DESERVES A QUIET NIGHT
ISLAS ROSARIO, Colombia After a week of boogie nights, I cache my heels. I don a neoprene shirt that stinks of saltwater and others' sweat. Then I dive the shoals alongside the smugglers' islands, seized and slapped together into a rough national park.
My instructor Fernando shovels me into a hammock between plunges. I try to nap away a week's exhaustion.
We dodge barefoot around a low wall, the perimeter between the disco-pumping resort and jungled patches where squatters dwell. A taciturn woman serves me a 50-cent plate of eggs, salad and fried plantains. Like a superstitious Romanian, I grow restless with the setting sun.
Three foot waves thrash the boat: all recklessness and water. "That moon's so bright, this barely qualifies as a night dive," Fernando grumbles.
Small mercies, I think, then somersault backward into shadows.