No point going to the Dominican Republic without getting into the water for a snorkel. We recently spent five nights at Playa de Arena Blanca beach in Punta Cana, on the eastern tip of the Dominican Republic, with longtime friend Henry and his family.

When they signed up for a boat tour, we said, “Count us in!”

We queued up on the beach with some of the crew while the captain brought the double-hulled catamaran closer to shore and sent a water taxi to ferry us to the boat.

A staged photo. Thanks, Dimitri!

The captain wore a black tee shirt with the words, “Pain is weakness leaving the body,” a motto that will inspire me for the rest of my life.

The place our captain chose for a swim did not have as much sargassum as the water closer to shore, but it wasn’t seaweed-free. Seaweed, smeeweed, we said, and jumped in.

I don’t have any photos of us in goggles and a spout, which is just as well because the way those things push our lips around, nobody needs to see that. Really.

Punta Cana, at a tropical 18.58 degrees north of the equator, had the kind of swimming we loved so much in Belize and Nicaragua, and on Guam and Hawaii. Eye-popping blue and bathtub-warm.

At one point, over the pounding music and the roar of the engines, I got an earful from Dimitri about discrimination towards Haitians by Dominicans. For a few moments, I thought he was talking about Asians, because that is how he pronounced Haitians. “They think ‘Asians” this,” and “They think ‘Asians” that. Eventually, I realized he was talking about his experience, about coming to this side of the island seeking work and being underestimated and underpaid.

A California girl, through and through, Kelly loves sunshine and swimming.

PARASAILING: SOMETHING WE DID NOT SAY, “YES” TO

Bob and I said, “No thanks,” to parasailing. You can throw that into a bucket with bungee jumping, ziplining, and skydiving.

But it was fun to watch our very brave friends get dragged through the air. Have to admit.

Later, Henry described the main tether, how it appeared to be anchored in plexiglass on the tow boat, and I saw Kelly squeeze her eyes shut.

There’s a metaphor here I can’t quite nail down: The family that hangs together, stays together? One for all, all for one? Hang in there? Hanging by a thread?

Triumph!

Not sure what Henry was saying after their flight. Could have been something like, “You can mark that off our bucket list!”

It didn’t take a boat and a parachute to delight this man. Henry’s excitement was chronic. During our week together, I saw his face light up when he said, “There’s coffee in the kitchen,” or after hauling off the kitchen trash, or while guiding me to the Pharmacia to get my weepy eye back on track.

Henry’s enthusiasm signalled victory for all, every win a shared triumph.

During our stay in the Dominican Republic, we breakfasted together at the Villa Blanca Beach Club every morning. I was especially fond of their Chilaquiles.

After Kelly and I shared an early morning beach walk, she’d cool off with a swim, then join the rest of us for breakfast at the club.

There was usually a cat or two hanging around.

On more than one evening, we found ourselves at Enjoy Corales restaurant down the street.

Everything they served was delicious: pizza, pasta, Dominican dishes, seafood and salad.

Henry’s twin sister, Daisy, also attended The American School in Switzerland, so Bob has known them since he was fifteen.

Bob enjoyed a nice sole fillet with fries.

Ignoring the lettuce scare back home in the States, I often asked for salad. The raw vegetables always had that crisp, freshly-harvested texture, and I never got a hint of a bellyache.

Maya has a no-nonsense personality with a splash of spontaneity and a hint of wry humor.

It took a minute to choose a dish from the extensive menu unless you didn’t eat meat or fish. That made it easy for me—salad!—and then I’d turn into one of those people who yak at you while you’re trying to decide what to have.

What I love about the third world: signs that make no sense.

Me and Bob, Maya, Henry and Kelly, Nancy and Juan, and Daisy at (let me guess) table 31.

As a splurge one evening, we dined in style at the highly-rated Citrus.

A great smile starts inside, spreading to eyes and lips. Great smiles can be passed down from mother to daughter. From what I heard about Kelly’s mother, she is also golden inside and out. So that’s three generations of beautiful smiles, possibly more.

Turns out, the Villa Blanca Beach Club offered so much more than that: sprawling thatched palapas with cushioned seating situated between a great restaurant and the beach, with waitstaff offering cold drinks and warm food.

Villa Blanca reminded me of my high school art teacher’s beach club in Long Branch, New Jersey. Idle hours swimming, my skin turned mahogany, that salt water smell mixed with board wax and French fry grease, hanging out with my friends, Crosby, Stills, and Nash pouring from the speakers, and after-dark arthouse movies projected onto a screen set up in the sand.

Tiger-patterned cats with white feet patrolled the club in search of dropped fish tidbits. I didn’t mess with them, especially the notch-eared Tom, lording it over his domain.

For me, the best moments of any day are dawn and dusk. Being a morning person, I wake with a fully charged battery—so full of energy I feel I could eat the world—and get myself outdoors to embrace a new, honey-dipped day. Twelve or so hours later, after the heated bluster subsides, I celebrate those amber tones again.

In 1998, while walking the streets of Tianjin, I made up this little poem:

Embrace the morning
Endure the day
Celebrate the evening
Cherish the night

If things that lit me up were currency, I would be richer than Elon Musk!

For the first hour after the sun emerges from the Atlantic, it is only beach walkers.

The whole day stretching ahead like a magic carpet.

Once the sun is up, maintenance crews arrive to push around the sargassum, a floating seaweedy algae currently in bloom.

Each day’s sargassum washes up against a darker, older layer. We’d find a cut in the algae berm and wade into clearer water to swim. Later, after a shower, I’d see a stray sprig on the bathroom floor and laugh.

The palapa situation was super cushy. It was real fine watching everyone relax. Such a busy world we’ve made for ourselves with precious little time for doing nothing.

One afternoon a carpenter bee circled our heads looking for a hole to drill or one that it had already drilled. Ceaseless circling. Honestly, they seem so clueless I want to point to the hole and shout, “It’s right here, silly!”

Annoyed, the usually unperturbable Maya, blurted, “It would be nice to be in a room without flying bugs!” “All right,” I said, standing up, and went after the bee, clapping my rubber sandals together loudly until it flew off to find another palapa to pester.

I loved the ritual of rinsing the sand from my feet before climbing the stairs to the penthouse.

Saltwater is baked into my childhood. It’s where I learned to swim and where I played with my brothers, cousins, and friends for most of my childhood and a fair bit of my adulthood. I revel in ocean water, and the presence of algae only makes me feel more connected to this beautiful, unscripted world. Were it too perfect, I might have felt out of place.

We would be staying at the Ocean View Penthouse on Calle Pirata a block from Playa Arena Gorda in Punta Cana.

Bob and Henry have been friends since they were fifteen and roomed together at The American School In Switzerland. We knew we’d have a good time with him and Kelly because four years ago we’d celebrated Bob’s birthday with them at Kitty Hawk and had a blast.

To make this trip even nicer, they brought their daughter, Maya. Henry’s sister, Daisy, his brother, Juan, and Juan’s wife, Nancy, were also in town to attend to some family business.

We quickly discovered that Maya had a wonderful sense of humor and spoke flawless Spanish like her father. She ran interference between us and the locals and was also soon fixing all the old people’s smartphone issues.

Our daily routine looked like this: Henry, the provisioner, was the first up. He made coffee for the house. Next, Bob would pour himself a cup and join Henry on the terrazzo terrace.

About this time, the woodpeckers would start working their way up the palms outside the terrace.

Eventually, we’d all make it out there.

Next, Kelly and I would take a long walk on the beach, water swirling around our feet. Then we’d meet the others at Villa Blanca Beach Club. for breakfast. I was especially fond of the Chilaquiles.

By mid-morning we’d have a swim, followed by some world class lounging in a large thatched palapa with cushioned chairs and couches. Tough times.

Eventually Bob and I would leave the beach to siesta in our room. I would ground myself with some low level housework before lying on the cool floor to stretch. Then I’d join Bob on the bed to read Donna Tartt’s, “The Goldfinch” which, if you have not read it is most definitely a page-turner.

I enjoyed ducking through the Dutch door to the terrace to join the others or check the towels I’d left out to dry. It gave me the same secret thrill I used to get when I was eleven squeezing through a thin spot in the privet hedge between our house and the riding stables.

One day, after the tap water spurted and died, I took the blue mop bucket downstairs, dipped it into the swimming pool, and brought it back in case anyone wanted to flush a toilet.

We lost water twice, and Juan guessed correctly that it had something to do with the construction going on next door. Turns out they had broken the water main.

On about the third day, I ventured out in search of drinking water. I had been studying the foot traffic and felt I knew the formula that would paint me as a self-contained expat rather than a target for solicitation: boring green shorts, a baggy tee, money tucked into a pocket, nothing dangling from my shoulder, shoes and socks, a fast pace, and no gawking. It worked. Even the Poppi Express drivers ignored me when I hustled by with a bag of mangoes tied around one wrist and a gallon of water dangling from each hand. I was invisible!

You might say water was the overarching theme. Water for drinking swimming, and flushing.

It was off season and there was plenty of renovation going on: next door and on the street below, men chipping concrete using shovels, saws, and pick axes.

A pigeon on a roof made me think about my grandfather Frank Illo, with his dream of raising white pigeons once he retired from show biz in New York City. Sadly, that dream was never realized.

Five days flew by and we found ourselves at the airport queuing up for a 3:30 flight. It was noon. Bob steered us toward a side office where he bought us VIP passes so we wouldn’t have to stand in a herd of travelers waiting to pass through immigration and customs, a process that could take two hours.

Believe you me, I felt like a rich person as they ushered me down a deserted corridor. Well worth the $35. It was a new program, he said when I asked how he’d heard of it, and he’d seen it on Reddit or TripAdvisor. Pays to have your own travel agent browsing for deals.

Thirteen hours later, we’d arrive home, porch light glowing, with its good well water, and cool summer hot tub, our heads buzzing with memories. No beach to greet us in the morning, no friends to share coffee with on the terrace. Just the finches clamoring for seed, the hummingbirds hoping for sugar water, and the garden sagging with unharvested fruit.