Capt. Marc, veteran of multiple ocean crossings, and instructional pro, invites you to join him for lessons and/or excursions under sail. By special arrangement only.
The Island Way
I learned about the island way in Bequia, one of the islands making up the Grenadines group in the Caribbean. I’d sailed into Admiralty Bay to drop off a couple of pick-up crew intent on taking the ferry over to St. Vincent Island. When it comes to Caribbean Islands, Bequia seems to me to be about as perfect as it gets. The island has yet to be overwhelmed by development. Its waterfront is lined with buildings properly scaled to match the island backdrop. Once you set your anchor in the bay, there’s little motivation to change things. It’s the island way.
As is my habit when arriving in a new port, I took a few days to get a feeling for my new environment. I had only arrived in the Caribbean a month earlier, so I was still feeling my way along. You want to move cautiously in a new place so as not to offend your hosts. Preconceptions, expectations, and preoccupation with personal needs are poison when you drop in on a small community. If you go about your business with a respectful circumspection, doors open.
Handy Andy was one of the first to open his door.
Andy I learned, is the most recent incarnation of the island’s entrepreneurial spirit. He is quick to greet outsiders. He immediately invited me into his Internet café, hoping of course to make a sale, but as things eventuated, he steered me out onto his deck, handed me a glass of rum, and began a leisurely interrogation. He was picking my brain for ideas and opportunities that might bring more commerce to his little island. He brimmed with schemes–yacht repair, island regattas, new restaurants, and Web commerce. Like other Caribbean island hopefuls, he’s convinced that the prosperity that has eluded his little piece of paradise is just around the corner. One right idea and the top of the hill will be crested. He pressed on, introducing me to local characters who paraded on and off the deck, each with a smile, hearty handshake, and story worthy of telling at some length. Andy’s enthusiasm was relentless.
Some days passed before I met Andy’s brother, Mitchell. Mitch’s countenance was noticeably less exuberant than Andy’s. He’s older than Andy, but certainly not old. We sat in his open café next door to Andy’s place and drank his rum. The tone of his conversation was a world-wise counterpoint to Andy’s hustle. The island way, he explained, is about how youthful dreams are quickly subdued by the rhythms of island life. “Today”, he said, “is like yesterday. And tomorrow will be like to today”. In the islands, life is hand-to-mouth, day after day. The only insurance policy is the balmy trade winds that bathe Bequians year in and year out. One day at time. That’s the island way.
I learned that Mitch had been just like his brother Andy some years ago, but now his ambition waned. He drove me up to the house he was building on a hilltop. He and his wife lived in the finished rooms as, slowly, slowly, they added more rooms. He took me for a walk in his garden and proudly explained his drip irrigation system. Bequian soil, he told me, is as impoverished as the island economy. What remained of Mitch’s ambition was devoted to creating a self-sustaining vegetable garden–a higher calling.
The next day Mitch invited me to a attend a gathering of islanders at a remote beach on the far side. The event was to commemorate the birthday of an expatriate American developer who had brought jobs to the island. The party would feature local music and the last allotment of whale meat from the islander’s yearly quota. I was thrilled by the invitation and agreed to meet Mitch at his café at 6 pm the next evening.
On the following afternoon, as I was making my way to Mitch’s, I got waylaid by some locals and arrived at the café about five minutes late. I scanned dining area. Mitch was nowhere to be found. I sat down at a table and waited hopefully but soon began to worry that he might have gone on without me. I was slouched in my chair, brooding over the thought of having missed the opportunity to smooze with locals over whale meat when an old woman sitting with a small group of locals called over to me, “Hey you! How com’ you so sad?”
I explained to her and her dinner companions how I’d missed my chance to dine on whale meat because I was late for my meeting with Mitch. Feeling sorry for myself, I moaned, “It seems being just a little too late is the story of my life”.
The old woman shouted out a reply to my lament, “My, my, you are one lucky boy!”
That was not the response I had expected. “Lucky?” I said, “How do you suppose I’m lucky?”
The old woman laughed and went on, “Mon, you are lucky because you are going to live a long, long, time”.
“Huh?”
With sublime logic, she explained, “You are lucky because, as you say, you are always a bit late. When the Angel of Death com’ for you, you will most certainly miss that appointment too!”
Laughter filled the room, brightening my evening.
That’s the island way.
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