Cruisin': Jamaica, Dolphin Cove

After getting waterlogged, braided, and nearly molested at Dunn's River Falls, the tour people loaded us back on a bus and sent us down to Dolphin Cove. We got to amble around the grounds for a bit (I say amble because it's hard to walk like a normal person when your clothes are soaked through). While we sprawled out in lounge chairs overlooking the beach, we saw bits of a Jamaican fashion show (although it was really more of a "all the possible combinations of clothes that we sell in our gift shop" show). And if we wanted, we could have paid a princely sum for access to their buffet, which featured a whopping three items. Instead, I just bought some jerk sauce from the gift shop.

Then the dolphin show started. This consisted of two groups of tourists being escorted down to the dolphin pools, while the rest of us peered over a railing.

The first group got to feed and touch the dolphins.


In exchange for fish treats, the dolphins did tricks. They were really fun to watch! I probably sat there with a silly grin on my face the entire time.


The second group of tourists had paid nearly twice the amount as the first group and were allowed to swim with the dolphins. Actually, at one point they were using the dolphins as a sort of mammal-powered boogie board. I wish I had pictures of this but, alas...my cheapo camera was full.

Since I had no more film, I also didn't get any pictures of the sharks. Yes, real sharks. They had a pool with four sharks. And again, they lead groups of paying tourists down into the water. These people - who had more cash than good sense - got to hold a shark on their lap and then feed it. As if this wasn't enough to cause involuntary bladder release, they were then handed snorkeling masks and got to swim around for a bit. The shark guides, who played the part of pirates, put on a show for the hordes that gathered to watch the crazy people in the water. Although I would never get in the pool myself, I'd go watch again.

Also at Dolphin Cove, there was no shortage of things to do. They had several shops - without the pushy salespeople - as well as the handmade crafts. Then there was a mat weaver. He was wedged between a couple buildings, hidden back by a turtle pond, where it was cooler. He took a liking to me and my sister-in-law, wove a couple palm frond bracelets for us and gave us our Rastafarian names. I was deemed Mrs. Right, because I am always right. I thought it fitting.


After we finished, there was another tiny bus waiting to take us back to the pier. Now, Jamaica is a lot more concerned about customs and immigration. We were warned to keep our cruise cards on us at all times. But here's a tip: if you forget your ID, make sure you have a couple scantily-clad females seated by the door and the official's eyes won't move beyond them. When we pulled up to the pier, our driver told us to get out our cards and hold them up so the official could see them. Unfortunately, two adorably perky teenagers, seated across from the bus door, wore only bikinis, with no safe location to store their identification. Their parents - located in the very back of the bus - had their cards. But the uniformed official was stepping onto the bus. They started to explain why they didn't have any ID...he simply looked them over (ahem) and then left the bus. We started laughing as we pulled into the pier. The girls couldn't decide if they were mortified or flattered.