Two years ago this month, Francisco and I were married on Playa de los Cabros, one of the dozens of beaches on the island of Vieques. Francisco spent the morning cooking filet mignon, seafood paella, and a vegetarian dish for the friends and family who had come to spend a week with us at some modest houses we'd rented a few miles away on another beach. I shimmied my way into a fairly traditional gown I hadn't expected to wear and drove people back and forth to the beach in our rented Suzuki-- we hadn't remembered to plan for transportation.  

We called it the anti-wedding wedding. We didn't want bridesmaids or best men. We didn't want ministers or the formality of ceremony. We didn't want presents. What we wanted was to have a small group of loved ones with us in a place we loved. We wanted them to have a vacation and to know and experience one another. Francisco wanted to cook for them. I wanted to plan experiences for them. The only things we asked of them were to show up and, if they so chose, to offer a reading during the wedding. They could wear what they wanted (and I love that the pictures prove that they did!). We'd take care of the rest.

The night of our wedding, everyone loaded up in the back of a truck and bounced down a washboard rutted road, headed out to Mosquito Bay, one of three bioluminiscent bays in Puerto Rico and one of the handful in the entire world. The gift we wanted to give our guests was a kayaking trip led by our friend, the environmentalist and activist Nestor Guishard. On a decent night, the bio bay looks as if glitter has been scattered about its surface; on a perfect night, you can see the animals of the sea going about their nocturnal activities; they appear lit with neon thanks to the density of luminescent microorganisms in the warm bay. The excursion, I realized in retrospect, was not for the faint of heart or body. Among our group we had people of all ages and physical abilities, but none could be described as faint of heart. Once they'd gotten the free chiropractic adjustment from the road, they had to muck through the boggy conditions of the shore, and plop into a two person kayak, all while being eaten alive by robust Puerto Rican mosquitos, and they all did so.

My grandmother, who was 82 at the time, had come all the way from Oregon. We weren't sure she was going to join us; just a few months before the wedding my uncle, her youngest son, had died, and the loss had been hard on her. But she did come, and she slipped into the kayak with greater ease and far more grace than I. As we rowed out into the bay she told Francisco she'd stay in the kayak rather than jump in and swim, as she thought she might be cold on the ride back to the house. By the time we'd tied up the kayaks in the center of the bay, though, we heard a small voice cut through the dark: "Well, you only live once. Here I go!" and she dove into the bay without hesitation. It reminded me of a trip two years earlier, when, on her 80th birthday, we were swimming with enormous green sea turtles in Maui.

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So it was with pleasure when I received my grandmother's Christmas card in which she announced her intention to return to Hawaii for her 85th birthday and invited family to come along for the celebration. Her note got me thinking about what travel means to her-- we've never lived in the same state and we haven't spent much time together, so the truth is that I don't know a lot about her. I sent her an e-mail and asked some questions about her travel experiences, including "Why is travel important to you?" and "How has travel changed you?" She indulged my request with a few answers to share:

"Travel is important to me because I thrive on change and new experiences, but since your Grandpa died it's not much fun. We traveled a lot with various RVs and he loved it as much as I did....Travel has certainly broadened my horizons. It is educational, fun, and always the enjoyment of packing bags and going somewhere. I hope it has made me a happier more contented person. I have a lot of satisfaction from my memories of happy trips with my sweet old companion. I have a dear 91 yr. old friend (of 50 years) who has never traveled much. Her husband (now in Heaven) loved to go and went without her on several occasions. I felt sorry for both of them."

Travel while you can, Grandma says. She will. In fact, if you're in Hawaii this October, you just might find her in the ocean, swimming with some green sea turtles.