We were swimming in the Gulf of Fonseca at Playa Grande, Amapala.  Across the gulf past one or two unmanned and floating rowboats, we could see two volcanoes in El Salvador.  El Salvador reached around the Gulf and tried to touch Nicaragua, which acted likewise but failed to complete the embrace.  Honduras maintained its small outlet to the Pacific despite geographical and political connivances attempting the contrary. 

                So we were swimming in the Honduran waters of the Gulf of Fonseca with the legal right to pass into the open waters of the Pacific.  The eight of us were enjoying the warmer than necessary and likely polluted waters off the coast of Isla La Tigra, which many think is an extinct volcano, the only one of which within the borders of Honduras, when we noticed that there was someone seated at the table where we had left our bags and gear. 

                “Is that guy drinking from your water bottle?” asked one swimmer to another.

                “No.  He must have brought it himself.  Why would he be drinking from mine?” he replied. 

                The Honduran boy of about 15 years of age took another swig of water and looked around sheepishly.  He seemed pretty clearly occupied with checking to see if someone had seen his crime.  When nothing seemed to be happening, he put the water bottle back in the backpack, at which point the swimmers realized what was happening. 

                “Well, should I go stop him?” asked the owner of the backpack.

                “Yes, I think so,” the rest of the swimmers replied as the boy used a shirt from the backpack to wipe his face.

                The boy began to act like he was ready to open the backpack and see what else he could find.  I was worried too because I had left my wallet and phone in the backpack concerned. 

                As the owner of the backpack left with another swimmer, the Honduran youth took notice of the two gringos leaving the water towards him.  He quickly stood up and went back to his friends about fifteen feet away. 

                The Honduran youth came back to the table a minute later.  “Sorry, I thought it was my backpack,” he told the two gringos.  “I have the same water bottle and backpack here.”  He had curly hair cut like A.C. Slater, wore a torn shirt, and sported a euro-Speedo.  He was covered in dark mud-colored volcanic Amapala sand. 

                “You have the same backpack and the same water bottle here, at Playa Grande,” said the owner of the backpack.

                “And t-shirt?” asked gringo number 2.

                “Yes, I mean, yes,” said the Honduran youth, maintaining a clear strategy to avoid eye-contact. 

                “Where is it?” asked gringo number 2.

                The Honduran grunted and went back to his friends.  After a few moments, he got up again and returned to the gringos.   

                “No, it really is that I have that same water bottle,” he said.

                “Ok, where is it?” said gringo number two. 

                “It’s just that I thought it was mine and wanted some water,” said the Honduran youth.

                The owner of the backpack looked at him and said, “Well, I would have given you water if you had asked me.”

                The youth was stunned and his head fell back half an inch before he recovered his composure and asked with hands cupped humbly in front of him, “You will give me some water?”

                “Not now, kid.  I already gave it to you,” said the owner of the backpack. 

                The youth left and went back to his friends.  In another minute, he went to the edge of the cabaña and found his dark blue jeans.  Without washing the mud-sand off his hairy legs, he put the pants on and walked away down Playa Grande towards caves full of dog doo.