“Watch De Tree now,” he shouted. “She gonna make a move. Watch ’er now.”
Sure enough, all the other boats swung around to the south, making a big arc around the floating pin. De Tree was headed straight for the pin. It passed three other boats, narrowly missed Stinger, made a dramatic turn, and reset its course, headed north. Bluebird and Light and Peace had been in the lead, but De Tree cut them off and was now out in front.
Glen and Lowell yelled at the captain of Light and Peace. “How you could let he cut you off? That Errol wicked, you know. Up the road,” they shouted. “Up the road.”
As we followed the boats closely, Lowell passed around some sugar apples he had brought along for a snack. They were funny-looking fruits, really—like little green pinecones. Inside, though, they were sweet and soft, almost like a melon. I spit the seeds out into the water and watched the colors of ocean life swirl beneath us. A school of jellyfish swam under the boat. They were milky white, almost clear, and about the size of small saucers. They opened and closed rhythmically, passing quickly out of sight.
Inside De Tree, Bob was still shaking from the near miss with Stinger. The crew had scrambled to the other side during the move, and everyone was yelling all at once.
“Jib. Jib. Jib,” Errol screamed. “Haul the jib, boys.” Shabby and Rigby tightened the jib sail until Errol yelled, “Good jib.”
“Come up to the wind, Cap,” Sam called. “Pinch the mainsail. Pinch the sheet.”
Errol and Sam tightened the rope a little on the mainsail, and De Tree came up onto its side until the gunwale skimmed the water. They continued toward the north, away from the rest of the pack. Clearly Errol had his own game plan. After about ten minutes De Tree came about and took a new tack toward the east.
“De Tree above everybody,” Glen said. “She done cross everybody.”
We followed along next to Light and Peace, since Glen and Lowell were supporters, and Jesse and I enjoyed the sunshine and sea spray. Other motorboats zoomed around us, hailing us as they passed. James came up close with about a dozen people in his fishing boat, all waving Heinekens and cheering before speeding away. Miguel waved from another speedboat, and Thomas flew by in his lobster boat.
By the time we got back to Sandy Ground, Bluebird and De Tree were neck and neck, vying for first place. Each boat gracefully tacked back and forth around the throng of anchored sailboats, speedboats, and fishing boats. Bluebird passed the finish buoy one boat length ahead of De Tree, and a roar came up from the crowd. De Tree had grabbed a respectable second place for its first August Monday race.
We spotted Bug on the beach dancing and waving a Heineken in the air. He was singing, “Can’ touch Bluebird. Bluebird the boat to beat.”
The race for third place was a heated one. Eagle and UFO were tacking back and forth, narrowly missing each other each time they crossed. Eagle was ahead by one boat length, but UFO was closing in. As the two boats passed, both crews yelled, “Hard lee, hard lee,” and instead of changing their tack to avoid a collision, it became a game of chicken. Neither boat would give way. UFO was headed straight for the starboard side of Eagle.
Lowell, Glen, Ozzie, and Hughes were screaming and shaking fists along with hundreds of people onshore. The UFO’s bow struck Eagle broadside, and the heavy rocks, sandbags, and lead in the bottom sank her almost immediately. Within minutes Eagle came to rest on the sandy bottom, her mast sticking up about halfway out of the water. UFO continued past the finish line, taking third place.
Eagle’s crew was shuttled ashore by the police boat, and everyone argued on the beach for almost an hour. I’m not sure if UFO was eventually disqualified or not, but apparently this sort of thing happens from time to time, and nobody took it too seriously.
“How are they going to get Eagle up?” Bob asked Errol.
“See them divers?” he said, pointing to a group of men swimming out to the sunken boat. “Once they take out the ballast, she jus’ float back up. Then they take off ’er mast an’ bail ’er out. Don’ worry, man. She be ready for the race tomorrow.”
That night we returned to Carnival Village to see the Mighty Bomber, the grand old entertainer from Trinidad. We stood with Lowell, Miguel, Hughes, and Ozzie by their booth, listening to the calypso until midnight. His performance was much more our style than the loud, pounding bands we had heard earlier. Surprisingly, the young people in the crowd enjoyed him as well. The Bomber, as everyone called him, wore a light gray suit with a hankie stylishly flared out of his pocket. He had on a white top-hat rakishly tipped to one side. He told the audience that he’d been entertaining since the fifties, and I had a feeling his act hadn’t changed much since then. “Va va va voom,” he’d sing, and the crowd swooned. Clinton joined us midway through the show and said, “Mel, this the real thing, ya know. He the best.”
On our last night before leaving the island for vacation, we went to visit Jerry Gumbs. We hadn’t seen him as much as we’d hoped throughout the year and wanted to make sure we said goodbye. I wanted to have the image of his long white beard, round brown belly, and big smile firmly embedded in my mind in Vermont.
“Jerry,” Bob said, “I didn’t see you at the boat races. I went out in De Tree.”
“Haven’t you noticed I’m an old man?” he said with a smile. “I used to go to every race, but not now.”
Bob told him about getting second place and about the new boats from various villages. We drank Ting and sat around the old card table on Jerry’s veranda.
“Jerry,” Jesse said, “have you ever heard of little fruits called canaipes? They grow in big bunches and have a tart jellylike inside. We had them once in Barbados, and I wondered if they grow here.”
“Ginips. We call them ginips in Anguilla. You like ginips?” Jerry asked in his resonant bass. “You got some time?” he continued, not waiting for an answer.
“Sure,” Bob said.
In a matter of minutes we were driving toward The Valley with Jerry, who was taking us to his favorite ginip tree. He led us to Crocus Hill, which at 212 feet above sea level is the highest point in Anguilla, yet still barely visible from the sea. Jerry pointed out his childhood home and told us how Crocus Hill had once been the center of town. We’d always thought Jerry had been born and raised in Blowing Point—he seemed to have been there for centuries. Fifty years ago, he said, the post office, clinic, government building, and courthouse were all located in Crocus Hill village. It was the hub of the island before The Valley.
Looking around that night, Crocus Hill village was barely discernible—only a few scattered houses, all with spectacular views of the island and beyond. We could see the northern landmarks, Sandy Island, Prickly Pear Cay, and Dog Island, as well as the lights of St. Martin to the south.
“Pull in here,” Jerry said at the crest of the hill. He directed us into the driveway of a house where he assured us no one would be home. We followed him to the backyard, and he pointed to a giant tree with dozens of branches weighted down by bunches of little green ginips. The fruit was all out of reach—someone had already cleaned off the lower branches. Jerry gave Bob and Jesse the okay to climb, and while the sun plunged like a blazing ball into the sea, they maneuvered arms and legs over and around the thick branches of the tree. Jerry and I stood on the ground, the evening breeze rustling the coconut palms around us on the hill. We filled a cardboard box with ginips as Bob and Jesse flung down bunches of the cherry-sized fruit from above our heads.
I looked up at the silhouette of the ginip tree and watched the stars pop out one by one. Anguilla never really experiences dusk as we know it. When the sun goes down, the sky is dark within half an hour. A sliver of moon was growing brighter in the north, and I felt as if time stood still up on Crocus Hill. I knew that had I been there picking ginips under the moon a century before, nothing around me would have been different.
Eating ginips takes time. You can’t be fussy about peeling the skin. It’s best to just pop the whole thing in your mouth at once, break the thick sk
in with your teeth, and suck out the tart jelly inside. Then you spit out the skin and the seed inside. Bob had little patience for it, but Jerry, Jesse, and I bit, sucked, and spat happily the whole way home.
On the way back to Blowing Point Jerry entertained us with his stories of Castro and the Anguilla Revolution. He remembered nostalgically the speech he had made at the UN in 1967. Back at Rendezvous Bay, Jerry settled into his tattered lounge chair, and before we said goodbye he recited, word for word, his favorite poem. His deep voice was captivating, and he paused for dramatic effect each time he came to the line “This too shall pass.” We drove home to pack, comforted by the thought that Jerry would be sitting in his lounge chair when we returned in October.
The next morning we were up at five-thirty to catch the eight o’clock American Eagle flight. Our apartment was in order, our suitcases were loaded in the truck, and we walked out onto our balcony for a final gaze at the sea. The sun was just peeking over the hill behind us, and the clouds over the water were yellow on the top and a bluish gray on the bottom.
I leaned on the railing and took a long, deep breath of the cool morning air. The sound of the waves below would seem far away in Vermont. I tried to plant the view, the breeze, and the gentle, repetitive swoosh of the surf firmly in my mind; we closed the door and drove away.
At the top of the hill above our apartment I glanced over my shoulder for one last glimpse of the turquoise water beyond. We passed Lowell’s house and waved goodbye to his mother, who was standing on her porch in her housedress. We drove by Christine’s shop on the left, and as we eased over the speed bump in front of Bernice’s, I could almost smell the barbecue.
The next barbecued chicken we would have would be at a fair in Vermont. I wondered if the pace in Vermont would seem fast to me now. Had I become so much a part of this new life—this gentle Caribbean life—that even Vermont would seem harried to me now?
Garrilin, Roxana, and Mac were waiting for us at the airport to say goodbye. We unloaded the luggage, parked the truck in the lot, slid the keys under the mat for Lowell, and checked in at the counter. As we said goodbye and paid our “non-belonger’s” departure tax, I thought, I can’t think of a place I belong to more than Anguilla.
Chapter 14
Lowell’s call came on Sunday, September 3, at three in the afternoon. “Mel,” he said with no preamble, “you see the Weather Channel?” I could hear panic in his voice.
“No,” I answered. “Why? What’s going on?”
“Man, this is the big one. I ain’ never see nothin’ like this ever. Hurricane Luis, man. He headed straight for us. Luis gonna mash us up, man. I gonna get the rest a the guys and bar up the restaurant. We ain’ got much time.”
“I’ll go turn on the TV,” I said, and handed the phone to Bob.
“Hey, Bob,” Lowell said in a hurry. “This storm ain’ makin’ no joke. I jus’ wanted to tell you we already buy plywood from Anguilla Trading an’ we barrin’ up all the shutters and doors at the restaurant. Me an’ Clinton roundin’ up the rest a the guys.”
“I’m coming down,” Bob said. “Let me see how soon I can get a flight. You put on the plywood, and I’ll call you as soon as I know my schedule.”
Jesse had already returned to school, and Bob and I were staying at Pat’s house in Vermont. I turned on the Weather Channel, and sure enough, all they were talking about was Hurricane Luis. And the white line showing its projected path went straight through Anguilla and St. Martin.
SEPTEMBER 3—3 p.m. TROPICAL UPDATE
Location: 54.90 W 17.40 N
Sustained winds 135 mph
Gusts up to 145 mph
Category 4 hurricane
Moving 12 mph WNW
500 miles from Anguilla/St. Martin
Predicted landfall: 40 hours
Bob, Pat, and I were glued to the Weather Channel, getting a quick lesson in tropical meteorology. John Hope, the channel’s hurricane specialist, told us that the storm had been first detected nine days earlier as a tropical disturbance swirling off the coast of Africa. It was heading directly for the northeastern Leeward Islands. Four days later it strengthened to a tropical storm, and two days after that a well-defined eye formed, winds increased to 75 mph, and Luis turned into a category 1 hurricane. It took only three more days to turn into a category 4 storm, with sustained winds of 135 mph.
SAFFIR-SIMPSON DAMAGE POTENTIAL SCALE
Category Wind Predicted Damage
1 74-95 mph Minimal
2 96-110 mph Moderate
3 111-130 mph Extensive
4 131-155 mph Extreme
5 155+ mph Catastrophic
Flights to Anguilla were canceled because they were moving all the smaller American Eagle planes out of the region. Bob booked a flight to St. Martin for early the next morning and called Frankie Connor, who said he would meet him at the dock by the airport with his boat. Pat and I drove Bob to Boston that night and made him promise to keep in touch.
John Hope fast became our only link to the storm’s progress. He had a new report every three hours, with updates on the projected path of the storm, changes in wind velocity, and the speed at which it was moving. We learned that a hurricane’s forward motion could slow down, in which case it would strengthen even more.
I called Bob at his hotel in Boston and asked him not to go. John Hope was warning people in the islands to put together hurricane emergency kits with drinking water, canned foods, batteries, flashlights, and radios. “Bob, how can you fly down there knowing how dangerous it is? This is crazy. Let me come back to Boston and get you.”
“I’ll be fine. My flight gets in at one o’clock, Frankie will pick me up, and I’ll be safe in our apartment. It’s very well built, and we’ll board up all the windows. Nothing can happen. I want to be there to help Lowell and Clinton get everything ready, and I think it’s a good idea for me to be there afterward to help do whatever has to be done.”
“But this is your life we’re talking about. As Lowell said, this storm ain’ makin’ no joke.”
“Mel, stop worrying. I’ll be fine.”
SEPTEMBER 4—5 a.m. TROPICAL UPDATE
Location: 57.40 W 17.00 N
Sustained winds 138 mph
Gusts up to 150 mph
Eye is continuing to develop
Intensification expected
Category 4 hurricane
Moving 12 mph WNW
350 miles from Anguilla/St. Martin
Predicted landfall: 30 hours
At six the following morning Bob was with a sleep-deprived crowd at an American Airlines gate at Logan Airport. People were becoming unruly, and his voice grew louder as his patience was running out. He had become the spokesman for the rest of the passengers, and they were waiting for a supervisor to announce whether or not the flight to St. Martin would be canceled.
“Look,” he said to Mr. Whitfield, the ticket agent at the counter, “we are all confirmed on this flight and have to get down there. If that plane doesn’t go, we could lose everything we have.”
“Sir, we’re trying to get an updated position on the hurricane,” Mr. Whitfield said as he frantically punched keys on his computer. Bob was convinced he was staring at the computer screen to avoid making eye contact with the customers. Another gate agent had already announced that the tower was calculating how bad the weather would be when the plane landed in four hours.
Bob pressed on. “With only about forty people on that jumbo jet, this is obviously not a profitable trip for American Airlines. But this is our livelihood. We have to get down there to protect our property. The hurricane is still two hundred and fifty miles east of St. Martin and moving at twelve miles an hour. It’s easy math. The storm won’t hit the island until tomorrow,” Bob said. He had just seen the latest tropical update on a TV in his hotel before checking out, and wondered if Mr. Whitfield expected to find information in his computer that was somehow more current.
Most of the other passengers, like Bob, had inter
ests in St. Martin or one of the surrounding islands such as Anguilla or St. Barts. They were trying to reach their little piece of paradise and secure it against the oncoming storm. The only tourists were a group of four Germans who spoke absolutely no English and apparently had not heard about Hurricane Luis, and a young honeymooning couple who thought they were in for a great adventure. Bob paced the room for another half an hour wondering how much it would cost if everyone chipped in to charter a plane.
“May I have your attention, please?” Mr. Whitfield had stopped punching his keyboard and spoke into the microphone. “American Airlines announces the boarding of flight five-sixty-one to St. Martin. Passengers in first class and those needing assistance or traveling with small children may now board through gate seventeen.”
“Does he see anyone here taking small children on vacation into a hurricane?” Bob said to a man standing next to him. “We’re probably crazy enough going down ourselves.”
The flight was uneventful and quiet. Passengers were lost in their own thoughts about what they would encounter in the hours to come.
As the huge, empty plane began its approach into St. Martin, the captain’s voice came over the intercom. “Well, folks, it looks like the landing could be a little rough today.” He didn’t sound as confident as Bob would have liked. “The storm is still a ways away, but we’ve got some pretty stiff gusts of wind, so please make sure your seat belts are fastened. I’ll try to make it as smooth as possible.”
When the plane touched down, it somehow seemed to be moving sideways. It bounced a couple of times, the engines roared, and the big bird careened down the runway, coming to a stop not fifty feet from the end of the tarmac. The pilot turned the plane around, and as it lumbered back toward the Princess Juliana Airport terminal, Bob stared out the window, trying to imagine what the scene would be like in twenty-four hours. Pummeled by the wind, the palm trees already looked like inside-out umbrellas, and the storm hadn’t even arrived yet.
A Trip to the Beach Page 24