Tahiti: The Sea Lion, the Surgery & the $15,000 Sprint

Our mission to drop 5kg before flying home was going strong — mountain hikes, 3 minute sprints along the Papeete foreshore, smug little chats about “how good we were feeling.”

Enter: The Beach Walk.

“Let’s powerwalk on the sand,” I said.
“Great idea,” Rowdy said.
And it was… until I decided to spice it up with some light rock-hopping while Rowdy marched ahead like a man on a mission.

Spoiler alert: I am not a mountain goat.

Seconds later, I slipped, slammed, and splattered onto the rocks like a sea lion in distress. Not the elegant kind — more like the one they write rescue documentaries about. Screaming for Rowdy like I was being eaten by sharks.

“What happened?” he asked when he ran back.
WHAT. DO. YOU. THINK. HAPPENED?!

Wrist = cactus.
Me = lying in a puddle of pain, being licked by waves trying to send me express post to New Zealand.
And to top it off? We were a kilometre from the car.

Luckily, the gods of kindness (in the form of a local mum and daughter) came to our rescue, dragged me off the rocks, helped Rowdy get the car, and possibly saved our relationship.

Hospital. X-rays. Painkillers.
“Yep, broken wrist. You’ll need surgery.”
“Okay. When?”
“Tuesday.”

TUESDAY?! That’s when my bestie arrives for her 60th! Cue: actual tears, very unattractive sobbing, and a level of codeine-induced drama that should win me an Oscar.

They suggested a private clinic might be able to squeeze me in sooner. “5pm today. Just $2,000 upfront.”
YES. TAKE MY MONEY. FIX MY WING.

Rowdy went off to pay, while I got wheeled into pre-op…
Except: Plot twist.
It wasn’t $2,000. It was $12,000.
SURPRISE!

Too late to argue. At that point I was in so much pain I didn’t care if they charged me for a new arm. Just fix it. Next thing I know, I’m in a room full of hospital beds, and the surgeon casually drops:
“Oh we’re just going to do this under a local anaesthetic.”

Excuse me, what now?

Cue more nausea, more sweat, and the closest thing I’ve ever had to an out-of-body experience — except I was still very much in my body, listening to them hammer away at my bones like Ikea furniture.
At one point I politely let them know: “You’re working on the wrong bit, guys. It’s my wrist.”
They reassured me that yes, it was my wrist… and no, they weren’t lost.

Surgery done. Back in recovery. Two hours later, home again — lighter by one functioning wrist and roughly $15,000 (which, let’s be honest, I would have preferred to spend on two nights in a Bora Bora overwater bungalow with cocktail service and a plunge pool).

Travel insurance, you beautiful beast — you’ve saved me from selling my spleen. Highly recommend.

But wait — there’s more!

Two days later, Rowdy tries to change my dressing. Carefully, gently… and apparently my eyes roll back like a dying possum and I drop like a stone on the kitchen floor. Poor thing thought I’d carked it and left him to fend for himself with a dozen bottles of champagne and all those beautiful Polynesian women.
Dream on, Rowdy. I’m back — with a few bonus bruises.

But no — I just fancied another lie-down. And a few more bruises for the scrapbook.

So now it’s six weeks in a cast and sling. BUT we still got to welcome Roxy and celebrate her birthday. We’ve been swimming (with my arm wrapped in what can only be described as a giant condom), sightseeing, and laughing every time I need help getting dressed — which, funnily enough, seems to be all the time now.

So yes.
Weight loss goal: still pending.
But I’ve lost 15 grand, some dignity, and the ability to apply mascara with my dominant hand.

Still, life goes on.
And the sea lion swims again.