Puerto Rico spring break 2017

Time and again our recent bucket list trip to Puerto Rico put us in places and with people that underscored our status as well established members of the retirement community. For the flight to PR we wore business casual. We sat near a trio of co-eds wearing T-shirts over swimsuits, obviously they planned a beach trip.
No beach for anyone the next day. Heavy winds, rain and red flags cleared the beaches. We found the exercise room filled with many lithe, young bodies energetically jogging and pedaling.
“We’ll come back later,” I said. “Let’s go to the Spanish fort in Old San Juan.”
We wiped rain off our glasses before reading that the United Nations declared the fort a World Heritage Site on par with the Great Wall of China and the Pyramids. Young tourists didn’t stop to read. They dashed through rain to the towers and walked a half mile to the rest of the fort. We waited in the rain for the trolley and still my pedometer said we had doubled our usual steps for the day. We never returned to the gym.
For our night time kayaking trip to a lagoon with phosphorescent water, we obediently wore light color shirts. Those on spring break wore dark tank tops and t-shirts.
The guide assured us, “If you tip over, put your feet down, the water only goes up to your knees. The last time we had someone tip over was … an hour ago.”
Our first kayaking experience took us down a dark, winding, tree-lined corridor.
“Tree!” I called before every crash with tree roots. The spring break crew silently passed us in the dark. A silent, ghostly tour guide appeared and tied our trailing kayak, the last one, to his and dragged us into the lagoon to see the glowing algae.
We saw it. “Now, let’s be the first to head back,” I murmured, turned and began paddling. We hit a few more trees, other kayaks passed us, but we were not the last back, and we never tipped over.
Driving up to the National Rain Forest we met many young folks clad in shorts, t-shirts and sneakers, jogging down the hill. We did not join them. It rains a lot in the Rain Forest. Fog hazes all our pictures of vines, bamboo and lush vegetation. Halfway up the mountain we stopped at a food stand with Puerto Rican fast food. I waited in line behind girls a third my age to order plantains cooked with meat and a choice of drinks.
“Pina colada with rum.” “Rum for mine.” “Yes, with rum. With rum!” the girls laughed at the wonder of rum at noon.
“Without rum,” I murmured. The girls made sure the clerk heard.
Our last day we crept out at dawn to be on time for snorkeling. The kids straggled in for a half hour after the designated arrival time. Our boat roared across choppy water to a quiet bay with a shallow coral reef.
“Do not touch the coral. Swim slowly,” the guide emphasized before letting us swim above black and yellow striped fish, blue fish, fish with long noses and a sea turtle. The fish never noticed that my husband had insisted on wearing white ankle socks with his flippers.
Back on board we ate fruit and chips. The younger ones sipped beer and talked of upcoming classes. We sipped soda, crossed snorkeling and kayaking off our bucket list and anticipated long afternoon naps in the lounge chair before choosing another, less energetic, trip on our bucket list.