St Thomas (2 of 3)
Part 42
Happy Mother’s Day. St. Thomas will require
3 parts to get through. My fingers hurt just thinking about it...
St. Thomas (Part 2)
Coki Beach may be a surprise to some. It is relatively small -- intimate almost
-- wedged between Coral World and some densely packed residential areas. The
vista looking seaward is gorgeous. Turn around, and the view takes in a line
of brightly painted tumbledown shacks housing vendors of all sorts. This is
not a quiet stretch of sand.
Wells and Dan took off through the trees toward the beach as the adults took
their sweet time retrieving towels and the like from the back of the truck.
The sky was steadily darkening.
“I hope we get some snorkeling in before it rains,” I said.
Frank looked up and surveyed the sky. “Oh yeah, we’ve got a couple of hours.
No problem, mon.”
I decided to leave the good camera in the truck, and retrieved the underwater
camera from the bag of miscellaneous stuff. In addition to getting some underwater
shots, I could take a couple on the beach in the rain – just in case Franks
forecast was off by a few minutes.
By the time we got to the beach, Wells had already indebted me to the tune
of $25. At his direction, an enterprising young man was positioning 5 lounge
chairs for us on the beach. His dreadlocks were piled under a cap, and his
goatee was a single lock about 6 inches long. It waved in the breeze. The
boys stared in awe – they are in the Bob Marley worship phase of life, and
the sight of a real Rastaman must have been inspiring.
Our ‘host’ introduced himself, but I failed to take note of his name. His
big smile revealed that his front teeth were missing. “I am here to make you
comfortable and happy. If you want to rent some snorkeling equipment, you
can go to the stand right behind you. The cost is $5, and we even give you
a dog bone to feed the fish. We have a café right there with some excellent
local food. If you need anything, just ask me. I can bring you any kind of
drinks – some beer or a pina colada, perhaps. I have some special drinks,
too. I will come back with some samples for you.”
For clarity, the preceding quote has been translated from the actual collection
of sounds uttered by our host.
“Where can we change our clothes?” I asked.
Without translation, his response sounded like this: “Back café de batroom
is, jus go tru dare and say de man you from I. De room for she all mash up
so her mus use de mans. A’no ting.”
“Thanks,” I replied.
As our host walked away, Wells looked at me quizzically. “What did he say?
You understood that?”
Dan joined in. “Yeah. I couldn’t understand anything. What language is that?”
I laughed and translated the last exchange: “To the rear of the café there
are restrooms. Just walk through the patio area. Tell the attendant that I
sent you. The ladies room is out of order, so men and women must share a single
facility. Nothing to be concerned about.”
Although this gentleman’s accented speech was fairly extreme even for the
islands, I didn’t have any trouble getting the general idea. It took months
of living on St. Thomas to acquire that skill. Like riding a bike, it stays
with you.
The language of the islands, though English, can be extremely difficult to
understand. After a while you realize that there are all sorts of variations,
and one sub-culture may have difficulty understanding another. You can even
detect European origins in some of the accents, developed over the centuries
when various countries claimed the territory. We had one friend who spoke
with a pronounced Scottish brogue.
A common feature of the local language is swapping pronoun usage -- me for
I, she for her, he for him, and vice versa. There is a huge collection of
idioms, like ‘mashup’ for broken. I can remember one phrase that baffled me
for a long time -- “Oh Lawd, him gone t’see John Thomas”. I never asked anyone
to explain this to me, but figured it out one day while reading the VI Daily
News. A small advertisement caught my eye: John Thomas, undertaker…
The boys were anxious to try snorkeling, so we went to the rental shack and
outfitted everyone. Frank chose to stay in civilian clothes, but warned us
that the snorkels and masks needed a really good rinsing before use. They
were delivered straight from a vat of chlorine.
“You’ll want some sunscreen on your backs,” the motherly Kris warned.
“Nah, we’ll be fine,” countered Dan. “It’s cloudy.”
“You’re going to get burned, I can assure you. You don’t want to spend the
rest of the trip in pain do you?” The boys were already heading for the water,
unconcerned.
“Hey, hold up,” called Frank. “See the water about 30 yards out – where it
suddenly looks different? There’s a really strong current and if you get stuck
in it, you’ll be in San Juan by tomorrow. All the good snorkeling is all the
way to the right, around that little point that sticks out. See it?”
The boys nodded, went straight into the water, donned their equipment and
swam to the left.
“They won’t see much over there,” said Frank.
Our host arrived with a tray filled with samples of some frozen concoction,
and we were happy to lighten his load.
We gabbed for a while, swapping stories on a variety of topics. Frank is a
great storyteller. Our experience at the airport in Boston, where the boys
were detained for a thorough search, got him launched into a passionate tale
of post 9/11 airport woes. Frank travels a great deal, usually with a load
of electronic equipment. As a result, he is frequently subjected to extra
scrutiny. On a recent trip to Miami, he was taken aside and asked to remove
his shoes by a security agent who then walked away.
Another agent soon came by, and repeated the order for Frank to remove his
shoes. He started to reply, but the agent would not allow him to speak.
“Remove your shoes now!”
“But I…”
“Now!”
“I’m not...”
“Are you refusing to remove your shoes?!”
“I…”
She ordered Frank to remove his shoes several more times, each time refusing
him the courtesy of a response. The agent became enraged with his noncompliance,
and called for a supervisor. By now quite a circus had developed, and the
agent was sure she had cornered a sly terrorist. The supervisor arrived, along
with some reinforcements.
“The agent asked you to remove your shoes. Why won’t you comply?” asked the
supervisor.
“Sir, I cannot comply with that request,” replied Frank.
“Why not?”
“Because I am not wearing any shoes,” said Frank, pointing to his stockinged
feet. His shoes sat nearby, where they had been since the initial request.
The boys came running up from the water. “There’s a huge barracuda out there,”
said Dan, breathlessly.
This was not cause for alarm. “Kind of spooky looking, but they won’t do anything
as long as you don’t look like a shiny little fish,” said Kris. “That’s why
you’re supposed to take off your jewelry.”
“Are there sharks out there?” asked Wells.
“I’m sure there are,” I said, but I recalled the international shark-hunting
contest held back in the 70’s. There was a lot of press surrouding the event,
but the sportsmen all left after about 3 months. They didn’t find a single
shark.
“We’re going down to the other end of the beach. You guys comin’?” asked Wells.
“Sure, we’ll be right behind you,” I said.
Frank ordered a beer to keep him company while Kris and I gathered our gear
and walked to the far end of the beach to join the boys. They were already
out and around the point of the small reef. We joined them a few minutes later.
It is kind of difficult to tell that someone is smiling when they’re wearing
a snorkel and mask, but I could tell that the boys were wearing wide grins.
Swarms of fish surrounded them. Kris would later say that she saw more different
species in this one place than she’d seen anywhere in the past. Coral World
feeds the fish for the benefit of visitors to the underwater observatory,
so the area is teeming with every variety known to the region. The sharks
should smarten up – they’re missing out.
We snorkeled for about a half hour. The boys explored every nook and cranny
of the reef and rocks, diving to the bottom to observe specimens that burrow
into the sand. I swam out with a biscuit in my pocket, and had fish impatiently
nibbling at my bathing suit. I eventually let my biscuit float away, because
the fish wouldn’t leave me alone otherwise.
When we got back to our line of lounge chairs, we ordered a round of beer.
I translated the offerings for the boys.
“That was so awesome,” said Dan. “The fish just come right up to you like
they’re not afraid or anything.”
“When my dog bone was gone, the fish kept nibbling on my fingers. It felt
really weird,” added Wells. “And you can hear them crunching under water.”
Dan in particular couldn’t stop expounding about the experience. “Can we do
that again at the next place? Where are we going again?”
“Nassau, in the Bahamas,” I answered.
“Do they have good snorkeling there?”
“I suppose so. We’ll have to see what the weather is like. Nassau is pretty
far north, and it might not be very warm this time of year.”
Wells and Dan were hungry, so we dispatched then to a nearby food stand for
some local delights. When they returned and stretched out on their chairs,
both were asleep in seconds.
We left them at peace with the world for a while. As we continued to reminisce,
a steady stream of vendors came by, hawking their wares. Each was politely
dismissed and took the hint – as a group, the Virgin Islanders are much less
aggressive and intrusive than vendors at most other places.
A drop of rain indicated an opportune time to pack up and get going. We only
had another hour or so before Frank had to get to his meeting. In the parking
area, our beach host was engaged in a shouting match with another man. They
were arguing about a woman, and 4 out of 5 words were of the four-letter variety.
The boys asked for a translation, which I kept generic – no need to be literal.
As we drove away the skies opened for half a minute, and then the sun came
out. This is prime rainbow territory, but I couldn’t spot one. It is not unusual
to see two or three at a time after a quick rain shower.
We headed for Mountaintop. On the way, I brought up the Angelina Lauro incident
(1979 burning of a cruise ship at St. Thomas). Frank had read the story I
wrote (Part 15a of the Galaxy tale), and had a few additions
and corrections for me.
It seems that a military team was dispatched from the sub base to help fight
the fire. They arrived in full firefighting regalia, with breathing packs
and fire-resistant suits. The commander took one look at what was going on,
and tried desperately to stop the disaster from compounding. Fuel was pouring
out of the ship into the harbor, and the fire department was pumping the fuel-laden
water right back onto the fire. Wherever the hoses were aimed, the fire burst
forth with vigor. When the fire chief insisted that diesel fuel wouldn’t burn,
the military team was ordered to leave the scene immediately.
Shortly thereafter, the fire grew so intense that it became impossible to
remain on the dock. A general evacuation was ordered. Frank, who was on the
scene as part of the VI Search and Rescue team saw a motorcycle policeman
he knew, and asked for a ride off the dock. The policeman decided to show
off his riding skills, weaving recklessly through people and vehicles, going
entirely too fast. They came upon a row of ambulances that had sat patiently
all night waiting for customers to materialize. There had only been one minor
injury during the whole episode – until now, that is.
A man was walking parallel to the row of ambulances, about four feet away
from the vehicles. Traveling at 30 MPH, the officer tooted his horn and gunned
the bike toward the gap between the man and the vehicles. Unfortunately the
pedestrian darted toward the ambulance rather than away from it, closing off
the passage. The officer swerved and crashed.
“I remember flying through the air. I landed on the pavement, staring straight
up. I could feel pain in my hand, and as I raised it to take a look, I saw
something dropping out of the sky. The cop’s helmet came off in the crash,
flew through the air and hit me square in the forehead. I still have a bump,”
said Frank, pointing to a pronounced lump above his eye.
“I was kind of woozy, but I checked my hand and it wasn’t too bad. I felt
for my radio. It wasn’t on my belt, so I started crawling around looking for
it. That’s when the ambulance attendants found me. They thought I was either
nuts or concussed, but they were glad to finally have someone to cart away.”
It all came back to me. I’ll have to modify my story…
Frank took a sharp right turn. “Remember this road?”
I did. It was a shortcut we used to take to get home. The one lane road climbed
for half a mile at a 45-degree angle. My old Subaru used to barely make it
up in first gear with a running start. There were a few houses on either side
of the road. They appeared to be in good shape, but were clearly empty. A
few hundred feet up, we came upon a wall of dirt and rock ten feet high stretching
across the road. Trees grew at crazy angles from the mass of material.
“Whoa! What’s that?” The boys marveled at the sight, which looked like something
from a National Geographic special on natural disasters.
“Mudslide. Must have happened during the last hurricane. I haven’t been up
this way in a while,” said Frank.
“No wonder people abandoned those houses. Doesn’t look very stable.” On closer
inspection, I could see how several acres of the hillside had come loose and
moved. The separated mass looked threatening.
Frank carefully backed the truck all the way down the hill, and we took the
long way around. At the crest of the mountain, the road veered to the left.
At the corner, there was a magnificent house – at least 10,000 square feet,
straddling the mountain ridge overlooking both sides of the island. Well,
it had been magnificent. Now it resembled a bull’s-eye target for a laser-guided
bomb. It was surrounded by high chain link fence, and looked like it hadn’t
been touched since the devastating event. Broken furniture protruded from
tumbled walls, and fabrics fluttered in the breeze.
Two hundred feet further up the road was the driveway to our first residence
on St. Thomas. I knew it was still standing, as I had photographed it from
the ship. I was glad not to have been here during the storm that wiped out
our former neighbors.
The house was not visible from the road – the top of its roof sat about 20
feet below the road surface. A low concrete wall was the only thing present
to stop a car from landing in the kitchen. Frank stopped the truck and I got
out to take some pictures. Leaning over the wall, the vegetation was so thick
I still couldn’t see the house. I took one shot of Millennium between the
trees. It looked like such an insignificant thing far, far below.
Without warning, we were instantly submerged in a tropical downpour. Visibility
went to near zero as the cloud descended to cover the mountaintop. In the
time it took to hop back into the truck, I was soaked.
Despite the weather, we continued on to the peak. In our time on St. Thomas,
the place at the summit was called the Mountaintop Hotel, even though it no
longer housed guests. It was kind of a dump, but tourists flocked there. Now
it is called just plain Mountaintop. From what I could see through the rain,
the place had been reconstructed and expanded to include shops. It looked
quite nice, and the view in good conditions is unbeatable. There was no sense
in getting out of the truck under the circumstances, so we just looped around
and headed back down the hill.
“Where are the radio towers?” I asked. When Frank and I worked together, we
had radio transmitters up here. In 1978, we installed the first beeper service
in the Caribbean, and I spent many days in a little shack on top of the mountain,
wiring things together.
Frank pointed to a clearing on the left. “That’s where they were. All gone
now.”
“Hurricane?” It was a dumb question.
“Hugo. Wiped out everything. They built new towers farther down the road.
That’s why we didn’t have phone service for a year.”
In the back seat, Kris was trying to entertain the boys with stories of our
time here. The huge iguana that chased the cat down the driveway…tarantulas,
scorpions and giant cockroaches and spiders…all kinds of great stuff. The
boys were fading, though. Too many late nights followed by a busy day had
pretty much wiped them out.
We wound our way down the hill toward town. Halfway down we emerged from the
clouds and passed the spot where we used to take our garbage – a minor but
memorable aspect of living here. Dumpsters were located in various places
around the island, always overflowing. Each one supported a colony of feral
cats and other wild creatures. The spot was now empty and clean – not the
place I remembered. You never know what will trigger a moment of sentimentality…
“That’s where we got Sophie,” Kris told the boys, referring to the cat that
lived with us until just a few years ago. I never did ask what people did
with their trash nowadays.
We entered Charlotte Amalie through the residential area called ‘Bunker Hill’.
The streets are impossibly narrow and steep. Houses are built right at the
edge of the pavement. In places, it was necessary to stop to allow pedestrians
to squeeze past the truck, ducking under the side mirrors.
Traveling Dronningens Gade (Main St.) for a few blocks, everything looked
very much the same after 24 years. A quick loop around the block brought us
to the waterfront, where Frank stopped the truck in front of the building
where our offices had been -- Alert Alarms. We all hopped out and walked up
Riise’s alley. The old workplace glittered with watches. For all the time
I spent in that place, I wouldn’t have recognized it.
I looked up at the roof of the building. We had a generator up there. I used
to climb up a ladder carrying 5-gallon cans of gasoline to refuel it. I’ll
never forget doing that during the hurricanes. Dan was impressed, Wells less
so. I’d like to see him try it…
It was getting late, so we hurried back the truck. At this time of day, it
would probably be faster to walk back to the dock. Traffic was far worse than
I recalled, and we crawled along the waterfront highway.
“Is L’Escargot still in business?” I asked. It was my favorite restaurant
downtown, and I had recommended it to our tablemates.
“Nope. Long gone,” replied Frank.
We entertained the boys with a story about L’Escargot. The huge restaurant
had a set of display cases in its lobby. Local merchants would exhibit their
wares here to attract business, so at any time there were thousands of dollars
worth of merchandise under glass.
A series of burglaries occurred at the restaurant. Staff would arrive to find
the displays smashed and empty. There was no sign of forced entry, and no
one could figure out how the perpetrators were getting in. After a half dozen
hits, the owner ordered an alarm system from us.
We installed a motion detection system. Since these types of systems are prone
to false alarms, we also installed a microphone so that we could listen in
and verify that something was actually happening.
L’Escargot was only open for lunch, so it was empty by 4:00 or so every day.
Two days after installing the alarm, Frank and I were preparing to go home
for dinner. The night staff had arrived at 4:30 to monitor the systems. We
were always grateful when that happened, as it meant neither of us had to
spend the night in the office – it was very difficult to get reliable help
to work the off-shifts.
The central monitoring system came to life and indicated an intrusion. This
was not unusual at this time of day. As merchants closed up their shops, they
often tripped the alarms while setting them. Checking the codes, the operator
announced, “Motion alarm at L’Escargot”.
We activated the listening device and huddled around the speaker. There were
sounds all right – low moans, cursing and an occasional rustle.
After placing calls to the police and the restaurant owner, Frank and I dashed
out the door and ran the few blocks to L’Escargot. The owner arrived about
ten minutes later; half the time it took the police to get there.
We stayed in contact with the office by radio the entire time, and our operator
continued to hear the same sounds – mostly moaning now.
Frank informed the arriving officers of the situation. “There is definitely
someone in there. We can hear him on our monitoring system.”
The police were very wary of this, and refused to enter the building. When
it became obvious that no amount of cajoling would change their position,
Frank had the owner unlock the door and entered.
In the middle of the massive dining room, a table lay in pieces. A man was
lying face up on the floor, moaning in agony. A rope dangled from an open
skylight 30 feet overhead.
After the burglar was removed by medics and taken for treatment of two broken
legs, the police entered the premises and conducted their investigation. I
never did hear if they solved the case…
After a few more stories, we finally pulled into the parking lot at the dock.
Frank was in danger of being late for his meeting, so we made the parting
quick – a couple of pictures, profuse thanks and a farewell or two.
As the truck pulled away, Kris addressed the boys. “Well, we have about an
hour before we have to be on board. Want to do some shopping?”
They boys looked at each other, searching in silence for the right words.
Finally Wells spoke. “Ah…not really.”
Dan jumped in. “Yeah, I spent way too much money already.”
Although we wouldn’t understand the depth of Dan’s statement until the next
day, I immediately felt that something was amiss. There was a hint of pain
in his voice.
Wells wrapped up the conversation. “Maybe we’ll just look around for a couple
of minutes. I’d rather get back on the ship.” In a flash, they were gone.
“Do they seem a little ‘off’ to you?” I asked Kris.
“I’m sure they’re exhausted. Look! There’s H. Stern!” In a flash she was gone,
too.
“Oh, boy. Here we go,” said the little voice in my head. I found a
chair in the store under an air conditioning outlet and aimed my face into
the artificial breeze while Kris perused the sparkly stuff with wide-eyed
wonder.
Just as I was dozing off, Kris nudged me. “OK, nothing for me here.”
“Hallelujah.”
We headed out the door and I turned toward the ship. “Don’t forget, we’re
going to the Olympic tonight. That should be fun.”
Kris didn’t say anything.
“How about some hot tub time,” I continued. Still no response.
“Massage?” I turned to see the smile that would elicit. I was alone. No wonder
I was getting funny looks from passersby.
I scanned the crowd just in time to see Kris slip into another shop. Taking
a seat on a planter in the center of the mall area, I watched as she ducked
into one store after another. She emerged empty handed each time. By chance,
she walked right by me at one point.
“Hey!”
“Oh, there you are. I was wondering where you went. I just want to go into
one more store,” she said pointing to another jewelry shop.
“OK. I guess I’ll go look at something that interests me. I’ll meet you in
that store in 5 minutes.”
Kris hardly broke her stride during that exchange. I scanned the shops and
picked one. After two minutes of looking at liquor bottles I’d had enough
excitement and went to the jewelry store to find Kris. She wasn’t there.
It took a while, but I found her in a small jewelry store all the way at the
other end of the building. It didn’t look good. By that I mean it looked like
she’d finally found something. The clerk was going out of her way to please.
I took a seat on a stool at the counter near Kris.
“Look at this. Isn’t it beautiful?”
I disguised my grimace as a smile and nodded subtly. From the other end of
the counter, a well-dressed man who I took to be the storeowner studied me.
We locked eyes as he strode over to my resting place.
I have to admit that what he said to me was sheer marketing genius. I was
caught completely off guard.
“Would you like a beer, sir?” he asked.
We were doomed…
Next: St. Thomas (3)
Click here for the illustrated story about a Princess,
three Angels, and a lady named Angelina Lauro. Angelina was rather large,
displacing about 24,000 tons. This is a sad story, because Angelina dies.
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