An Angle on the World

by Bill Barich

  O’Hara is a tall, engaging, no-nonsense fellow whose service in the Royal Navy still shows in his bearing. An Oxford graduate in physics, he was wearing bermuda shorts with knee socks and a crisp white shirt with the resort logo on one pocket, as he explained to me over drinks one afternoon how he had strayed from the academic path.

  The age-old fantasy of living on your own tropical island had helped to create the resort, O’Hara said. Another ex-naval officer named Ted Powell had decided after retiring that he’d endured quite enough of England’s dour weather. Powell had an understandable craving for sunshine, so in 1949, on the basis of an ad in The Times of London, he bought a hundred-acre island in the British West Indies sight unseen.

  The island, Calavini, was off the coast of Grenada and cost him $2,500. He stayed there for two years, but he began to fear that he would go totally native and absolutely bonkers. Calavini, Powell concluded, had to be sold. A member of the Cunard shipping family bought it from him for $12,500, and he realized enough of a profit to move to Barbados and start a little resort.

  By 1956 the resort was not so little anymore. Powell needed to hire a manager, and a friend suggested Budge O’Hara, who, having drifted away from physics, was working at a hotel in the Cotswolds. After a bit of negotiating, O’Hara signed a three-year contract on blind faith and set sail for Barbados with his bride, Cynthia.

  O’Hara still remembers his deep disappointment when the ship pulled into Bridgetown in a September drizzle. He and Cynthia simply didn’t want to get off, and they waited until every other passenger had descended the gangplank before they accepted their fate. Things improved, of course, when the sun broke through the clouds.

  “What were your guests like back then?” I asked.

  “They were adventurous,” O’Hara said, spiritedly. “Like pioneers, really.”

  A plane trip from Britain in those days took 21 hours, and you could count on a rocky ride. The resort had just 24 rooms and no air-conditioning. Yet it wasn’t uncommon for guests to spend three months in winter. Diplomats, consular officials, affluent sun lovers from Venezuela or Colombia all came and stayed.

  Barbados stood for high society. It had a flourishing gay scene, too, much of it centering on English stage designer Oliver Messel, whose fanciful touches still grace some of the most prized villas around. Agatha Christie also once visited. She set a mystery in the Caribbean and patterned the murderer after a young hotelier she’d met, someone not unlike Budge himself.

  Even as the resort has expanded, O’Hara continues to be a hands-on manager. He and his family try to greet every new arrival, and he treats his staff as family, too. There are waiters, maids, barmen, and cooks who are directly related to employees he hired in the 1960s.

  Guests can also be numbered in generations, island veterans of 20 or 30 years, some of whom return every February, at the height of the season. Such guests, Canadians and Americans now as well as Brits, are the most demanding, O’Hara confided, and they expect every detail of their stay to be exactly as it was the last time, and the time before that.

  “What keeps them coming back?” I asked. “What’s so special?”

  O’Hara replied, “Barbados is a beautiful place but I think, really, it’s the people here. They’re polite and generous—it’s the Bajans who make this island special.”

  * * *

  A turquoise sea, a warm breeze, salt drying on my skin, those ever-changing clouds. I spent my last day in Barbados slowly walking and swimming along the west coast to Speightstown, passing beach merchants who wandered from resort to resort selling coral necklaces and healing pieces of aloe vera; some Bajan women carried kits filled with beads they used to braid the hair of tourists.

  There were big coral outcrops to get around, each of them alive with tiny, skittering crabs. Sloops sailed by, and jet skis threw showers of froth into the air. Next to handsome villas and mansions were more humble homes, often hammered together from scrap wood and corrugated aluminum, their backyards stacked with fishing floats, broken oars, and battered dinghies.

  I came to a scallop of beach where I saw Sir Tommy, darker than ever now, dozing in an oceanfront chaise longue, his body and soul apparently at peace. Finally, in Speightstown I emerged from the Caribbean tired and dripping, and I slipped into the soggy sneakers and T-shirt I’d carried in a little pack. They’d dry quickly enough, I knew.

  I strolled the main drag and saw that Pizza Man Doc had some hungry customers outside his restaurant, while at Modern Technique Dental Studio, a few patients sat quietly in the waiting room. The Tyre Repair Gang’s place was silent, with three young men asleep under the trees and another on a picnic table, all of them no doubt conserving their energy for the Friday night ahead.

  From a causeway, I watched a skiff land. The four men inside hauled their catch up to the Speightstown Fish Market, a dark blue building that serves as a social center. They had buckets of flying fish and one big, bloody, beheaded shark that the youngest of the crew, smiling proudly, shouldered up to the market like a trophy. Women with sharp knives set to gutting and filleting the catch, and soon Bajans were lining up to buy flying fish, two for 50 cents, wrapped in old newspaper or dropped into a plastic sack.

  I eased over to where one woman was working her way through a bucket and looked closely at the flying fish, all silvery blue and about 12 inches long, mackerel-like schoolers remarkably identical in size.

  I hadn’t seen any of them fly this trip, but it’s true that they do, sometimes for several feet above the water. A typical flight goes on for ten seconds or less, but the fishes’ wings—pectoral fins actually—don’t really flap. The main force that propels them is their tail. They beat it in a sculling motion to attain flying speed. They fly, researchers believe, to escape from the dorado, or dolphin fish, that prey on them. So would I, and so would you.

  Reggae music was pouring out of the Fisherman’s Pub, and the bar inside was packed with Bajans celebrating the end of the week. I bought a pint of Banks and took it out to a deck over the water. A sunset ribbon of pink fluttered on the horizon. The Caribbean was so transparent I could see two skinny barracudas in the shallows.

  As the sun dropped lower in the sky, Anna, the pub’s waitress, scooped up my glass to replenish it. We had struck up a friendship of sorts. It was impossible not to be a friend of Anna’s. She is round and upbeat and wears a paper cook’s hat and always has a grin on her face. As a sideline she sells T-shirts—printed with Bob Marley or I Love Barbados—and I promised her I would tell everybody at home to go to the pub when they got to the island and buy one from her.

  Anna blew me a kiss. “Is all right, baby?” she asked.

  “Is all right, Anna,” I told her. “I cool.”

  Islands, 1995

  Culebra: An Island Dream

  There’s a game schoolboys play on the island of Culebra. At recess, they hang around Banco Popular in Dewey, the island’s only town, and try to sneak into the ATM cubicle whenever a customer emerges. The enclosed cubicle is air-conditioned, so the boys wave and laugh and make sure the students still stuck out in the heat (especially the girls) can see them cooling off and enjoying themselves. Sometimes they even open the door a crack to tease the stranded ones.

  “Maria, look at me!”

  “No, Josefina, you can’t come in!”

  I pass the kids on my way to the harbor, where the late afternoon ferry will soon arrive from Fajardo, a port on the main island of Puerto Rico. The ferry is a major attraction since Culebra is virtually undeveloped. It has no movie theatre, no fancy resort, no tennis court or golf course. There are no steel bands to greet tourists and no hucksters selling trinkets. The few shops in town are often closed for their owners’ siestas. In Dewey you’re lucky to find a postcard to buy.

  The walking feels good, despite the strong tropical sun. Culebra is just seven miles long and mostly flat, so you’re never far from the Caribbean and a quick dip. It’s the largest island in an archipelago of 20 or so islands and
cays, many of them part of a national wildlife refuge that provides invaluable habitat to thousands of seabirds and endangered sea turtle species—leatherback, green, Atlantic loggerhead, and hawksbill.

  Yesterday I hired a boat to explore Culebrita, an outer cay. It was a smooth ride over, with pelicans diving all around us. Once there, I climbed into a forest and sat for a while on a rocky ledge overlooking the sea, then clambered down and soaked in a pool as relaxing as a hot tub. Some visitors complain about the Culebran archipelago being boring, but I enjoy the distance from so-called civilization.

  A large crowd has already convened on the ferry dock. The women and children rest in a shady plaza, while the men drink beer and talk. Beer is a staple here, as essential as rice and beans. Culebra has only 2,000 or so residents, but their thirst is mighty. All along the main drag, trash cans are filled with empties. For a poor town, Dewey is remarkably clean. The locals take great pride in it, because the streets are an extension of their homes, a communal parlor everybody shares. At the moment, Dewey is recovering from Hurricane Georges, which blew through at 110 MPH, destroyed more than 20 houses, and deprived many others of their roofs.

  The ferry chugs toward shore and ties up. Fajardo has a new Kmart, so the returning daytrippers are loaded with treasures. I spot a Barbie doll, an electric fan, and a big Sony TV in a cardboard carton. Almost everything has to be imported to Culebra—furniture, building materials, the vegetables that won’t grow in the flinty volcanic soil. Cattle once grazed in the highlands, but the herds are small now and beef is scarce. Nobody fishes commercially anymore, either. The government and a pharmaceuticals company are the largest employers in town.

  The hardships of life on an isolated island don’t seem to bother the Culebrans, though. They’re used to scraping by, just as they’re accustomed to the fury of hurricanes. The sea, the sun, the sky, the nearness of family and friends—those are the constants of their universe. Almost everyone seems lively and contented. Even the stray mutts look healthy and well fed.

  * * *

  My jeep is parked in front of a modest house on a side street, where an elderly couple sits outside in folding chairs to watch the passing parade. Their yard is a triumph of folk art, decorated with brightly painted fishing floats, rubber tires, and a menagerie of ornamental animals cast in cement, including a bunch of ducks. It’s hard to tell if the couple believe they’ve created a majestic installation, or if they’re only a couple of pranksters having a bit of fun.

  “Buenas tardes,” I greet them. “Nice ducks.”

  The leathery-skinned husband grins and lifts a hand to salute. “Nice-a-ducks,” he repeats. Most older Culebrans speak some English, but the younger ones tend to stick to Spanish on principle. They’re Puerto Ricans first and Americans second. Not a few teenagers are eager to fly the coop and head for San Juan. They dress in big-city style, in Nikes, NBA jerseys, and flashy gold chains, and they specialize in attitude.

  I’m on an important mission this evening, so I intend to proceed with caution. Driving on the island can be tricky. Only a handful of roads are paved, but they’ve got just as many potholes as the unpaved roads. More treacherous still are the storm drains that sneak up on you, metal grates as rattling as cattle guards. If you hit a drain in second gear, you fly up from your seat and your head smacks the roof. Away from Dewey, the roads are even worse, all dirt and deeply rutted. You must watch for roosters, cyclists, and water hazards. It’s every man for himself.

  My destination is Mamacitas Restaurant, the unofficial clubhouse for Culebra’s colony of gringos, who make the most of a two-hour happy hour that often stretches into three. The gringos, seduced by the island’s wonders, operate small businesses to support themselves—charter boats for diving and snorkeling, kayak rentals, freelance plumbing, you name it.

  Mamacitas is the place to stop if you need something, but it has a drawback, as well. Nowhere else does gossip travel so fast. You can’t sneeze at the bar without somebody five blocks away knowing about it. The flood of innuendo has ruined marriages and derailed affairs, upended careers and brought down the law. It’s an authentic Culebran hazard like the mosquitos and no-see-ums that raise tiny red welts on your skin.

  Tonight I’m looking for Chris Goldmark, who has a reputation as a first-rate fishing guide. I order an icy Medalla beer and ask after him. The bartender says Chris drops in most nights to get his messages, so I leave one with my phone number. There’s no hurry, of course, and no pressure. Services here are delivered at a leisurely, not to say glacial pace. A man could probably live on Culebra, never accomplish a thing he’d set out to do, and not feel the least bit guilty.

  The sky is streaked with pink and stacked with billowy clouds when I depart. I cross a bridge over Laguna Lobina, glance down at the clear blue water, and see some glowing orange coral and a baby barracuda. The warm, humid air washes over my skin as a full moon rises over the Caribbean. At the moment I, too, have no desire to accomplish anything. I am surrendering to the tropics, entertaining a fantasy about opening a kayak rental shop.

  I drive on to join Bob White, a fellow I met on my flight over. There was a mix-up in San Juan before takeoff, and when the pilot dashed back into the terminal, Bob quipped, “I’ll bet he forgot to key the plane.” I laughed, because the plane was very small and scary, its six tattered seats patched with duct tape. The propellers made a deafening racket, and one passenger started whispering prayers the minute we taxied onto the runway.

  Bob is a retired IBM executive from New York. He stumbled on Culebra during a sailing trip years ago, fell in love with it, and bought some property, as more and more northerners are doing. When I knock, he invites me into his house. It’s the first time he’s been back since Hurricane Georges; the house took a serious beating, two decks trashed and some power lines down. Sand covers the kitchen floor and sticks to the fridge in wet clumps.

  I expect Bob to be upset, but he’s philosophical about the damage, having adopted the laidback island attitude. The repairs will be completed according to a schedule he can’t control, at a cost he can’t predict. He had to wait ten years to clear the title on his property.

  Bob and I have dinner at Tina’s, a merry café not far from the baseball stadium. The tables wobble, and we can hear singing and clapping at an evangelical church nearby. The fried chicken sounds good, but Bob advises to me to order fish.

  “It’s fresh” he says.

  “What kind is it?” I ask our server.

  “Fish,” she says.

  The mystery fish is huge. Its head and tail flop over the edges of the plate. The skin is crisp, and the flesh flakes away in glistening chunks. The server brings bowls of rice and beans and a bottle of homemade hot sauce with dangerous little peppers steeping in it. I risk a couple splashes, and my tongue burns.

  Chris Goldmark calls at eight the next morning. Yes, he has access to a friend’s boat and can take me to the flats for bonefish. We’ll meet that afternoon at Mamacitas, but first I plan to spend some time in the sun. Like the schoolboys at Banco Popular, I’ve been playing a game, trying to comb every beach on the island. Melones, Tamarindo, Brava, Resaca—I’ve visited them all. To my surprise and delight, they’ve all been deserted.

  Only at Playa Flamenco have I seen other people, although never more than 20. And even then, Flamenco feels secluded. It’s an unspoiled stretch of bone white sand that’s curved like a scallop shell at the edge of the sea. Green hills surround it, and the offshore corals offer fine snorkeling.

  I decide to hike from Flamenco to Carlos Rosario beach, where the snorkeling is supposed to be even better. The path follows a slight uphill grade into a tangle of gumbo-limbo, ficus, and mahogany trees. Thorny acacias, invaders from Mexico, grow with abandon and threaten to eclipse the native species. I pass some lizards doing push-ups and a kestrel on the prowl, then stop to watch a frigate bird soaring overhead, its great wings spread wide.

  The day is hot. I soon work up a sweat. Mosquitos trail me in pesky clouds
, along with sulfur moths. At the crest of a hill, I glimpse Carlos Rosario below. Nobody’s there, of course. In minutes I’m in my snorkel gear and finning over some coral, my ears deaf to the waking world and my eyes glued to the one underwater. The fish are extraordinary—an electric blue tang, snappers with yellow tails that burn like candle flames, and a school of tiny silvery creatures as bright as newly minted coins.

  I swim until my legs are tired and I’ve seen all there is to see, then walk back over the same path and bump into four horses on the loose, who lead me to Flamenco.

  At three o’ clock, I meet Chris at Mamacitas. He’s from New Jersey and reached Culebra via San Juan. He holds a fly rod rigged with a new fly he wants to try, a Yucatan Special that originated in Mexico. Culebran bonefish are really big, much larger than those in the Florida Keys. We’ll look for them on a flat off a reef in an intertidal zone, where they forage for crab and shrimp in the shallows.

  A diveboat skipper drops us off at a spot called Dakity. It’s a strange sensation to watch the boat pull away. I’m left standing knee-deep in the Caribbean, so far from shore only an Olympian could swim to safety. The flat is an undulating marl plain covered with gray-green sea grasses. The marl’s in great shape despite the hurricane, Chris tells me, leaning down to pluck a conch from the sea floor.

  “They’ll be thousands of conchs here tonight,” he says, “on account of the full moon.”

  We walk forward, stalking, almost on tiptoe. I’m so involved in scanning the horizons for bonefish I fail to notice a manta ray streaming toward me. When we see each other, I don’t know who’s more shocked, the ray or me. I nearly fall over, while the ray spins around and vanishes in an instant, spooking hundreds of glass minnows that leap into the air like a line of dancers.