It was a calm night offshore and Bubba found it easy to get close enough for Alex to climb aboard even though she refused a line from Max until they had settled on a price for the tow. The situation was somewhat under control since Raymond had the generator on deck and the electric bilge pump running, which was doing a pretty good job of emptying the port hull of H2O. Alex felt good knowing that she wasn’t at his mercy, or mercenary nature.
“So,” said Alex as she jumped from her port stern deck onto his starboard gunwale to the aft deck of Bubba’s boat, “What’s it going to cost me this time?” she asked expecting the worst.
“Well,” said Bubba scratching the back of his head. “Way I figure it… seems it be costin’ you a lotta bad luck if you stay on dis boat miss Alex. Maybe you should leavin’ de repairs to Joey on dis one,” eliciting a smile out of Alex.
“Yeah,” Alex considered seriously looking back at Rob who looked pretty pathetic sitting on the back deck of the Island Fever, “Maybe you’re right on that count. But I owe it to Joey to sort it out… he’s certainly not going to know what to do with it,” Alex said referring to Rob who sat in the cockpit with his face buried in his hands.
“I tell you whot,” offered Bubba thoughtfully, “Howabout dis time I give you a briek. What if I jus charge you de cost of d fuel and a few rum and cokes at Chesterfields in exchange for a tow?”
Taken aback at Bubba’s kindness, or was it merely his desire to have drinks with Alex – either way, she smiled gratefully knowing that this was a generous offer coming from Bubba. “Thank you, that’s very good of you Bubba,” said Alex as they shook on it. It took only minutes for Alex to climb back on board and throw Max their tow line.
Once they had reached Simpson Bay and picked up Bubba’s mooring, their intake of water had slowed to only a quart or so a minute thanks to the fact that the missing plank was just at the waterline, not below. Because the weight of the boat had decreased by pumping the standing water out of the hull, it had allowed the boat to ride a little higher in the water. Alex shook Bubba’s hand and thanked him, handed him a hundred dollar bill, and promised to meet him for ‘happy hour’ the next afternoon – knowing that she could easily handle a Cowboy like Bubba.
The next morning dawned painfully for Rob, partly due to the fact that he had slept only a few hours in the cockpit to the sound of the generator and the suck and gushing noise that the bilge pump made. He also lay there feeling guily with the knowledge that the burden lay on his shoulders to patch things up – not excluding the hole in the hull. Rob had found himself in a terrible quandary – torn between utter humiliation and the guilt of having cast his embarrassment upon Alex in an attempt to alleviate the blame from himself, and, his newly discovered romantic attraction to Alex which magnified his utter confusion.
Rob kept telling himself that it was okay that this attractive, feminine creature was his boss and had much to teach him, however, his ego kept playing havoc with his logic. Rob had never before considered himself chauvinistic in any way, shape, nor form. He was used to women who were educated, independent, and capable, however, until now none of them had been his direct superior. But he was beginning to realize now, that he was faced with the choice of groveling and admitting he was wrong and giving up the throne to Alex, or finding himself high and dry on some tropical beach He knew he needed to overcome his pride and bite the bullet, or at least attempt to make a good show of it. Otherwise, Alex would surely jump ship and abandon him to fend for himself. Alex had made it clear that she’d had just about enough of Rob’s ego, which was growing proportionally greater than his luck, as she saw it, and was indeed planning a one woman mutiny. And as Rob’s luck would have it – the calamities that still awaited him were lining up like thunderheads in a squall line.1* Alex didn’t like the look of what was forecast on the horizon as far as she could see. But, there was much to be said about not being able to see beyond that horizon, since what awaited them was bigger than anything Alex could imagine in her wildest dreams. What it really boiled down to, Rob’s ego and bad luck aside, was that Alex didn’t relish the thought of spending the next month or two covered in dust and paint in a hot dirty, buggy boat yard if her services weren’t even appreciated.
It was true that Rob’s ego was in tatters but unfortunately he was not evolved enough to intrinsically know that the ego was truly of no real importance in the grand scheme of things, and that if he let it, his ailing ego would get the best of him. In fact egos had sunken far more ships than icebergs according to history.
Rob’s ego it seemed, was currently heavily invested in pain and suffering and he was starting to identify his own self-worth with his current situation, which was at best a disaster. His self-image was threatened and it was currently in survival mode – even if Rob was managing to put on a good show of ‘arrogant asshole.’ But in fact, his ego was exposed – vulnerable – insecure and afraid of loosing control, but what he didn’t realize was that it was far better to simply cut it loose like one might cut away a diseased or malignant growth or appendage.
Even though I’d like to take credit for enlightening Rob to this important life lesson, I must admit that I accept no responsibility in his decision to beg her forgiveness. In fact, I accredit it entirely to desperation on his part. If it meant admitting he was wrong to get her to stay and help him with his most recent blunder it was worth Rob’s feelings for Alex were still peaked and he was eagerly craving her forgiveness. It seemed however, that the plat du jour on today’s menu was crow with a generous slice of humble pie for dessert. Oh, and don’t forget, Alex’s complementary shot of her arsenic aperitif to wash it all down. So, Rob was about to learn a valuable lesson in eating humble pie.3* Rob was finding himself stripped of all his worldly possessions and all the things he thought he cared about, and he was beginning to realize that he couldn’t afford to loose Alex due to something stupid like pride and vanity. Obviously, this was just another lesson he had to learn, and for the first time in his life he found himself asking for a little guidance in overcoming the jetsam that life had thrown in his path. Not to mention a little assistance in helping him to learn to digest a little crow. Rob was in need of more than a sailing instructor about now, indeed he needed the help of one of those life teachers I spoke of earlier. Little did he know that one was on the way, although not exactly in the type of package one would expect. At this point, a little celestial guidance was in order to aid Rob in his present state of confusion and I was working overtime to attempt to help but Rob was still having trouble with that radio dial. Unfortunately it seemed, that by the time he would get around to perfecting his celestial navigation skills, Rob would have found it necessary to acquire extreme proficiency at dodging the flotsam and jetsam rather than finding the course of least resistance.
Most importantly, Rob was currently learning a lesson in forgiveness and in taking responsibility for his own screw-ups. It wasn’t Alex who he needed to forgive, for he knew that she had done nothing wrong. It seemed instead that Rob was in the process of learning how to forgive himself, and ask her to forgive him. What Rob didn’t yet realize was that self love and love of self were two entirely different things and that it was time that he learned the difference before it was undone his undoing.
So, with great trepidation, Rob approached Alex once he had worked up the courage to eat that slice of pie that Alex would surly serve up.
“Ahh… Alex, ah, I just wanted to ah, apologize for, ahh… you know…”
“Yes?” Alex questioned, looking him square in the eye, just dying to hear him say it.
“Well ah, I guess it ah, was my fault,” Rob said choking on his words with a pitiful look in his eyes – garnering a look of mild satisfaction from Alex. “What can I say, you were right. I don’t know my port from my starboard. I’m a total fuck-up. Please, will you forgive me? I need you to stay and help me put her back together.”
Oh, how Alex enjoyed watching Rob grovel and beg as he pleaded with her, promising her total
charge over the Island Fever. How could she refuse now that she had finally been passed the scepter?
Alex gloated, “Finally,” she thought. “Maybe there’s hope for him after all. Maybe I was right about him the first time. Maybe Sydney hasn’t ruined him and there is a caring compassionate man under that superficial exterior,” Alex tried to convince herself.
“Well, I’ll have to think about it,” replied Alex hoping to make him suffer for at least a few more hours. For Alex knew that a lesson well learned was likely to make a far more lasting impression. So, she decided it best if she just let him stew in his own chowder for a while – at least until after lunch.
1*SQUALL LINE—A line of squalls2** which precedes an advancing cold front. It looks like a long, low, dark-gray, menacing cloud line.
2**SQUALLS — A series of storms which include sudden violent wind. it, he thought. Besides,
3*TO EAT HUMBLE PIE – (v.) Swallow one’s pride, hang one’s head, come down off one’s high horse, look foolish, and feel small.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Lambchop or Mutton
“Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take them away.”
Internet Wisdom
Once Rob and Alex had come to terms and had their treaty drafted, there were only two small problems remaining with regard to hauling out the Island Fever to make repairs – how to pay for it and how to lift a boat out of the water that was wider than the length of most of the boats on the little island of St. Maarten. Needless to say, the island was not prepared for such an emergency.
However, the great thing about a catamaran is the fact that without its rudders you have in essence a beachable raft. A fact which the Polynesians have understood for centuries and Hobie Alter got rich on several decades ago. Thinking on her feet, Alex devised a way to bring the Island Fever to a safe, dry haven on the beach under the swaying palms via the island’s only back hoe. Once she and Raymond had pulled the pins and dropped the boat’s rudders and removed her dagger boards,1* Alex proceeded to tie ropes around Island Fever’s bridge deck and drag her onto Simpson Bay Beach with the help of a few steel pipes to serve as rollers. Why a little creative ingenuity can go a long way – especially in the West Indies where resourcefulness is a prerequisite to survival.
For the first time in his life, Rob was stranded on nothing more than a sandbar and the only inhabitants of that little stretch of beach, where the Island Fever now rested, was a watersports shack, numerous land crabs, a stray island goat or two, and an elderly couple known by the names of Grandma and Grandpa who had lived in a little cottage under the swaying palms for the better part of the century.
Rob stood on the beach that afternoon looking in disbelief, at the Island Fever which now rested high and dry on the sand. He shook his head as he surveyed the damage that jetsam had done to the underside of the bridge-deck and hull.
“She be all massh-up for sure,” said a slightly horse, yet refined West Indian voice behind him.
Rob turned to find a rather small, frail looking golden skinned man of later years leaning over to look under the bridgedeck of the Island Fever.
“I’m afraid so,” answered Rob shaking his head. “Seems there was a small fish pot in our path.”
Not unlike my own last incarnation, Grandma and Grandpa were from that lineage of West Indian who had grasped the concept of living in the islands many decades ago. Especially Grandpa, who had done a little traveling in his time and possessed a unique understanding of life in the islands for both native and foreigner alike. They were what is known in the islands as Mulatto – an attractive, golden skinned, mixed blood-line of West Indian and European descent.
Grandpa took an immediate liking to Rob, whom he saw as a confused, misled seeker of Paradise, and immediately accepted Rob as his new drinking and domino buddy. Why it was only polite for Rob to break for a rum and Coke at eleven and four every day with Grandpa, a ritual which is widely accepted in the islands as a long standing local custom. The morning cocktail hour known as ‘elevenses’ which runs into the customary three hour lunch break from twelve to three and the four o’clock cocktail hour, which kicks off the American ‘happy hour’ were somehow adopted as customary in the islands due to the melding of so many cultures. It was the Spanish that contributed the three hour lunch-siesta and the British tea time for morning and afternoon were somehow merged with the Dutchman’s affinity for alcohol, not to mention the French aversion to work of any kind, which all tolled makes for a three hour work day, since the day doesn’t begin until 9:00 AM and ‘happy hour’2* seems to somehow fade right into dinner.
The merger of cultures also works well in the islands regarding holidays, since no one could decide which nationality’s sacred days to honor. Instead, as in the Dutch tradition, a diplomatic policy was adopted which widely accepted all holidays of any nation which had ever stepped foot on Caribbean soil. In turn leaving more holidays on the West Indian calendar than work days. Not to mention of course, their own string of holidays and Carnival which also attributed to the calendar’s days of rest. With the recent influx of New York tourists, the latest I’ve overheard, is that they are considering adding Hanukkah to the holiday calendar since they learned that it constitutes eight days of present giving. After all who needs just Christmas when you can have an extra eight days of gifts?
So, although it was far better than a dirty old boat yard, Grandma and Grandpa’s beach caused a bit of contention between Rob and Alex over the next months while they sawed and sanded and painted – trying desperately to put Humpty Dumpty back together again. Irritability was about as high as the temperature and hurricane season was approaching fast – taking with it all chances of charter until those Tradewinds started to blow once again come mid-November.
Alex would get furious with Rob, on a daily basis, when he would leave her to watch over the local workers, while he broke for a cocktail and a quick game of Dominos under the swaying palms with Grandpa. She was frustrated at first by the fact that Rob was not a lot of help to her in effecting the repairs. Eventually, she just resigned herself to the fact that Rob was simply not cut out for physical labor and assigned him the task of running to the local marine store or the airport to pick-up or order the parts and materials she needed to finish the job, which were usually not available as per previously discussed.
Meanwhile, aside from his leisurely island work schedule, Rob was growing rapidly familiar with life in the islands by the day. In fact, Rob was trying hard to adjust to the principle of rule number two – “Whatever you need will not be any where to be found on the island,” and was becoming very familiar with the function of the island purchasing agent, who created one unplanned delay after the other –from a shortage of wood to a lost engine, which somehow got misrouted to a Saint-Martin somewhere in Africa. When it did finally arrive in the right St. Maarten/St. Martin in the West Indies, it already had more miles on it, while still in the crate, than the total life expectancy suggested by the manufacturer. Oh, how Rob had taken life in the States for granted – a concept which Grandpa was all too quick to point out to him over a friendly game of dominos.
“You know, the problem with you Americans is you expect everything to be done like it is in America.”
“Why is that a problem?” queried Rob.
“Well, cause, this just not be America.
“Well,” answered Rob, “I do see your point, but this is the twentieth century and you would think that simple things like boat parts would be easy to find on an island.”
“You make yourself crazy if you just plain expect it to be perfect,” reasoned Grandpa. “You Americans want instant gratification in everything you do and you think you can be buyin’ anything and everything you need whenever and wherever you want it. You want your food fast, your answers quick, and your enlightenment overnight. You keep livin’ life as if it be an emergency and you end up missin’ out on most of what truly matters. If you be racin’ through life l
ike a cat with its tail on fire you be droppin’ dead of a stroke before you ever stop to enjoy it. It be time you just slowed down and smelled the hibiscus or listened to the sun settin’ for a change,” proposed Grandpa.
Grandpa was one man who had never let life rush him. A traveling salesman for most of his life – Grandpa had canvassed the islands selling the local island rum – the distillery’s number one salesman. His greatest sales secret was always in his charm and the way in which he presented his product – sampling his wares with his regular clientele over a game of dominos. Poor Grandma had rarely seen him during his forty year career except those trips home which were long enough to drop off a little money and get her pregnant, which he had successfully done more than a dozen times. He had figured that she would be kept so busy with cooking, washing, or birthing children she wouldn’t really notice he was gone so much of the time. The arrangement had suited Grandpa quite well, but then again, he had never asked Grandma if it worked for her.
In fact, it wasn’t until he had retired at sixty that he finally memorized all of his children’s names – even if he never did get their ages right or even the exact order in which they had been born. Grandma had survived those years on the theory that once the first wave of six was out of diapers, they were old enough to watch and help care for the second, not to mention the household chores and the marketing.
Grandpa’s salary over the years had been a modest one since he’d drunken or given away most of his commissions, but fortunately the company had offered a fair retirement plan which consisted of a comfortable pension for them to live on once the kids were grown – not to mention a lifetime supply of rum. They had even thrown in a case of Coke a week since Grandpa had been by far their most ardent promoter of their spirits. In fact, from time to time they had even used him in local commercials to continue promoting the familiar ‘Grandpa’ image, and his visits to their establish-ments. In time, Grandpa had actually become somewhat of a celebrity in the islands.
West of the Quator Page 20
