Flash forward 20 years. I'm starting this journal after landing on my head -- the result of trampoline skills eroded by time. The nurse at Club Med prescribed medication to de-tension knots in my neck and upper back. Circus life isn't what it's cracked up to be. Maybe my boss will consider taking me back.

Still, it's hard to complain as I relax on my private, stonemasoned terrace overlooking the cove. Shimmering blue-green waters gently rock Club Med's candy-colored kayaks. The crash of the surf is a soothing lullaby. Palm trees along the shore perform a graceful hula in the ocean breeze. A perfect setting to collect my thoughts for this journal.

Day 1. We arrived at 8:00 p.m., greeted by Club Med staff members dressed all in black. Gee, why on earth is everyone dressed like...me? I travel light. Athletic clothes are in the duffle bag and I'm wearing my disco outfit. Purely by coincidence, the dress code for staff members that evening was black attire -- though I couldn't tell if the theme was Johnny Cash or Steven Seagal.

At dinner, the hostess escorted an attractive, dark-haired woman named Lori to the seat next to mine. Making a smashing entrance in a blouse Carmen Miranda would envy, I noticed the tangerine taffeta gathering just below her shapely shoulders and stopping short of her 20-inch midriff. Silken harem pants gently caressed her slender hips, and flowed gracefully to her ankles. How festive...how fetching.

Vivacious and entertaining, Lori proved a delightful dinner partner. I had spotted her Club Med luggage tags back at SFO. She was the same gal who disappeared abruptly after my feeble attempt to break the ice with small talk. So much for first impressions.

After dinner, Lori and I enjoyed the nightly show at the theater, but the best part of the evening was yet to come. We made the semi-finals at the couples' limbo contest, faltering only when the bar stood at the second lowest setting. All the same, we were both surprised and delighted. It had been a long time since I had had such a perfect evening.

Day 2 began with a light breakfast, followed by my misadventure on the trampoline which brings me to this point here, nursing an aching back and a bruised ego. Hmmm...'nuff said about that.

Day 3. Another reversal of fortune. This evening, guests at Club Med were to provide the on-stage entertainment. First on the agenda was a Michael Jackson impersonation which entailed dancing to a medley of songs from his music videos. I assumed the lead role accompanied by six backup dancers...or as they would say in street parlance...my "posse." Veronica, a Club Med staff member, directed the choreography for the backup dancers but I was allowed unlimited lattitude in developing my own routine.

Luck is the intersection between preparation and opportunity, and it seems that I had been preparing for this moment my entire life. Though there had been a 20-year lapse in trampolining, there had been virtually none in my nightclub dancing. During backstage rehearsals, the initial apprehension seemed to magically melt away as I slipped on a black-sequinned jacket. The number went well. Afterwards, I was flabbergasted when called upon to settle a few bets. "No, I'm not actually a professional dancer, I'm a statistician. But thanks, I'm very flattered!"

(Click here to see pictures)

Day 4. I felt zonked after the hours of rehearsals and last night's performance in Playa Blanca's sweltering heat. Waking up at 10:00 a.m., I missed the bus which departed for the off-site picnic, leaving my record intact. In previous years, I had enjoyed picnic activities only vicariously through veterans of the various Club Meds around the world. Often waxing nostalgic, they would assure me that Club Med picnics come with a guarantee of good spirits -- including the kind one may imbibe. With a twinkle in his eye, one fella regaled juicy tales of hardbodied guys and gals swapping articles of clothing, later returning to the resort wearing each others' swimsuits. You know...the usual Spring break routine.

"It was actually pretty tame," Lori reported as she returned from today's picnic. Apparently, even Club Med finds itself swept along the currents of the Zeitgeist which now embody baby-boomers' newfound temperance.

In the afternoon, my neck and back felt sufficiently improved to try one of the many sports activities that Club Med offered. Water sports at Playa Blanca included sailing, kayaking, snorkeling, and scuba diving. Among the land sports were archery, volleyball, tennis, horseback riding, and rockclimbing on an artificial wall. The circus workshop offered tightrope walking, flying on the high trapeze, and of course, my recent nemesis, trampolining.

Rockclimbing was my choice. The artificial rock wall was an array of six concrete slabs, each standing at right angles to the ground and rising to a height of 20 feet. Each slab represented a different level of difficulty. The wall posing the greatest challenge looked positively freaky, covered with moonlike craters scarcely larger than a finger pad. Ascent to the top seemed impossible except under zero-g conditions. I would attempt to switch from Michael Jackson to Spiderman.

A gal named Trish snapped my picture as I scaled the wall with the lunar craters. I was fascinated to learn afterwards that she had previously trained on the flying trapeze as a hobby and had come to Club Med to refresh her skills. Trish looked quite distinguished and one would sooner take her for a corporate attorney than a circus performer. In a moment of reflection, I wondered how many of us at Club Med came here to discard the office persona, and pursue personal passions unsuspected by our coworkers.

Earlier in the day, David, a bright lad of 14, confided that I seemed a totally different person on stage. And for the remainder of the week, I was delighted to resume my stage persona, smiling and waving every time a "fan" cried, "Michael!"

Activities that night entailed a resumption of Spring break mentality. We gathered at the disco to elect -- from among the guests -- "Miss Playa Blanca 1996." I presume that when the next weekly rotation of guests arrive, they'll elect another "Miss Playa Blanca 1996." Ultimately, a woman named Jessica evoked the highest response on the applause-meter, winning the title. There was no apparent penalty for a possible fashion faux pas -- specifically, the incongruity between her string bikini and her stiletto heels.

Days 5 through 7. Putting my trampoline days behind me, I tried a number of the other Club Med sports. With its patient instructors, Club Med seems perfectly suited for the sports dilettante who enjoys sampling a variety of exciting athletic endeavors in a carefree setting. I also decided that one week is about the perfect length for a Club Med vacation. Beyond that, it could get somewhat repetitious -- same stuff, different day -- kinda like the Bill Murray movie Groundhog Day.

One morning, I had breakfast with Rob, a new acquaintance. I inquired about "Uncle Larry," often seen assuming duties of Club Med staff members. "Is Uncle Larry actually a staff member?" I asked. "No," Rob chuckled, "He just enjoys helping out." Apparently, Uncle Larry struck it rich at age 50 and plans to spend the rest of his life at Club Med. Yeah, we're talkin' Groundhog Day.

One of the week's highlights was an evening exhibition on the flying trapeze. First, some of the guests demonstrated impressive skills acquired over the past few days of diligent training. This was followed by demonstrations from some of the Club Med circus staff.

Finally, a special guest did the grand finale. Rob's friend, Brad, had joined Rob and wife Cindy on their first Club Med vacation. As it turned out, Brad was the founder/proprietor of the San Francisco School of Circus Arts and had agreed to perform. The audience was in for a special treat.

As Brad swung through the air, the audience collectively held its breath. Effortlessly, Brad executed a double somersault and his outstretched arms mated with those of his catcher. It was a feat so perfect, so pure, it served as a stunning reality check for those of us with idle dreams of running away and joining the circus.

Day 8. Departure day. At different times throughout the day, buses shuttled guests to Puerto Villarta Airport for return flights to LA, Chicago, San Francisco, Vancouver, and Toronto. At 2:00 p.m., those of us with flights to SFO met at the loading area and I was reminded of what a small world it can be.

I said farewell to Veronica and thanked her for the thrill of finally doing my act on stage. Everyone else in the "Michael Jackson Posse" was SFO-bound and boarded the bus with me: Alex, Beverly, Christine, Rosie, and my limbo partner, Lori. A few days earlier, Alex discovered that he worked in the same San Mateo office building as Rob.

In order to receive my Spiderman pictures, I gave Trish my home address, mentioning for the first time that I lived in Salinas. We then discovered that, twenty-some-odd years ago, Lori used to babysit Dina Ruiz, later destined to become Salinas's favorite news anchor and the wife of Clint Eastwood. It really is a small world.

Trish boarded the bus, no doubt delighted by a week of daily training on the trapeze. I presume she'll continue to train under Brad at his school of circus arts. The "amazing" Brad took the seat behind mine, and Rob and Cindy sat across the aisle from me.

Also boarding the bus were two 19-year-old lads I found endearing despite their youthful folly. Throughout the week, they seemed preoccupied with "scoring," as they phrased it. I'm still unsure how many times they were able to complete sentences without references to "scoring." Probably a safe bet they wouldn't mind scoring with Miss Playa Blanca, also SFO-bound and sitting towards the front of the bus. One of them turned to me, and suggested that I could score with my little invention -- a Dirty Dancing version of the Macarena that I had demonstrated throughout the week.

I smiled politely to acknowledge the compliment. Then turning away, I closed my eyes to indulge in reverie during the 3-hour ride to Puerto Vallarta Airport. Over 20 years have passed since I was their age, I thought. How we boys change as we grow up. The prospect of a liaison was the last thing on my mind this past week...well okay, okay, maybe not dead last...actually, it kinda made the top-10 on limbo night.

Epilogue. The plane departed on time and arrived in San Francisco according to schedule. The prodigal son returns. Though I wondered: Would this story turn out differently if I had realized my dream get-away to Calcutta? I had often fantasized about becoming a volunteer for Mother Teresa...maybe never to return. Deeply have I imbibed from the well of secular life. Innummerable nights at the disco groomed me for my portrayal of a dance legend. Career highlights over the years had exceeded my loftiest expectations. Attachments to this life had become increasingly tenuous with each worldly achievement. And yet I know that running away is never the answer. Providence has ever guided my steps to the station I am called to serve. Driving from SFO, I eventually reached Salinas at 11:00 p.m. And I am finally home where I belong.

Copyright 1996   Esalenite

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