An Ode to the Caribbean
Mother, mother ocean, I have heard you call
Wanted to sail upon your waters since I was three feet tall
You’ve seen it all, you’ve seen it all
Watched the men who rode you switch from sails to steam
And in your belly you hold the treasures few have ever seen
Most of them dream, most of them dream
Jimmy Buffett, “A Pirate Looks at Forty” (1974)
“Make hay while the sun shines,” is a colloquial proverb older than the hideous ties hanging in my closet, but that doesn’t mean it’s not relevant. The marriage of that truism with today’s harsh reality hit home after I spent much of this past week watching with sad eyes the utter annihilation of several Caribbean islands delivered by Hurricane Imra. I can’t tell you how forlorn and sorry I feel for those devastated people whose lives have been turned upside down.
But I have faith in the strength of the Caribbean people to bounce back and recover. Hurricanes come and go, just as they’ve had for centuries. The courageous stay and rebuild, just as they have for centuries.
I absolutely LOVE the Caribbean. If offered the choice, ten times out of ten I’d chose the day-long, two jets and a propeller-plane death march from California to the tranquil paradise that is the Caribbean over the straightforward, five-hour slingshot to Hawaii. Okay, let’s be real. I’d make it a hundred out of a hundred.
I lost my Caribbean virginity way back in 1988, when in search of some surf and sand that was missing from beautiful downtown Atlanta, The Pretty Blonde and I decided to pass on Delta Airlines’ offer of a twelve-hour slog to Honolulu and instead descended on the U.S. Virgin island of St. Croix. Though our hotel was barely three feet away from an impoverished neighborhood filled with cardboard shanties, the locals we came in contact with were friendlier than cream gravy is to a biscuit. Nothing showed off the local hospitality better than a sun-kissed sailboat operator wearing a filthy tank top and torn shorts who offered to take us out on his forty-foot schooner for a day long cruise, all for the bargain basement price of $200. When I countered with a $100 in cash, he happily accepted, and we spent the next six hours living inside a Jimmy Buffett album.
I don’t know about you, but I’m suddenly in the mood for a margarita with a cheeseburger chaser.
Two years later, I dialed up some Caribbean romance, courtesy of a remote, secluded slice of heaven known as Little Dix Bay on the British Virgin Island of Virgin Gorda, named in honor of all the fat virgins living in England. The only thing better than the restful ocean waves lapping yards from our beachfront cabana like a whisper in a seashell were the resort’s toasted crab sandwiches. Located just a few miles up the coastline was the iconic Bitter End Yacht Club, accessible only by water and hands down the greatest place on the planet I’ve ever nursed a beer while watching the sunset.
In 1991, we moved from Atlanta to the Left Coast, and the recipe of two small children and shorter flights made Hawaii our preferred beachy vacation spot for the next decade or so. Maui was our island of choice, and there is nothing to complain about when it comes to our Wailean adventures. But knowing there’s a McDonalds, Denny’s, or TJ Maxx just up the road takes a little shine off the exotic get-away-from-it-all experience, no matter how many lava flows you drink.
By the summer of 2006, we decided 15-year old Ross and 12-year old Keith had graduated from dip ‘n dots and waterslides to something more adventurous. Because the Pretty Blonde and her older brother had acquired plenty of sailing experience and skills from their father while growing up in Mexico, we thought it would be a good idea to rent a boat and sail around the Caribbean. We jetted off to St. Martin and rented a 42-foot catamaran, and we spent the next ten days sailing, pirating and pit stopping around quixotic St. Martin, gentile Anguilla, and glamorous St. Barts, the French archipelago I like to call the Rodeo Drive of the Leeward Islands. It was during this unforgettable trip that I realized what it was that drew me to the Caribbean like Baby Boomer males to a ’68 Mustang, that made me want to dump Wall Street and begin my career as a scuba diving instructor. It was the water, clearer and bluer and than anything served up off the Hawaiian coast. I really don’t know how to describe it. You have to see it up close and personal to understand.
Luckily for me, business over the past several years has taken me to the U.S. Virgin Islands of St. Thomas and St. John. As with my previous Caribbean encounters, the only thing warmer than the water is the charm of the locals. They’re my kind of people; polite, unpretentious, and with a delicious story to tell.
I’ve been blessed with the time and financial resources to tour so much of the Caribbean, and I took advantage of the opportunity when it was presented. I’m going to miss them terribly. To quote the great Jimmy Buffett, “I’ve got to fly to Saint Somewhere.”
God willing, I’ll be back soon.