A Song While Island Hopping

A Song While Island Hopping

By Douglas Charles

 

Out the plane window the island appeared and from a mile high the west coast was

 

adorned by turquoise clean water, the beaches white coral sand and the interior was

 

tropical lushness, greenery, interspersed with some large structures on the shore, big

 

hotels. The crowd clapped upon landing and the plane was at the gate in no time; this was

 

a small international airport for a smallCaribbeancountry. Exiting the airbus, we used

 

the rear stairway saving the time usually afforded to waiting for each aisle to vacate,

 

complete with the choreography of taking down the carry-ons from the overhead bins.

 

We boarded a shuttle bus that weaved on the tarmac, stopped hard a few times and then

 

disgorged us near the building that held customs. My suitcase had four swivel wheels and

 

with her decorative leather bag on top we motored into line. It was still nearly an hour

 

until we cleared, went outside in the warm humid air and her sister was there, with her

 

husband Reggie, a Bajan, and his nephew Mackie, who had procured transport.

 

 

Mackie gave shorts answers to our questions, and he was a cautious and respectful driver

 

and for the10 mileride he kept it around 30-40 kilometersper hour. We went through a

 

harbor town and he said there was a big fish fry every Friday night, popular with tourists

 

and locals, and it had a name hard for me to remember, Oistins. A sailor friend had

 

mentioned it, he had been there.

 

 

 

Reggie had invited us to join them many times on their yearly trips toBarbados; this was

 

a staple of the family holiday gatherings. He had effectively painted a picture of an island

 

paradise, ideal for a vacation, and this time we went, on the spur of the moment. On Long

 

Island we would be missing the fireworks inThreeMileHarborand the Lone Sharks

 

playing on a night cruise, both fun times on the water, but we had seen fireworks in

 

Greenport already and would catch the band we liked another time.

 

 

Our room had an enclosed porch only100 feetfrom theCaribbean Sea, which was like

 

thePeconicBayon a non-windy day. The sun was fighting it’s way out of the heavy

 

clouds now that the rain had stopped. Four glass bottom boats bobbed at anchor or on

 

moorings. We unpacked quickly and then went a few doors down where Reggie was

 

pouring rum. He had purchased fresh coconut juice from a lithe Bajan who had climbed

 

one of the few trees between the hotel and the water, chopped off big green coconuts

 

where inside the part we normally see is located.

 

 

Rum. The liqueur of choice over six years before, a poor choice indeed, on a late April

 

day every bit as hot and humid as it was inBarbadosin July. It was another lifetime,

 

before I met the wonderful woman who traveled with me now. This time I drank the

 

concoction of coconut juice and clear white rum, confident I would not cause any trouble.

 

 

“All right” Reggie said as a greeting, in a sing song voice hard to describe as we walked

 

on the beach to a place to eat. Nods, smiles come back. Everyone was all right, especially

 

Herbie and Marvin, whose livelihood was made convincing tourists to ride in the glass

 

bottom boats to see the turtles who inhabit the nearby reef. Others tried to rent wave

 

runners or small catamarans. The Surfside was a casual place with a small bar only a few

 

feet from the sand and there were five picnic tables outside and inside about 10 tables of

 

plastic resin. This place would have fit in the old Montauk, before entrepreneurs made

 

fancier places for the summer crowd in theHamptons. There are fancier places on this

 

island too, increasingly. There are big hotels being built and gated luxury condos you can

 

get to with your yacht up in Port St. Charles, a few miles north, if you are in the one