The chap on the shore is waving his arms furiously, although I can’t really think why. The water’s placid, there’s no hint of a rip, and I don’t think you get sharks in this area.
He’s probably none-too-happy about me heading towards his tiny resort island; interlopers from across the sea must be repelled lest they step upon the blessed sand of the special people or something.
But it’s too late to turn back now, I’ve swum a couple of hundred metres across the channel from St Vincent’s Villa Beach. I’ve dodged boats and my arms are knackered. Frankly, I’m stopping for at least five minutes whether they like it or not.
As I reach the shallows, I put my hand on a rock to push myself up, and immediately a searing pain shoots through my right hand. Shrieking and yelping, I get out of the water and run up the beach.
It appears as though the hand as a few new additions.; a series of black spines, already thoroughly embedded and intent on turning my skin a disturbing purple colour.
I’ve no real option but to approach the man who was waving me away… um, I’ve hurt my hand… no I’m not a guest here… yes, I did see you waving… no, I didn’t understand that you were warning me about the sea urchins.
Luckily, he’s nice enough to humour the complete moron in front of him, and he rushes me to the bar where he gets the barman to squeeze a few limes.
“Put your hand in there,” says the barman, pointing to the bowl of lime juice. “And when you get back, pee on it.”
Excuse me? But he’s insistent – urine is one of the best things to alleviate the pain and tease the spines out.
After clearly outstaying my welcome, I swim back over to the peasant’s side of the water and fire up the laptop. Surely urinating on my own hand can’t be the only cure? But what if I could die, and that’s the only option?
Predictably enough, the ever unreliable Doctor Google is both brutally pessimistic and hopelessly indecisive. There are roughly 1,000 courses of action suggested, and unfortunately, the barman’s rather unhygienic cure is amongst them.
Eventually I bottle it, and go for the least unsavoury option – bathing my fingers in vinegar.
Alas, while dribbling over your own hand is humiliating, at least no-one else has to see it. Having to ask a waitress for a bowl of vinegar to put your hand in over dinner is excruciatingly embarrassing. Especially when you have to keep doing it for the rest of the stay.
Lying by the pool with stinking fingers in a bowl is bad enough, but the nagging feeling that the entire hotel’s staff is giggling about ‘Vinegar Boy’ behind your back is enough to make you feel like you’ve been elected to the position St Vincent’s national freak.
The pain eases after a week or two, and the spines finally depart about six weeks after the ill-fated swim. I’m not sure what it’s payback for; trespassing where I’m not wanted, ignoring the man on the beach or choosing not to follow the “pee on it” advice. I just know that whatever it was, I’m not doing it again.
This story was originally written for the Sydney Sun-Herald. Copyright David Whitley.
