Youngs Around the World

Plettenburg Bay, or “Plett”, is a quiet, hilly resort town on a stretch of shore at the end of the Garden Route. We stayed one night, as we passed through on our journey east, in a hostel run by a group of hefty, no-nonsense, local black women who ran a tight ship. The spotless maze of a property had a cozy tavern in the back with an owner/bartender who greeted everyone by saying, “And how are we intoxicating you today?” and a fresh herb garden in the courtyard, which we were free to plunder.

We spent the day at Central Beach, known as one of the more action-packed of Plett’s three beaches. The beach was swarmed with beautiful young bodies, decked out in the latest trends in beachwear. The age range was probably 17 – 23 and it was a great scene for people watching. We took a spot in the middle of the beach and observed the South African elite teens and twenty-somethings enjoying a day of exhibiting themselves among their peers. Stick-thin, pretty blondes sat in groups, posing for the equally pretty surfer boys who pretended not to notice. Groups of guys sat around smoking sheeshas while taking the “effortless” out of looking “effortlessly cool” with their meticulously coordinated beach attire and accessories. We had to laugh as we reminisced about a time in our lives when “looking cool” was so important.

On the way back to the hostel, we stopped by the supermarket to pick up a few things. We’d been craving spaghetti and decided to try our hand at cooking dinner in the hostel kitchenette. With the help of some fresh herbs from the courtyard garden, our sauce turned out delicious and we remembered how much we enjoy cooking together. We cracked open a bottle of pinotage that we had picked up in Stellenbosch and sat down to a quiet dinner.

The food in Africa has been surprisingly good – we’ve both managed to add a little roundness to our frames – and if there are scarce restaurant choices in a town, many of the hostels have on-site chefs, making it deliciously tempting to indulge in a full meal when all you really need is a light snack. With the rental car, we’ve been spoiled with extra space to carry groceries from place to place but we’re always tempted to dine out, especially along this coastal drive where each little resort town boasts a plethora of tantalizing cuisines. We’ve noticed, however, that just as in most homes, people seem to congregate in the kitchen around mealtime so you can always wander in and join in conversation. On our next stop in Jeffreys Bay, the kitchen would be the venue for one of the warmest and most enjoyable evenings of our trip.

Jeffreys Bay is known for two things: bodacious “Supertube” waves that attract surfers from around the world and surf clothing shops. It was a short drive from Plett so we arrived just before lunch and checked into Cristal Cove Backpackers. Our room wasn’t ready yet so we drove into town for some lunch and shopping. Aaron picked up a t-shirt and a couple of hats while I found a new swimsuit to replace my old one that still smelled like the Dead Sea and a new hat to replace my function-over-fashion brown one that finally disappeared somewhere. I’ve never been much of a hat person but the malaria pills make hats essential for protecting our otherwise exposed faces, which are ultra-sensitive to the sun as a side effect of the antibiotic. I’m always paranoid (that’s a surprise) about premature aging and skin cancer since we’re outside so much these days. By the way, at what age is it no longer “premature” to start aging? Just wondering.

As we drove back to Cristal Cove to drop off our booty and check in to our room, the afternoon sun was just beginning to peek through the clouds and Aaron wanted to hit the beach for a while. The shore was crowded with many more average-looking bodies than we’d seen in Plett. There were a few surfers off to the right of the main beach and many more people with body boards, tumbling in the surf. Still spoiled by the perfect Zanzibar beaches, I had no desire to subject myself to the frigid water. Despite Aaron’s coaxing, I sat on the beach while he took on the thrashing waves for one playful hour.

When we returned to the hostel, Aaron read in the room while I took my book into the common kitchenette and living area, which we shared with only one other guest room. Before long, a group of friendly people from the neighboring room walked through the door with an adorable little boy and several bags of groceries. The two married couples were warm and talkative and we began chatting as the two women prepared dinner. I liked them immediately and could tell that they were good-hearted, down-to-earth people. Vanessa and Ricardo and Charles and Pam with their two-year-old son, Jethro, were in town from Port Elizabeth for a weekend church function. I fell in love with little Jethro, who smiled incessantly, climbed all over everything, as little boys do, and ate up all of the attention that he was getting from his new Auntie Tina. Aaron soon emerged from the room and the group of us shared in great conversation all evening while Jethro provided constant entertainment.

Pam was cooking up a big English breakfast the next morning and invited us to join them. We woke to the smells of eggs, bacon, sausage and all of the fixings and we all sat down to a decadent breakfast. The men left shortly thereafter to help set up for the day’s church event but not before leading a prayer in the blessing of our travels. Jethro disappeared with his mom for a few minutes while Vanessa and I tackled the dishes and, in his place, a little pint-sized Spiderman appeared, complete with built-in muscles, which he flexed for us as we fawned all over him. What a little ham! With a long drive to Coffee Bay on the day’s agenda, we bid farewell to the ladies and little Spiderman and hit the road once again.

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The Garden Route: first stop – Wilderness National Park. As we exited the N2 into the tiny town of Wilderness, we were immediately awed by our surroundings. The town was set against a steep rock cliff with posh-looking cabins and B&Bs sprinkled at the base and a few more grandiose cabins at the top. There was one main street with a handful of restaurants, a gas station, a market and an internet café that was already closed for the day by early afternoon.

Our hostel, Fairy Knowe Backpackers was nestled in a thick patch of forest on the edge of the Wilderness National Park. Our room was on the second floor of a quaint little cottage with a steep, narrow handcrafted staircase that, surprisingly, didn’t cause any backpackers to plummet to their deaths during our stay. The room was clean and spacious with noticeably fresh, thick white sheets on the bed. There were two shared bathrooms, one upstairs and one downstairs, which always seemed to be inconveniently occupied, a kitchenette, and several tables and chairs on the wraparound covered patio.

The highlight of our short stay in Wilderness (not counting the absolutely divine escargot appetizer, swimming in butter and fresh garlic and smothered in bacon and melted cheese, which we had for dinner the first night) was a canoe trip on the Touw River inside the national park with a hike to a waterfall.

We arrived at the canoe lodge around ten a.m. with a quiet tension already brewing between us – the kind that inevitably develops when you’ve been with the same person twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, for a long time without allowing yourselves that much-needed personal space. I, being the more introverted of the two of us, recognize the need in myself and can almost always attribute my blue moods to a need for some time alone.

It takes effort and discipline to maintain balance. I always used to think that my constantly overcommitted work and community action schedule kept me from maintaining that coveted level of emotional and spiritual balance but I realize now that, even without those activities, there will always be potential distractions that I must manage in order to find time for reflection and prayer. Lately, it is only when I sit down to write in my journal, a time when Aaron knows not to disturb me, that I take the time to reach within myself and evaluate my discovery. I have always found writing to be therapeutic. I lack the discipline, however, to push aside all of my distractions and quarantine myself for even thirty minutes each day. I was reminded of the importance of this practice when Aaron and I accompanied Father Michael on an Orthodox mission trip to Mexico. The purpose of the trip was to build a house for a family. We stayed for a week on the property of an Orthodox orphanage for boys. Every morning during that week, the priests, missionaries and orphanage residents would gather in the church for morning prayers. We would then scatter about, find a quiet spot, and take thirty minutes of silence before breakfast. During that time, some people read Scripture or wrote in their journals while others just sat and collected their thoughts. That week, I vowed to make the practice of daily reflection a part of my crazy real life schedule but failed miserably. Still, I haven’t given up. It is a lifestyle change and it requires patience. In the meantime, we’ll try to take quiet moments when we can. But anyway, back to the canoes…

We had called ahead to reserve a canoe so the check-in time was relatively painless and, before we knew it, we were pushing off into the brown water of the Touw River. The first stretch was upstream to a spot where we would bank the canoe and begin the hike. We had been forewarned that excessive flooding had pulled down some trees and scattered debris over the trail but it was still passable. As we approached the first pass where the river diverged, the current grew stronger while the pass became shallow and rocky. We paddled fiercely but erratically and, after four failed attempts, we banked on a sandbar in the middle of the river. The tension in the canoe was rising fast, fueled by the desperation of our frantic and fruitless physical exertion. I sat in the front while Aaron took up the rear but there might as well have been a brick wall between us for as misaligned as our spirits were. With no hope of paddling over the pass, we had to pick up the canoe and portage over the sandbar. Thankfully, each end had a handle but the canoe was heavy and awkward and, with our level of teamwork taking a swift nosedive, the albatross banged clumsily into our legs, causing us to curse and snap at each other. There was even one brief embarrassing moment, when we got the canoe back into the water, where I wanted to turn around and forget the whole canoe experience while Aaron was determined to press on so we were each furiously working our paddles to turn the canoe in opposite directions. If anyone saw us in that moment, before I decided that it was pointless to continue, we must have looked utterly ridiculous!

As we righted ourselves and continued upriver, I turned to my husband and suggested that we try paddling in unison – he agreed. As Aaron called out the strokes – “Two left. Three right. Two left.” – two things happened. We began to move smoothly and swiftly through the water and the tension in the canoe began to dissipate, replaced by the camaraderie of two teammates with a common purpose. Suddenly, we began to notice the beauty of our surroundings: a winding, narrow river cutting through lush wooded mountains. Many parts of the river were shallow and we found ourselves paddling against gravel, rocks and sandbars, though we only had to portage one more time. If this was the depth after heavy rains, we wondered how the river was even passable with normal rains. The upriver stretch was a challenge and, as we rounded the last bend and spotted several banked canoes, marking the entrance to the hiking trail, we were breathlessly jubilated.

We quickly changed into our hiking shoes, pulled our backpack out of the watertight bucket, and set out on the trail. We walked for about an hour through dense forest along the river. The terrain was varied, which made the hike all the more interesting. There were sections of straight, flat trail, dimly lit by the little sunlight that pervaded through the thick mass of green tree branches overhead. There were boulders to climb, bridges to cross, steep inclines and makeshift ladders for sharp declines. The trail was surprisingly well-intact in spite of the excessive rainfall, though there were scattered obstacles of fallen trees and overgrown brush, which required us to bushwhack off the trail a bit. By the time we reached the waterfall – a cluster of large, smooth boulders with water spilling into a succession of pools – we were famished. We climbed over a few rocks to a flat area about halfway up, pulled out the lunch that we’d packed, and made our picnic in the afternoon sun. We had been told that people swim in the pool at the bottom – that the murky brown tint was caused by tannins rather than pollution – but nevertheless, brown water just looks uninviting and we were perfectly content climbing around on the rocks and soaking up the sun.

The canoe ride downriver was effortless in comparison to the upriver stretch. The current seemed so much gentler as it carried us over the shallow sections and small rapids that we’d struggled over earlier. As we pulled the canoe onto the bank near the canoe lodge and collected our belongings, we were both quietly relieved. We drove back to Fairy Knowe and stayed in for the evening, socializing with other travelers and relaxing after our exciting day. The canoe trip was a fulfilling adventure accompanied by an apparently much-needed reminder that it is always better to work as a team than to exhibit snide, snotty behavior and paddle in opposite directions.

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We rented a car for a few weeks and, with beautiful Cape Town fading in the rear view mirror, headed for the wine country. Stellenbosch, the most well-known wine region of South Africa, is a charming and picturesque university town nestled in a rocky mountain valley. It is only a thirty minute drive from Cape Town so, despite a leisurely mid-morning departure, we spied the first welcoming Stellenbosch wineries before lunchtime. With the eagerness of two kids in a candy shop, we pulled into the first winery, called Spier. The property was breathtaking with perfectly parallel grapevines in varying shades of green and a lush lake surrounded by gently rolling hills and old, sweeping trees.

We went straight to the tasting room and dutifully whet our whistles with our first tastes of the coveted fermented grape juice for which we have grown an almost obsessive fondness. The art of wine tasting is a distinctly pleasurable experience. A line of delicately thin, pristinely cut, perfectly polished glasses just barely bottom-filled with luscious liquid in shades of gold, purple and dark red, sparkling elegantly in the sunlight, showing off the unique personality of each wine fills my heart with vibrant warmth and pretentious giddiness. Every precise step in the tasting process contributes to the perfect overall experience: holding the glass of wine (always by the stem, PLEASE!) up to the light to examine its color and legs; swirling the wine within the glass to open up the aroma; gently inhaling the bouquet, identifying particular fruits and spices, preparing your taste buds for the indulgent climax; sipping the wine, letting those first drops slide across every part of your tongue, taking in the full flavor profile – a combination as unique as DNA. And then there is the requisite discussion because each wine is different for every person, according to his or her taste preferences. Give a group of people each a glass of wine from the same bottle and they will likely each identify a unique combination of scents and flavors. Aaron and I have always enjoyed discovering wines together. When we find a new wine that we both love, it is like finding a hidden treasure. The South African wine regions produce an abundance of outstanding whites, specifically Sauvignon Blancs and Chenin Blancs – both of which we love – but the reds leave much to be desired, according to our big, juicy California red-soaked palates.

After our tasting at Spier, we wandered into their gourmet deli and created our own picnic lunch to have beside the lake. It was a gorgeous sunny Sunday and many locals seemed to have the same idea because the lawn around the lake was full of beautiful blonde families. The scene resembled a commercial for some type of All-American product – little girls in pink Sunday dresses with matching ribbons in their golden hair, children riding miniature ponies, all smiles while smiling Dads looked on and Moms gossiped with each other and fussed over the youngest ones. We ate slowly, happily absorbing the golden sunshine and the wholesomeness of the moment, daydreaming of a future day when we might bring our own smiling children for a Sunday picnic…someday. Places to go, things to see first!

After a brief but leisurely stroll around the lake, we hopped back into our trusty VW Polo and hit a couple more wineries before checking into our hostel. Many of the wineries were closed on Sunday so we spent the afternoon driving through the grassy hills and valleys, exploring the winding, tree-lined roads. The day was so lovely that we decided to splurge on dinner at a trendy Mediterranean seafood restaurant on the cute little main street in Stellenbosch.

The hostel only had availability for one night (which didn’t break my heart since it had communal bathrooms anyway) so we packed up our things the next morning and upgraded to another place on the other side of town. Banghoek Place turned out to be a grand improvement! It was a cozy lodge with tastefully decorated rooms, a modern and well-stocked self-catering kitchen, and a more mature clientele than the grungy twenty-something backpackers with whom we usually co-habitate on the road. We settled into our room, thanked God for the Heavenly bed with the big down comforter (it’s cold here, even though it’s summer), and put on our drinking hats for a full day of tasting!

We headed for the hills north of Stellenbosch, where we stumbled upon wineries in such plenty that we had to pass two or three for every one that tempted us inside in order to keep the loose lips of intoxication at bay. The skies were gray and melancholy but wineries are always filled with cheer and smiling people who all come for the wines and the ambience. Winemakers are a proud breed – it is evident in the individuality and opulence of the settings they create in which to present their prized potions. Each winery has its own personality and you feel a sense of familiarity with the winemaker as you wander, wide-eyed and awestruck, through the magnificent properties. Some are contemporary with metal details while others are rustic, French country or antique but, whatever the style, all wineries and their rolling vineyard backdrops are simply gorgeous!

As the consolidated effect of our morning tasting began to catch up with us, we stopped in to DelVera Cellars in search of lunch. What we found first was a cheese factory which offered cheese tasting! We walked along the chilled cases and tasted about fifteen varieties, all produced on the premises. The cheese was delicious and just what the doctor ordered to soak up some of the vino that was coursing through our veins! We indulged in tastings through the early afternoon when I finally decided that my taste buds were overwhelmed. Aaron, being the young buck that he is, had a bit more stamina so we compromised on one final winery, called Waterford, which boasted wine and chocolate pairings. There’s always room for chocolate!

We sat on upholstered chairs at an elegant round table for two as our cute-as-a-button co-ed sommelier presented the wines. I baby-sipped the obligatory whites in eager anticipation of the sweet finale. A glossy, rectangular board was placed in front of each of us, containing three meticulously placed, thin slabs of embossed chocolate each below a short paragraph describing how the specific flavors of the chocolate perfectly complemented the corresponding wines.

As a general rule, I prefer not to mix sweets and wine. Wine first and, when the wine is completely finished, then sweets but ne’er the two shall mix! These particular pairings, however, shocked my finicky taste buds into a new level of appreciation. The locally-produced chocolates were flavored with unusual spices and flowers, which mimicked and enhanced those flavors in the wines. The first pairing was masala chai dark chocolate with a spicy shiraz with a common flavor of spicy cinnamon; then a rock salt dark chocolate, made to imitate the savory essence of salty meats, was paired with a dry-finishing cab that made my mouth water for a juicy, salty steak; finally, a rose geranium milk chocolate intensified the soft honey and raisin flavors of a sweet port. Our taste buds were singing! We enjoyed the pairings immensely but, with the chocolate, it was love at first bite! The sommelier informed us that the chocolate was only available at the winery and in the small town of Greyton, where it was produced. We bought a bar of the masala chai and ended our day of tasting on a sweet note.

We were having such fun exploring the winelands that we made a reservation for one more night in a neighboring wine town. The next day, we were surprisingly fresh-faced, considering our recent exploits, and drove into the charming little wine town of Franschoek. It has the same storybook appeal as Stellenbosch with Old Dutch architecture and almost as many four star guest houses as residences. We had booked a night at Otter’s Bend, a family-owned property with lovely wooden guest cottages built on the edge of a shallow river. Our cabin was basic but romantically secluded. The best part, however, was the common area – a large, open wooden shed with a wood-burning fireplace, a long rustic dining table, and fully-stocked kitchen. There was a bar area in one corner, cut from a huge, oak wine barrel and a working cast-iron wood-burning stove. Antique workmen’s tools hung from the walls and big steel skillets dangled from a metal rack above the stove.

After a relatively short day of exploring the Franschoek wineries, we had a casual, early dinner in town and retired to Otter’s Bend for the evening. With about an hour of daylight remaining, we took a walk along the dirt road that separated Otter’s Bend from the neighboring properties: a vineyard, a horse property and a white-washed, Dutch-style, four star bed and breakfast, all set against a mountain backdrop. The views were spectacular and we walked until we ran out of daylight. We spent the rest of the evening in the common area of the lodge, which we had all to ourselves. Someone had already placed kindling and logs into the fireplace so we stoked up a blazing fire, boiled two cups of steaming hot coffee, lit a Cuban cigar and pulled out the dark chocolate bar from Waterford. We succumbed to the trance-like enchantment of the crackling flames and felt like the only two people in the world, wrapped in a cocoon of warmth against the crisp, cool wilderness outside our door.

The next morning, we were off again to Wilderness National Park, on the southern coast, to begin our drive along the famous Garden Route. As we’d been looking at the map the previous evening, we noticed that a stop in the town of Greyton (where the chocolate was made) would require only a small deviation from our route to Wilderness. The owner at Otter’s Bend had given us a hand-drawn map of a scenic back road route to Greyton that promised spectacular views and, as the master’s of our fate, we made a command decision to take a little detour for chocolate!

The sun was shining in a cloudless sky as we drove through the jagged mountains surrounding Franschoek and onto the back country roads, which were alternating stretches of dirt and black top. We passed hidden vineyards, sprawling farms, glassy lakes and meandering streams through fields of gold and green. There were tiny towns along the roads with as many horse drawn carriages as cars. Almost every farm and town advertised a bed and breakfast and we could have stopped in any of them and gotten happily lost for a few days if not for our gluttonous mission.

We found Greyton easily and drove slowly along its single main street, keeping an eye out for Von Geusau Chocolates. We found instead a small tourist information office, where a friendly woman pointed us in the direction of Le Petit Chocolat, an adorable corner coffee and sweet shop that sold the coveted chocolates we were after. There were several more varieties than we had seen at Waterford and – God Bless Greyton – samples! Aaron is the only man I’ve ever met who is a bigger chocoholic than I am and we are a dangerous combination in a sweet shop! The kind-faced woman at the counter must have thought we were absolute pigs as we stacked one bar after another onto the counter, all of them obviously for ourselves. With six bars of gourmet chocolate, a couple of hand-selected truffles, and a package of cookies in tow, I felt my pig snout growing as we pulled away from Greyton and headed toward the coast.

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Next time you’re bored at work and surfing the internet, do a Google search on “Seal Island” and see why we couldn’t pass up the chance to cage dive with Great White sharks off the coast of South Africa. A friend of ours from Fort Worth had emailed us a link to Seal Island before we began our trip and our jaws literally dropped! Maybe we’ve seen the Jaws movies too many times…or maybe not enough. But the idea of getting into a floating metal cage in close proximity to one of the world’s most fascinating and feared animals is definitely at the top of the ultimate thrill charts. We had to go for it!

We departed by minibus just before five a.m. for the two hour drive southeast to the coastal city of Gansbaai. “Shark Alley” is located approximately 10 km off-shore where there is a shallow channel that runs between Dyer Island and Geyser Rock; it is known worldwide as a premier location for viewing Great Whites. The islands are home to African penguins, numerous bird species, and a huge colony of Cape Fur Seals, which are coincidentally a white shark dietary staple.

On the way to the harbor, we faithfully downed our Dramamine in preparation for the rough open water waves and the corresponding seasickness that awaited us. But as we began our voyage to Shark Alley, we met a picture-perfect sunny day with calm seas and exceptional visibility. Our captain said that this would be one of the finest days of the year. We continued to our destination – a spot of shallow, open water near Shark Alley, where we anchored and began our safety briefing. The deck hands began “chumming”, dumping a mixture of fish parts, sea water, and scented oil concentrate overboard to create an oily “chum slick”, an aromatic highway which would lead the white sharks to the fish head bait dangling from our boat.

Shark cage diving is not for the faint of heart. For those (Tina) who detest the cold in every way, shape and form (except for Christmas and skiing, of course), the magnitude of physical discomfort can almost equal the thrill of the experience. It’s certainly intimidating to get into a five-person steel cage with 5-meter man eaters swimming around but that’s just the beginning. The water is absolutely frigid, about 57 degrees F, and the cage, tethered to the boat with a couple of ropes, thrashes up and down in the rolling ocean waves. We each wore 7 mm wetsuits with hoods and boots, but that kept the chill away for all of about 30 seconds. As soon as we hit the water, the shivering would begin and it only subsided when a white shark would swim by, inciting a massive release of adrenaline.

Contrary to popular belief, white sharks have very little interest in humans and they are often difficult to lure close enough for viewing, even with fresh meat bobbing on the surface. Most of the encounters we have with sharks are accidental and the shark bites that occur are simply a result of an interested shark trying to figure out whether we would make a good meal or not. Ninety-nine percent of the time, white sharks move on once they’ve determined that we are not a part of their diet, leaving the stunned (and probably maimed – look at the jaws on that thing!) surfer or swimmer to return to shore for medical attention. White sharks regularly devour Cape Fur Seals in under a minute so it seems reasonable that if they really wanted to eat us, they would. However these facts do little to quell the fears of my wife, who grew up obsessively and repeatedly watching all of the Jaws movies ensuring that her fear of sharks, and the ocean in general, was deeply ingrained in the depths of her psyche. Somehow, as an adult, she has become a fearless scuba diver and less tentative ocean swimmer, and it was her initial prodding that led us to participate in this crazy excursion.

Tina was one of the first people in the cage. Someone else might interpret her eagerness as courage or excitement, but I knew that she was dreading the cold water and that if she didn’t get in immediately, she might lose her nerve and decide to remain in the relative comfort of the windy, rocking boat. About three-quarters of the cage is submerged and each diver is fitted with a mask and a weight belt, to counteract the buoyancy of the wetsuit and salt water. Almost immediately we sighted a shark, and as I watched from the boat, Tina and the other four people in the cage were instructed to submerge themselves for as long as they could, hold their breath, and watch as the shark swam within arms-length of the cage, investigating the bait dangling down from the surface. Just before the shark reached the dangling fish heads, the deck hand would yank the bait away, thereby luring the shark into a mouth-open lunge right outside the cage! Not knowing how many more white sharks, if any, that we would see, I quickly slipped into my own wet suit and got into the cage next to Tina. The water visibility was exceptional and each time a Great White would swim by it was amazing to watch the power and agility with which the giant creature maneuvered through the water.

Since Tina immediately established that her hands were too cold to function in the water, I dutifully assumed the task of trying to photograph these elusive animals as they randomly appeared and then disappeared in a span of about five seconds. The deck hands would spot a shark approaching and yell for us to get down in the cage; I would hold my breath and submerge myself by pulling on one of the handles below within the cage. I would hurriedly begin locating the shark on the LCD camera screen, trying to avoid the external bars of the cage, and wait for the right time to snap a picture knowing that the 2-second delay for my camera to reset would likely mean that I would only get one shot.

We use a Canon Digital Elph camera with an underwater case, which has enabled us to capture most of our amazing underwater adventures. But like most point-and-shoot cameras, it has a processing lag that is infuriating when trying to capture multiple images of a moving object. For the first round of cage diving, each participant stayed in the cage for about fifteen minutes to ensure that everyone got to see a shark. After that first round, we were allowed to stay in the cage for as long as we could stand it over the next two hours. Determined to get a good shot (and because one shark continually appeared every five minutes), I stayed in the water for more than 45 consecutive minutes while almost everyone else remained on the boat. When I finally emerged from the water, I was completely numb! During our four hours at sea we had at least twenty white shark sightings! It was incredible!

With all passengers bundled up in warm clothes, we sped over to Seal Island and watched as hundreds of Cape Fur Seals frolicked and played in the shallow water and sunned themselves on the island. The seals were safe in this area, according to our guide, because the water was too shallow for the sharks to get under them and attack from below. With a seemingly carefree attitude the sleek-bodied seals flipped and dove in the water, curiously swam up to our boat, and let out their official Chewbacca growls – yes, that famous Wookie rattle is the sound of a seal growl! Who knew? One thing we didn’t realize about seals until we were right on top of them is how intensely awful they smell…like a thousand toilets! The guide suggested that we intentionally take in one strong whiff at the beginning, which would supposedly help us stand the stench. I don’t know about anyone else but it didn’t work for me. We lurked around Seal Island for about thirty minutes and that was twenty minutes too long!

We didn’t catch any sharks springing into the air with seals in their jaws but the overall experience was phenomenal nonetheless. The chilly discomfort would preclude us from ever doing it again but, after swimming with Jaws, we feel an even greater sense of fearlessness. Cage diving with Great White Sharks…check! What’s next?

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From our first moments in Cape Town International Airport, it was clear that we were no longer in Africa, at least not the Africa that we have come to know. We were greeted by shiny marble flooring, brightly lit storefronts, and an unfamiliar odorless environment. Driving from the airport to our hostel felt like any major highway in the U.S., minus the traffic. Late model cars, including many expensive German-engineered models, cruised along the immaculately paved thoroughfare. It seemed strange that our driver wasn’t dodging pot holes or swerving to avoid oncoming traffic. The ride was pleasantly uneventful.

Cape Town bears an uncanny resemblance to San Francisco. A constant cool breeze pushes inland from the bay and whips around the hilly, narrow streets. Tall downtown skyscrapers are surrounded by modern waterfront shopping and tourist malls, newly constructed sea view condominiums, and historic buildings restored to their original Victorian architecture. Our hostel is on Long Street, a lively, cosmopolitan area in downtown Cape Town with an eclectic variety of restaurants, cafés and jazz bars catering to every taste and persuasion. Our third-story room overlooks the busy street below and the sounds of raucous revelers can be heard throughout the day and into the wee hours of morning.

On our first morning, we woke to gray skies, wind, and rain, which thwarted our plans of exploring the city on foot. We decided to rent a car and drive down to Cape Point and the Cape of Good Hope. Tina conveniently forgot her driver’s license at the hostel so I was the designated driver while she acted as navigator. Driving in South Africa is quite different from driving in the U.S. – everything is backwards! Cars drive on the left side of the road and the driver’s seat is on the right side of the car; there are different road signs, traffic circles instead of stop signs, and kilometers instead of miles. To complicate matters, our rental car had a manual transmission which, of course, required shifting with the left hand. There was no initiation – no question as to whether I’d ever driven backwards before; I had an English language driver’s license and a credit card so they gave us a car. With a map and a prayer, we pulled onto the street and headed out of town.

Soon we merged onto the rain-soaked coastal highway and felt that marvelous sense of freedom and control over our own destiny that comes with a car, a full tank of gas, and an open road. The drive was beautiful even in the thrashing rain. Huge waves crashed against breaker walls protecting the sleepy seaside towns which dotted the coast. We arrived at Cape Point and braved the wind and rain to hike up to a lighthouse lookout over the sea where the Indian and Atlantic Oceans collide. We backtracked a few kilometers to the Cape of Good Hope, where we battled the elements and the tour groups for a quick picture at the southwesternmost point in Africa. The views of the cape peninsula from all angles were stunning. Tall, rocky mountains with sheer cliff faces, covered in a lush green flora, jut into the sea while the cold waters of the Atlantic and the warm waters of the Indian Ocean flow seamlessly into each other and crash angrily onto the shore.

On the way back to town, we spotted signs for an African penguin colony so, of course, we had to stop. We’ve seen lions, giraffes, cheetahs, and rhinos. We’ve seen elephants, flamingos, hippos and dolphins…but we hadn’t seen penguins yet! We entered the outdoor observatory and walked along the path toward the penguin habitat. The wind and rain had intensified and, while our Gore-Tex jackets protected our upper bodies, our pants quickly became soaked much to the dismay of my warm-weather wife who began letting out whiney squeals with each gust of wind. I knew that our time with the penguins was limited. There were at least a hundred of the sleek-bodied birds flocked around three large boulders, shielding themselves from the wind. They waddled around in their natural tuxedos, forming little social circles and flapping their wings. Our close proximity to the birds – about five feet – didn’t seem to bother them but rather piqued their curiosity. They seemed to be wondering what we fair-weathered humans were doing outside in such nasty weather. We bid the penguins farewell and headed back to town. The rain continued nearly uninterrupted throughout the evening and through the night.

Thanksgiving day in Cape Town began with rain once again. But by noon, the skies had cleared and we ventured out to the Victoria & Alfred Waterfront to do some shopping and sightseeing. The Waterfront is a huge master planned complex on an active wharf with over 400 shops, including a modern shopping mall, numerous restaurants, and tourist offices advertising excursions around the bay and to nearby Robben Island, where Nelson Mandela was imprisoned. We browsed bookstores and shops, gawking at all of the luxurious items we would have once considered buying when we were gainfully employed. We spent the afternoon basking in the sun on the deck of the Paulaner Brewery, guzzling half-liter Hefe-Weizens and enjoying the unseasonably cool South African summer. We returned to Long Street for a wonderfully decadent Mexican Thanksgiving dinner: nachos, fajitas and margaritas!

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