It’s taking some convincing to get Steve to agree to let me put this on the blog and the constant reassurance that it’s not out of spite or anger has won over his guilt.

The date was May 9th, we were in Dominica and had a pleasant hike to the Middleham falls in the morning. The bus system here is a network of collective vans. We took one to the dive shop and I am standing outside holding onto the van for balance over the open sewer. Just as I am about to ask the driver how much for the ride Steve hops out of the van and slams the door on my hand. My three fingers are trapped at the knuckles, lodged between the panel and closed door. I am in shock that this has actually happened and I can see the look of horror on the other passengers faces. Some of them even rise out of their seats to get a better stare at what the tourists are up to. Steve realizes what’s happened as I yell in pain and he unlatches the door to free me. I’m thinking pain means I can still feel them, and yes, they are still attached. Luckily only the index finger has a deep gash and the others are bruised. Now I can add “you slammed the door on my fingers” to the existing “you left me at the Straits of Magellan” guilt trips.