and I've staffed it with the very best." I notice his emphasis on the word 'I' but don't say anything. His eyes are strangely alert when he talks about it. And for some reason—probably the fact that I'm currently under the ocean—I find myself sympathetic to his cause. Which really needs to stop right now. We are at war.

"Why do I never hear about you in the news, then?" I challenge. It's a real gotcha question. My journalistic instincts are on point.

"Because it isn't about me," he shrugs. "I'd kind of hoped someone would pick up the cause organically over time but it seems the only time people are willing to write about these kids is when I allow them exclusive access to parts of my life I'd rather keep quiet."

Here's my opening. He really left the door wide open for me to ask, 'Oh, like all those women you sleep with?' and I do not take it. Because I need to know the truth.

There's absolutely no way he's telling the truth. He does all that shit for money and recognition, right?

These rich people are all the same. They give away enough of their money that it makes them look good, and show their face at a few galas and fundraisers and then they keep such an astronomical amount of money for themselves and just undo all of it for me.

How charitable are you, really, if you keep way more than you could ever need?

But isn't it better he does it than doesn't? It at least matters to the people he's helping, right?

Damnit, internal voice, stop making sense.

"So what do you do with your time, then?" I ask, trying to keep myself from throwing up when a shark—no, a large fish—approaches the boat.

"I play fútbol. I train for fútbol. I do events for the team. And I come back to Honduras and give back where I can."

"But all of that can be shared with a reporter, surely."

"I suppose so."

"So what else do you do with your time?"

"You mean 'who else do I do?'" His voice is severe and hardened, and his arm falls away from mine, leaving a cold patch on my arm as the air conditioning hits the skin where his hand used to be.

"Not even," I manage to keep myself from shouting. "But none of that is private. None of that is a secret. Is there something so bad about the real Óscar that you have to keep hidden or something?"

"No."

"Then what? Why not just do the interviews and give the causes some press?"

"Because my past wasn't all butterflies and rainbows, and my present isn't either, okay? And I know you think I'm rich so everything must be okay but I'm a person just like everyone else. And I'd like us to drop this now, please."

Everyone in the boat politely looks straight ahead of them, pretending they didn't just hear what they definitely heard.

Is it possible I'm a dick? Is there something going on under there? "Will you tell me about it?"

"Are you a reporter?"

"No," I lie. At least, I won't report on this because I don't do Óscar Calderón drama.

"Then maybe one day," he answers simply, turning to face the window but returning his hand to my knee.

I don't brush him away.

Through the course of the conversation, I've discovered that all I need to do to keep it together is stare straight ahead and try to pretend I'm watching television. So I do that.

And it works great until another large something or other comes up from under the boat and bangs against the window directly in front of me.

I scream. Carla screams. The whole boat is in chaos.

And when the dust settles, I'm breathing really hard, peeling my eyes open, and sitting in Óscar's lap.

Yup. Definitely taking my mother up on living with her. As long as it means I never have to see another person as long as I live. 

~ * ~ Author's Note ~ * ~ 

When doing research for this story, I actually had the same assumption Lor had, that a glass bottom boat was just a boat where you were up top looking through a glass floor. But then I did some research and, while some boats like that do exist, the ones more common in Roatan are... a little different (I admit I may have taken some creative liberties with the stairs). 

Knowing what they are really like, would you ever want to go on a tour in one of these glass-bottom boats? 

(I took this picture from a Roatan tour company (westbaytours.com) if you want to look at more pictures yourself). 

See you next week for the next chapter of Roatan Plunge!

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