Mom has been keeping her own documents on the events so far on the trip. I'll let her tell it.
Molly and I are on the beach – she’s singing Christmas Carols while Pat and Abby are bemoaning the winter I miss. Christmas trees don’t look the same when they aren’t real. Note to self- no more fake trees at Christmas – you were right Pat (revel in those words). A real Christmas tree is the luxury that comes from bearing a roaring winter.
Now, the story of the motorcycle. Molly nearly killed us and saved our lives in about a minute’s time. Molly will recount this is her own voice but here goes.
After much soul searching I agree to go on a Molly guided motorcycle tour of the Island (it’s only 6 miles long and 3 miles wide). She looks confident in her aviators and backpack and I just trust in her. The sales person – not so confident giving us a look and making sure we know how bad the road is. But he escorts us to the road and Molly gives the bike a try and just as I recall the concern about sand as traction for a bike she crashes into a car – it takes all of a minute.
The 7 in me is elated that we aren’t about a mile down the road. Today we boarded a taxi to see another part of the island but first we got a good look at the “road” of the motorcycle story – what the guy was actually trying to tell us was that as inexperienced motorcyclists there was to friggin way we would survive that trip on the bike. The road was horrific, pocked doesn’t begin to describe it nor does pot hole or chuck hole how about crevasses in the road. I guess someone had an eye on us because that had disaster written all over it. I’m glad we didn’t know it at the time.
So that's her version of the story. I will come back with a defense as soon as I have one.
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