Aruba Mad Günther

by T L Yeager

  Back in my room I make the bed and fold a shirt that’s been laying on the desk the past few days. Besides the hum of the air conditioner and the occasional clank of kitchen utensils, there’s no commotion coming from the salon above. Most of the passengers are probably in bed, reluctant to get up—denial mixed with a hearty dose of hangover from drinking late into their last night. But it’s strange for a Saturday morning. They’re usually up early, milling about, sipping coffee and waiting on a final breakfast before leaving for the airport. Saturday is turnaround day. A relaxed but sullen group of passengers leaves in the morning and a fresh set of personalities comes aboard a few hours later. We’re at the dock here on Providenciales for just over twenty-four hours each week. The rest of the time we’re moored in crystalline waters off uninhabited islands in the Turks and Caicos chain. Caribbean gems strung into a tropical necklace with names like West Caicos, French Cay and West Sand Spit.

  As I’m putting the shirt into one of the drawers of the dresser built into my closet, the aroma of breakfast hits me. It’s rolled down the stairs and squeezed under my door. I pull on the gray board shorts I’ve been wearing the last few days and a black T-shirt with a map of the islands and surrounding dive sites on the back. The word Crew is affixed over my heart like a name tag.

  On my way out of my room I clip the door frame with my shoulder, still sleepy and too eager for food. Food has become an obsession since I arrived. My high daily calorie burn leaves me in a state of perpetual hunger.

  From the corridor I pad bare foot up the stairs, rubbing the sting in my shoulder on my way to the salon. Peeking around the edge of the galley I spot Madre busy in front of the stove. She senses my presence and greets me with her broad, enchanting smile.

  “Good mornin’ Mista Marlin. How you feelin’ today?”

  Madre means “mother” in Spanish, and it’s a fitting nickname. She’s the kind of woman people feel they’ve known forever. On this boat, eating Madre’s food is a pleasure second only to diving.

  “Feeling great Madre. What’s cooking?” I look over her shoulder, hands resting on my woefully empty belly. Sometimes I think her food tastes better because the aroma permeates my body before I even taste it. It fills the compartments and draws guests to meals without an invitation. Madre’s real name is Natori Kurvink. She’s Trinidadian, her cooking a fusion of Indian, African, Asian, and Creole.

  “You get your coffee, Mista Marlin, and come back in ten minutes. Cilantro eggs, pumpkin curry and buss-up-shut this mornin’.” She points to what looks like Indian flat bread rising in a heavy pan. “Bring Miss Mira with you.”

  I eke forward, my jaw opens in preparation to speak, but no words come out. What was your vote last night? I want to ask it but I don’t. I turn and leave.

  Around the corner I pump the coffee dispenser on the counter. Through the glass doors, I see Amira spraying down the dive platform. The angle of the morning sun highlights streaks of mahogany that are usually hidden in her black hair. Water flowing from the hose shines brilliantly. The droplets escaping the stream look like flying sparks in the morning light.

  Eight minutes for those photons to reach earth. More than ninety million miles traveled in eight minutes. Eight minutes for the sunlight to reach Amira and the hose and the arching drops of water. Staring transfixed, I work the plunger on the coffee thermos.

  When I sailed into the Turks and Caicos the plan was a quick stop. Before I arrived I had spent two weeks sailing through the outback of the Bahamas. Providenciales is the main island in the Turks and Caicos chain. It’s loaded with tourists and was the ideal place to restock my sailboat, Walden.

  I had plotted a course south and east that ran along the north coast of the Dominican Republic and Puerto Rico. The plan was to slip around the eastern end of Puerto Rico and make a stop at her smaller sister island of Vieques. From there I’d continue east crossing into the Lesser Antilles. Following the volcanic arc of islands would gradually turn my compass heading toward South America. I thought I might spend a month at the top of the arc exploring the Virgin Islands before continuing on to points undecided.

  Plans changed quickly eight Saturdays ago when I motored Walden into this marina. I radioed ahead to confirm they had space. Well before I entered the canal leading to the marina, I could see Voyager standing proud amidst the other boats. Once I cleared the canal and entered the harbor I turned to starboard, right beside Voyager. As I passed her stern I could see a dockhand waving to me from the bulkhead. He guided me to a slip where I tied up. On my way to the office to pay the dock fees, I saw Reuben getting off of Voyager. The office is only twenty yards from the bulkhead where Voyager docks. He beat me there but I immediately struck up a conversation once I was inside.

  Reuben is the Captain of the Turks and Caicos Voyager. It’s a purpose-built dive boat that looks more like a yacht. She’s longer than most boats in the marina at just over one hundred twenty feet and her covered fly bridge tops out some thirty feet above the water. The windows on the main deck are heavily tinted and glossy black paint surrounds them from the front to the back where the dive deck opens up. From a distance, Voyager is sleek, like a private jet stripped of its wings and parked on the water.

  Scalding-hot coffee runs down my hand. I shake it off and lick the base of my thumb as I head toward the door. The slider barely starts to rumble open when the smell of the marina hits me. Creamed corn and steamed clams. The tangy air is close but the humidity is still bearable. Here at the dock the winds are blocked by the island and the temperatures can make you feel like you’re melting.

  I pause and take what Amira calls ‘a purposeful breath’. One morning I overheard her tell a guest that your first breath of fresh air for the day should be made with purpose. “Only so many opportunities,” she’d said. It was one of those times when I’d realized the full potential of her wow factor. Comments that blow you out of the water while you’re searching for the fine print.

  I watch her move methodically back and forth with the hose as she makes her way down the starboard aisle of the dive deck. Each night after the last dive and first thing in the morning, we spray down the outside decks to wash away the salt that’s drifted in on the breeze.

  As Amira nears the stairs on the stern that lead to the swim platform, I realize I’m staring. I turn away to ease my embarrassment but her image is burned into my mind.

  People fall for Amira. They fall hard. She’s an enigma with enough magnetism to keep me here longer than I planned. Eccentric and organic, untroubled and full of energy, exotic and completely adorable—can you be all those things at once?

  When I met Captain Reuben in the office that first time, he explained that the Turks and Caicos Voyager is a scuba diving live-aboard. Each Saturday she takes on passengers whose idea of a good vacation consists of scuba diving non-stop for six straight days. Sunday through Friday, passengers are able to dive up to five times a day. Working the world class reefs and sheer vertical walls that surround the islands, Voyager treats her passengers to one of the sport’s Mecca’s.

  Six days of diving sounded great. “We’ve got room if you’d like to come along,” Reuben had said. We shook hands. I filled out a rental form for the slip and put one hundred twenty dollars in the envelope to cover a week. Then I went back to Walden and packed a bag. Within an hour of entering the marina I had paid for the trip with my credit card and was being shown to a guest room and offered a beer.

  The week exceeded my expectations. When it was over, I wanted to keep diving and I couldn’t get Amira out of my mind.

  “You’re up early.” The shout surprises me. I turn back and catch Amira smiling at me from the corner of her eye. She goes back to her work, leaning down and aiming the stream of water up under the bench seat.

  Having never been a morning person, I tend to be one of the last crew members falling in for morning duties. Amira, on the other hand, is usually up before the sun.

  “Listen, rest is vital to your health.” I yell
it over the sound of the water rushing into the metal floor.

  “I thought you might snooze until all the work was done.”

  “Just because you deprive yourself of sleep doesn’t mean we all have to.” Turning back toward the sun, I soak up the warmth of the morning rays.

  After another pull of coffee, I walk toward the back of the boat, following the path she’s sprayed clean. Voyager has four levels but all the action happens here on the main deck. The door at the back of the salon separates the inside space of the main deck from this rear quarter which is open on the sides and back. Passengers begin and end each of their dives here. It’s technically part of the main deck but everyone calls it the dive deck. Aisles down each side are outlined with metal benches where the passengers sit to gear up.

  “Where is everyone?” I ask.

  Amira releases her grip on the hose. She shrugs and shakes her head then points over my shoulder. I turn and see the dry erase board hanging on the wall. It’s to the right of the door leading back inside. The passenger’s last names are listed along with the times of their departing flights. The first is listed as 10:45.

  “It’s only seven fifteen. They’ve got time,” says Amira. There’s conviction in her tone but turning back, I can see her face telling a different story.

  I drain the last of the coffee in my cup. “Madre’s cooking up cilantro eggs and flat bread. It’s just about ready.”

  Amira squeezes the handle. “I can smell it from here.”

  Back inside, Madre is setting up chafing dishes along the buffet at the front of the room. I wait impatiently, keeping my distance to prevent her feeling rushed.

  Voyager’s salon is like a great room without the high ceilings. Two dining tables on the port side lead up to the buffet counter which shares a wall with the galley. There’s enough room to accommodate all the passengers for Madre’s three daily meals. A flat screen TV is angled toward the wrap-around sofa which fills the starboard half of the room. At the front there’s a hallway leading to the galley and forward staterooms. The right wall of the hallway separates it from split stairs that lead to the lower and upper decks. A wet bar and set of bookshelves complete the front wall.

  Saturday Breakfast is usually a time to say goodbyes. The passengers congregate in the salon to reminisce about the week of diving. We exchange contact information and well wishes. “You could always stay another week,” I like to tell them. The passengers try to be happy, but you can see them watching the clock with slumped shoulders. You can feel them contemplating the realities of regular life and sense their reluctance to reenter the daily grind. Who enjoys leaving the Caribbean? Bidding farewell to the blue zenith and giving up the extraordinary for the ordinary.

  “Go on and help yourself,” says Madre. She steps back, opening the view to the breakfast spread she’s assembled.

  I take a plate from the stack and slide the lid of the eggs up and out of the way. Steam rises but I turn and avoid the facial.

  “Awful quiet in here this morning,” I say as I scoop the eggs.

  “Uh huh,” says Madre. She’s standing to the side looking down the counter. Like a mother who enjoys cooking for family, she seems to derive satisfaction from watching my meal-time excitement. “Cap’n Reuben left round six-thirty. He told me Bart woke him up in the middle of the night. The flu was giv’in him a hell of a time.” Bart Houtman is the first mate and mechanic on the boat. He’s the longest-running member of the crew and is usually up and about early with Amira. Last night, at the meeting, he was the only one not present.

  Behind me I hear the door rumble open. “It smells great in here,” says Amira. She takes a plate and moves down the line. I lean against the window using one hand to hold my plate and the other to scoop eggs and the orange curry with the flatbread.

  “You think we made the right decision last night Madre?” Amira asks.

  Around eight last night captain Reuben gathered the crew on the bridge for an emergency meeting. He started by saying that while the Turks and Caicos Voyager is a business, it can’t operate without us. He wanted to see where our heads were. We hadn’t met as a group since Jeff and Cheri Cosgrove were sent back to the island on Thursday.

  “There’s been a lot going on. We need to talk it over as a crew,” Reuben had said. He wanted to take a vote on whether to go this week or not. “We have to make the decision tonight because if we decide not to go this week then Mitch needs to call everyone and keep them from flying down in the morning.”

  Last week we left the dock four hours late after waiting for a couple from Pittsburgh. Their flight arrived on time but they weren’t on it. We called the two numbers we had on file trying to track them down. It wasn’t until nine that night that someone got back to the captain and said they were canceling due to the flu. Then, just this past Thursday, the Cosgroves were sent back to the island because Jeff was sick. We’d heard passengers mention that the flu was getting out of hand. They talked about it being a global pandemic, but being on the boat we’re cut off from the news. The lack of internet and cell service keeps us in the dark on current events. Hell, I had to ask someone which team had won the World Series this year.

  At the meeting, Captain Reuben said that Mitch had called to tell him that they were shutting down the Bahamas Voyager. Three of the crew were sick and half the passengers canceled. Mitch is one of the owners. He heads an investment group that owns the Turks and Caicos Voyager and her sister ship that operates out of Nassau. He manages the operation from Fort Lauderdale.

  Madre looks up at the ceiling. “I suppose it’s the right decision. I couldn’t see voting not to go if we have paying customers on the way.” Reuben told us that Mitch had emailed our group for this week and most responded that they were still planning to come.

  For me, the decision was less about the flu and more about seizing the opportunity to leave. I had already stayed in the Turks and Caicos longer than planned. As Reuben was talking my mind was imploring me to go. I had to vote against this week’s trip. The pit of my gut was playing devil’s advocate. It was harping on the reason to stay. Amira was looking down and I couldn’t get a read on what she was thinking. But the logic was simple. I had to get my plan back on track. If we didn’t take passengers diving this week, then I’d have no reason to remain in the Turks and Caicos. Saying goodbye would be hard but I’d be free to press on with my Walden experiment.

  “I’m in.” Amira had blurted out.

  Reuben had closed his eyes and shook his head. “I should have been clear. I wanted it to be a silent vote so no one was influenced into making a decision one way or the other.”

  And that was it. I buckled in an instant with a promise to myself—just one more week.

  I stare at Amira as she slides a chair around to the end of the table. She sits down to eat her breakfast. “Have either of you heard any news on the Cosgroves?” she asks.

  The Cosgroves are a retired couple who cruised and dove with us last week. On Wednesday, Cheri Cosgrove arrived at breakfast alone. She reported that Jeff was ill and she was shaken up because she was convinced he had ‘it.’ Amira is an Emergency Medical Technician. The captain and I are certified in CPR but Amira takes the lead on all things medical. She donned a mask and gloves and went up to check on Jeff. He was congested, his eyes were red and puffy, his lymph nodes were swollen and he reported back aches and general muscle pain. He had a low grade fever and elevated heart rate. After the assessment and a liberal application of germ gel, Amira reviewed the medical information in his folder. He reported a diagnosis of angina from six months before the trip. Not a life-threatening condition by any stretch, but a preexisting heart problem combined with the signs and symptoms of a nasty flu was cause for alarm. She recommended he be taken back to the island for treatment.

  “Cap’n Reuben said he was goin’ to check on the Cosgroves before we leave this afternoon. Said he was headed home for a bit and then to the post office to pick up a package from Mitch.” Madre leans in to ins
pect the buffet. “I forgot the orange juice.” She disappears around the corner then returns with a pitcher.

  I mop up the last of the curry juice with my final chunk of flatbread. In the galley I rinse my plate and deposit it into the dishwasher.

  “So is there anything left for me to do out there?” I ask Amira, crossing the salon toward the door.

  “I haven’t touched the upper deck or the flybridge. That’s all you,” she says between bites.

  “I’m on it.” I rumble the slider open then closed before climbing the steps two at a time. The ladder brings me up through a hole to the aft portion of the upper deck. It’s open air and filled with chaise loungers in two neat rows. The passengers spend time here enjoying the Caribbean sun in between dives. There’s a four person hot tub in the back corner and the housings for the self deploying life rafts are bolted to the floor on the far side of the stern railing. The front half of the upper deck includes the two largest passenger staterooms along with the Captain’s quarters and the bridge.

  I uncoil the hose and turn on the water, spraying down the lounge chairs one at a time. Back in Maryland there was a popular bumper sticker that said, ‘A bad day fishing is better than a good day at the office.’ Out here, even mundane tasks are rewarding. Since I left home I’ve never had that feeling where I looked forward to what’s next. I don’t feel hurried. The episodes of rage have disappeared as well. I think the two facts are linked. Before I left home I was always in a hurry. I was constantly on the road traveling to meet with prospective customers. I was just another angry ant marching bumper to bumper. Navigating the miserable smog and bad morning radio that polluted the super highway spaghetti junctions—that could summon the rage in an instant. It would rise up through layers of reason and hit my brain unfiltered. But that’s all in my past now. It’s fading away like the wake of a ship.