Rubber hits the tarmac. The big metal bird touches earth again. The pilot slams the reverse thrusters, and we jolt forward as the brakes scream. I glance at my partner in crime beside me. She’s smiling. So am I.
For her, it’s the heat—a wave of tropical warmth pressing against the cabin windows. For me, it’s simple: we made it. Safe. Grounded. I don’t do well in a handful of situations. Landings are one. Turbulence is another. But fear’s not the boss of me. Not anymore.
These days, I manage anxiety the old-fashioned way—by doing the thing that scares me until it becomes background noise. Still, I’ll never forget that flight years ago from Lombok to Bali after a surf trip. I looked nervous. My buddy leaned over and asked what was up. I admitted that propellers and sudden drops in altitude give me the heebie-jeebies. He paused, deadpan, then said:
“Hey Stemp, you see those propellers?”
“Yeah.”
“If birds fly into them… we’re fucked.”
Then he grinned. Flood therapy, island edition.
So yeah, now you know—planes freak me out. And yet I love to travel. It’s a core value. It yanks me past my fears and straps me into window seats bound for faraway places. Lucky for me, Josée’s wired the same. Travel is one of the cosmic threads that wove our paths together.
We met back in 2014 because she saw I liked to travel and reached out. At the time, I’d just returned from seven and a half years overseas, riding high on the adventure of a lifetime. But real life was waiting. I was trying to break into teaching back in our hometown of Ottawa. Which meant subbing, hustling, and scraping by. There weren’t a lot of big trips in the budget.
We did manage a few, though—like New York City to see Pearl Jam and Coldplay light up Central Park. And a trip to Tadoussac, Québec, where we saw a rare blue whale breach the surface. Highly recommend both. But then I went back to school (who starts a master’s at 42?) and shortly after, the whole world shut down.
But that was all behind us now.
When we stepped off the plane in Belize, the heat wrapped around us like an oven door flung open. The heat of the tropics. The heat of finally being here.
This was a bucket-list trip for Josée, and I was 100% in. We had a loose skeleton of a plan—just enough structure to keep us moving. First stop: Placencia, a laid-back village on a slender peninsula in southern Belize, famous for its Afro-Caribbean vibes. The second half? Ambergris Caye, up north near the barrier reef.
To get to Placencia, we needed to fly again. Boat or car were options, but we only had nine days in-country. Speed won.
We cleared customs and hustled to catch an earlier flight. The airport was a bit chaotic, but eventually we were crammed into a tiny one-engine puddle jumper, front row seats right behind the pilot. He looked young. Maybe too young. But hey—he had the captain stripes, so I decided to trust the system.
He fired up the engine, taxied to the edge of the short runway, spun the nose around, and gunned it. Watching him work the cockpit was oddly calming. I felt way less jittery than usual. Maybe it was seeing the controls in real time… or maybe it was watching him casually scroll his social media mid-flight.
We soared over crystal blue waters, a patchwork of reef and surf stretching below us. When we dipped toward Placencia’s airstrip, I took a deep breath and surrendered. The landing was bumpy but clean, and we rolled to a stop right in front of Tropic Air’s one-story office at the edge of the strip.
Josée went hunting for a blue Jeep while I grabbed our bags. Chris, our host, had promised to meet us there in said jeep. Huge shoutout to Chris and his Cashew Cabins—absolute legend. His spot had a pool, and within minutes we were swimming with cold beers in hand. Heaven. A far cry from the freezing temps we’d left behind in Ottawa.
Our room—Nut House One—was simple, clean, and cozy. Perfect. That night, we grabbed dinner and considered meeting Chris at the Barefoot Bar for karaoke. We closed our eyes for a “quick nap” and woke up at 8 p.m. Jet lag wins again.
Placencia: Chill, Sargassum, and Sunshine
The next day, we hit the streets. A local guy approached us—friendly, swaying a bit, clearly marinated in booze. He hugged us both, kissed us on the cheeks, and asked if I’d buy him some rice. I would’ve done the same in Ottawa, so I said sure. It turned into a bit of a spree, and eventually I had to draw the line. Part of travel, I figure—paying some dues to the people who call this place home.
Later, we cruised the beach and spotted sargassum for the first time. Big, brown clumps of seaweed washing up along the shoreline. That night, Chris gave us the full breakdown: fertilizer runoff from Brazil travels down the Amazon, dumps into the Atlantic, floats across to Africa, and supercharges the marine ecosystem. Sargassum explodes. Then the currents carry it west across the Caribbean and onto shores like this one.
It’s all connected.
We booked a snorkelling trip to the outer reefs. Glorious day. I love the weightless freedom of snorkelling—floating above coral cities, diving deep to see what’s below. The water was full of colourful, wild-eyed creatures. We had lunch on an island, then headed back sun-kissed and happy.
Another day we hit a beach club where we gorged ourselves and downed smoothies like they were going extinct. Each day, we sank a little deeper into chill.
Chris kept us in the know. He had the inside scoop on everything from cartel drops and domestic drama to sustainable development and marine conservation. Small-town Belize has layers.
Ambergris Caye: Hustle, Hustle, Float
After four days, we flew north to Belize City, grabbed a cab to the ferry terminal, and hopped a boat to San Pedro.
San Pedro’s got pulse. Streets buzz, markets hum, and personalities abound. Josée had booked us a sweet boutique hotel on the edge of town. We checked in, grabbed some poolside drinks and food, and decompressed.
The next day, we rented a golf cart—standard island wheels—and tore into the city. Me at the wheel, Josée riding shotgun, we navigated the chaos like a straight-A student darting through a hallway full of gossiping teens on his way to his physics class. I found a dream parking spot near our snorkelling tour—pure divine intervention.
Before we could celebrate, a guy on a bike (with a few teeth missing) rolled up and told me we were parked in a no-parking zone. His dark eyes stared into mine—he wanted a “tip.” I handed him some coins. His eyes judged me. I handed him a $5 bill. We were cool.
Gatekeepers gotta eat, too.
Our snorkelling guide, Soup, was a blast—charismatic, quick-witted, and proudly called his boat “the office.” We snorkelled reef after reef, spotting schools of wild fish, a turtle, and some barracuda with that “don’t mess with me” look. No hammerheads, which Soup was very happy about—turns out he had a childhood run-in that nearly had him shark food. Some trauma runs deep.
Another day, we joined a food tour—seven stops in three hours. No thinking. Just show up, eat, smile. Our last stop? A whiskey and cigar shop. Josée sampled some creamy whiskey, I grabbed a few cigars to bring home.
We made our way to Secret Beach for one last laid-back afternoon. On the way back, we stopped at The Truck Stop—a row of converted shipping containers turned into a mini food village. Super cool spot.
Eventually, the trip wound down. Back to real life.
Belize gave us everything we needed and then some. Will we go back? Maybe. But Costa Rica’s calling. And with our good friends Phil and Zippy moving to Panama, Central America might just become our new playground.
Thanks for reading,
Kevin & Josée