My beard leaks. I learned that about ten seconds into our first snorkel at Bahia Honda last month, standing waist-deep off the west end of the park with a mask full of salt water and a six-year-old asking why I was making that noise. The beard is trimmed short, but short isn't the same as gone, and a mask skirt doesn't seal over whiskers. Maya, who is nine and had read two library books about reef fish to prepare, told me this was "a known problem."
We'd tried masks once before, last spring at Curry Hammock, but that was mostly Maya face down in waist-deep water while a 20 mph wind pushed her sideways and Nico narrated from the shallows. At Bahia Honda we got two calm mornings, Friday and Saturday, before the east wind picked up. Here's what worked for our two.
Masks that fit, and one that didn't
The kids' mask-and-snorkel sets were a Christmas present from Ron and Linda the year before last, and that's a long time on a growing face. Maya's had gotten tight, so it went to Nico, and Maya moved up to Dana's old spare, an adult small. Before anyone touched the water, we did a fit test at the picnic table: hold the mask against your face without the strap, breathe in gently through your nose and let go. If it stays put, it seals. Nico's stuck on the first try, and he walked around the campsite with it hanging off his face to prove it.
Maya's leaked along the top until Dana pulled every loose hair back into a low ponytail under the strap. Mine leaked because of the mustache. Dana dug lip balm out of the first aid bin and had me rub it into my mustache, which helped more than I expected and less than I'd like. She has suggested a razor. I'm thinking about it.
For fog, a drop of baby shampoo rubbed around each lens and rinsed out. The kids preferred spit, which also works.
Shallow water and something to hang on to
We said our rules out loud on the beach so everyone heard the same thing:
- One adult per kid. Dana with Nico, always within arm's reach, and me with Maya.
- Stay where the kids can stand. For Nico that meant water no deeper than his chest.
- Thumbs up means "I'm okay." A hand on top of your head means "come here now."
- Shuffle your feet when you walk in, so anything resting on the bottom has time to move.
- When the adult says out, everyone is out.
The float was the best decision we made, and it was free. Two foam pool noodles have been leaning in a corner of our carport since a neighbor's birthday party, and Nico draped one under his arms and kicked along with his face in the water like a small, determined barge. When he got tired or swallowed water, he just stopped and hung there instead of grabbing for Dana's neck. Maya tried the other one for a minute and declared she didn't need it, which was true.
Before anybody floated, they practiced standing in knee-deep water, face down, breathing through the snorkel while we counted to ten. Nico laughed into his snorkel on the first try, took in a mouthful of the Keys and came up sputtering. Maya coached him: "Breathe slow, like you're fogging up a window." Second try, he made it to ten.
At the entrance station we were told to stay well away from the channels under the bridges, where the current runs hard. We stayed on the calm side and never felt a pull.
What we saw, and how long they lasted
The water was about 76 degrees, which sounds warm until you're six and floating still in it. Nico's teeth started chattering at about 25 minutes both mornings, so we split each morning into two short sessions with a towel break in the sun. Rash guards helped with both the chill and the sunburn.
Friday we saw sea grass, a queen conch inching along the sand (look, don't touch, we told them, and they didn't) and a skinny needlefish hanging just under the surface that Maya named Gerald. Saturday, Dana spotted a small stingray half buried in the sand. Both kids watched it from a respectful distance until it lifted off and glided away, and Nico surfaced yelling "It flew" loud enough that a family down the beach laughed.
No sea turtle, which was Maya's one request. She drew one in her nature journal that night anyway, next to Gerald, with a note underneath that said "next time."
What we'd change
We'd get in the water by 8:30 instead of 9:30. By 10:30 the wind had chopped up the surface both mornings, and chop in a snorkel is no fun at six. We'd get Nico a mask in his own size, since the hand-me-down slid down his nose every time he looked up. And he's going without fins next time. The short pair from his set kicked up so much sand that Dana said it was like snorkeling behind a leaf blower.
On the drive home, after his customary nap, Nico said he had something important to tell me. "Dad, I saw a fish, and the fish saw me." Then he went back to sleep.
