Adrift on St. John

by Rebecca Hale

The words died in his throat. The crab was still curled up in the corner near the door, in the same tucked-up formation it had assumed a few minutes earlier. The seat of the plastic chair where he’d set his canvas toolbox was now empty.

  The color drained from the programmer’s face as the heavy metal door began to swing shut.

  “Who goes there?” he called out tentatively.

  The door thumped against the threshold, and the lock clicked in its fittings. With clammy, fumbling fingers, the programmer reached into his pocket, desperately searching for the main key.

  “Hey!” he yelled angrily as he discovered the empty pocket. “Hey!”

  No one answered. The programmer and the hermit crab were locked together in the darkness of the storm cellar.

  38

  Beneath the Sea

  The public power grid for St. John relied on a network of submarine cables that connected it to the Red Hook power station on the east end of St. Thomas. The lines lay at the bottom of the Pillsbury Sound, where the brilliant crystal blue water of the shoreline darkened to a deep murky gray.

  Lobsters skulked along the sand’s swirling surface, probing the cylindrical tube with their claws as they searched for prey hiding in the loose crevices beneath. Stingrays skated through the deep water, their dark menacing cloaks silently stalking the power line’s endless snake. Occasionally, the white-tipped jaws of a shark playfully mouthed the cable, leaving behind a telltale imprint of pointed indentations.

  Every so often, a storm rolled across the Virgins that generated enough surface turbulence to disrupt the creepy quiet of this underwater scene, roiling the aging cables until a weak spot was exposed.

  The lights of St. John flickered so regularly that no one questioned the cause of this latest power outage. The larger resorts, several of the bars and restaurants, as well as most permanent residents relied on backup generators to mitigate the constant power inconvenience.

  Few people knew that these most recent blackouts were no act of nature.

  Beulah Shah, who slipped the cellar key into a pocket of her frayed shirtdress as she limped up the stairs to the administrative building’s first floor, was one of those few.

  It would be at least twenty-four hours, if not more, she thought as the canvas toolbox swung from her bony hand, before anyone came to check on the resort’s main electrical box in the cellar where the computer programmer was now trapped.

  39

  The Jeep

  Early Wednesday morning, November 23, I sat on a bench under the eaves outside the resort’s reception area, waiting in the darkness for my ride. Although the rain was still smattering down, a coming break in the storm pattern promised a brilliant, clear sunrise—but that wasn’t the reason I had risen so early.

  The battered, doorless Jeep that rattled up the entrance leg of the horseshoe-shaped drive was unlikely to be confused with any of its rental counterparts. I yawned sleepily as the vehicle slowed to an idle in front of the reception’s entrance. After a brisk skip through the raindrops, I opened the passenger-side door and climbed inside.

  The freshly showered man behind the wheel was almost unrecognizable. Charlie Baker’s hair was damp, neatly combed back, and uncovered by its habitual dirty baseball cap.

  I couldn’t imagine where he’d found the white cotton shirt and pressed khaki shorts he was wearing. They couldn’t possibly have come from his regular closet.

  “Look at you,” I greeted him sleepily as my gaze swept from his clean scalp to the sharp tan line on his lower shins. His pale feet sported a new pair of leather sandals. “All cleaned up and ready for your big trip.”

  Charlie glanced sheepishly down at his wardrobe and shrugged his shoulders.

  After many months of wrangling, his ex-wife had agreed to bring their kids, now teenagers, down to the islands for Thanksgiving. The group of them would spend the rest of the week together in one of Charlie’s rental villas on St. Croix.

  Located only thirty miles to the south, St. Croix was a world away from St. John.

  Despite the short distance, it would take Charlie the better part of the day to get there. After the ferry ride to Red Hook, he’d catch a taxi across St. Thomas to Charlotte Amalie. There, he would board a seaplane to Christiansted, St. Croix’s main port.

  The largest of the Virgin Islands, St. Croix fell within the confines of the U.S. Territory more by happenstance than geography.

  Seeking additional arable land for sugarcane production, the Danish purchased the island from the French in 1733. It was because of this land deal that the French sent soldiers to help the Danes put down the slave revolt on St. John later that same year. Many of the farmers displaced by the St. John attacks eventually settled on St. Croix, whose flat southwestern quadrant far surpassed St. Thomas in its agricultural potential.

  The resulting development led to a much more diversified economy than that of the northern Virgin Islands. Over the years, agriculture had been replaced by an immense oil refinery business and several rum-distilling operations. Even in modern times, tourism was but a minor component of the island’s overall revenue.

  While connected governmentally to St. Thomas—and the oft-forgotten St. John—St. Croix looked and felt like a whole other country.

  * * *

  Charlie spun the wheel to turn the Jeep down the resort’s front drive as I snapped what remained of the passenger-side seat belt into its latch. He’d agreed to let me borrow his Jeep while he was away—if I dropped him off at the six a.m. ferry.

  I tried to will myself awake with a second wide yawn. The early morning errand was a small price to pay for access to a set of wheels.

  “Whatever you do, don’t let Manto near the Jeep,” Charlie admonished as I bounced along in the passenger seat, longing for a cup of coffee. “It took my guys three whole days to fix his rig.”

  Charlie shook his head in consternation. “He tried to tell me that a ghost ran him off the road the other night. Some woman the locals call the Amina Slave Princess.”

  I gripped the door handle as Charlie swerved around a pothole. Hannah, I reflected, had certainly been busy.

  Charlie gave me a sideways glance and chuckled. “I don’t know why I think you’ll be a better driver,” he said sarcastically.

  He lifted a hand from the wheel and pointed emphatically at the doorless opening beside him. “Just remember, Pen. Keep left.”

  By the time we reached the outskirts of town, the sun was beginning to crack the horizon. As the clouds parted and light flickered across Charlie’s tense face, I could see the joking had been a cover for his growing apprehension.

  He’d pulled out all the stops for this half-week experiment; he had numerous activities planned for the kids and had made reservations at the island’s best restaurants.

  For his sake, I just hoped his family actually showed up.

  “What are you going to do if…?” I asked as the Jeep pulled to a stop in front of the ferry building. There was no need to fill in the rest of the sentence.

  Charlie hopped out and trotted around to the rear storage compartment to retrieve his luggage. I met him on the curb as he set his bag on the wet pavement.

  He let out a volume of pent-up air, as if he’d spent the entire morning steeling himself for the possibility that this might end up being a solo excursion.

  “Well, then I’ll have a big house party down on St. Croix,” he replied with forced optimism. “Don’t suppose you…?”

  He cut short his offer with a flat smile that conveyed he was as yet unaware of Jeff’s sudden leave of absence.

  “No, I guess you wouldn’t.”

  Before I had time to correct him, he tossed his hands in the air and headed toward the ticket booth, his new shoes squeaking on the pavement as he walked.

  40

  Keep to the Left

  I climbed through the Jeep’s open doorway and adjusted the seat to my slightly longer legs. Punching the release button on the gear handle, I shifted into drive and care
fully began threading my way through the milling crowd of truck-taxi drivers, arriving day workers, and scurrying chickens.

  It was a jumpy ride, and the steering wheel had a lot of extra play in it, but I wasn’t complaining. To have a vehicle on the island was an expensive luxury, one that I’d rarely indulged in.

  By the time a car traversed all the water between Miami and St. John, it racked up several thousand dollars’ worth of transportation costs. On top of that, gas here was significantly more expensive than up in the States.

  Like most of the other expats, most days, I got around just fine on foot, by truck taxi, or bumming rides from friends. But after four years of depending on others, I found it liberating to finally be piloting my own ship.

  I’d only driven a few times during my years on the island, but the tales of my inability to stay on the left side of the road had been widely circulated by the Dumpster table gang. I had, of course, protested that these stories were greatly exaggerated—but in the first hundred yards of manning Charlie’s Jeep that morning, I did little to put those rumors to rest.

  Several well-intentioned honks, followed by energetic finger pointing greeted me as I merged onto the main thoroughfare. After a dicey turn through the island’s new roundabout—during which time I vowed I would never again make fun of another confused tourist—it was with great relief that I found myself back on the road to the resort.

  The entrance to the resort’s U-shaped front drive was the only hurdle that remained. I slowed the Jeep as I neared the dual prongs of the turnoff, concentrating to ensure I wouldn’t end up on the wrong side of the loop.

  Halfway up the drive, I realized I’d picked the wrong leg of the horseshoe. By that point, it was too late to back up. Best, I reasoned, to power through to the top of the circle and hopefully turn around before anyone caught sight of me.

  I knew I wouldn’t be that lucky.

  Vivian and Hamilton stood waiting for me out front of the reception area as I pulled up from the wrong direction.

  Mother and child were dressed in clothes typically reserved as their Sunday best. Vivian had donned a linen dress that hugged her many curves, while Ham wore a starched white shirt, tan slacks, and dark green tie.

  I had agreed to give the pair a ride to the Moravian church at the edge of Coral Bay on the far east end of the island. They would be joining the group marching to the old Danish fort, or Fortsberg, as it was officially called, later that morning for the annual commemoration of the 1733 Slave Revolt.

  With all of its Native Rights undertones, this wasn’t the kind of event Vivian normally would have been caught dead at, but Ham had talked her into it. Several of the children from his school would be there, and he was eager to participate.

  To Vivian’s chagrin, her son couldn’t stop talking about the Amina Slave Princess, who, it was rumored, would be making an appearance somewhere along the route.

  I sat in the Jeep, waiting for the inevitable critique of my driving skills.

  Vivian stared for a long moment at the vehicle, her eyes skeptically scanning its dented front bumper and missing driver’s-side door.

  Then, she narrowed her focus on me. She crossed her arms in front of her body and shook her head dismissively, before striding purposefully to the doorless driver’s-side opening.

  “Move over,” she said in a no-nonsense manner, hands firmly planted on her hips.

  I strummed my fingers across the steering wheel’s sun-hardened plastic. “What’s wrong, Vivian?” I asked teasingly. “You don’t trust my driving?”

  “No,” came her immediate response.

  Vivian was nothing if not direct.

  “Fine,” I said, winking at Ham as I unbuckled my seat belt. “Fine, fine, fine,” I grumbled loudly while walking around the dented front bumper to the opposite side.

  Vivian helped Ham climb into the tiny back passenger area, then she settled into the driver’s seat and cranked the engine.

  “As if I would let the likes of you drive my son,” she muttered under her breath.

  I glanced over my left shoulder and shared a grin with Ham. The rant continued as we rumbled off.

  “Smells like something died in here…”

  41

  The Brown Bay Ruins

  The Amina Slave Princess woke to a light rain tapping against the canvas roof of her tent at the Maho Bay eco-resort. She rolled out from under the bedsheets, placed her bare feet on the tent’s wooden floor, and stretched her arms toward the ceiling. Her eyelashes fluttered in the predawn darkness, shaking loose the last remnants of a restful night’s sleep.

  She dressed in a T-shirt, blue jeans, and sneakers, then she loaded her beaded vest, knee-length sarong, and wig of bouncing black curls into a small satchel. The residents of the eco-resort tended to be early risers, and she had almost been spotted leaving her tent several times over the past week. After a few close calls, she had taken to bringing her costume along with her, so that she could change in and out of it a safe distance from the eco-resort.

  Pulling the plastic sheath of a disposable raincoat over her head, she slipped the satchel beneath it and looped the strap over her shoulder. Cautiously, she sneaked out the tent’s front door.

  The dripping rain drowned out the light tread of her footsteps as the Princess disappeared into the darkness. She made a quick stop to dig her spear out of the pile of leaves where she had hidden it the previous evening, then she trotted down the wooden walkway, ready to begin her daily explorations.

  So far, all was quiet in the eco-resort, with snores still droning from several of the elevated units. The Princess climbed the short flight of stairs to the dry goods store, taking care not to wake any of the camp’s peaceful sleepers. Once there, she crossed the last of the elevated walkways and proceeded down a washed-out gravel road that served as the resort’s driveway.

  By the time she reached the far edge of the grounds, her tennis shoes were soggy and her jeans were wet up to her knees. Her head, however, felt fresh and clear, invigorated by the cooling rain. She twirled the pole of her spear in her hands, eager to set off on her journey.

  The Princess couldn’t say what compelled the direction she chose that particular morning. But, as she reached the pavement at the bottom of the dirt road, her feet turned, seemingly of their own volition, toward the east, down a paved artery that fed into the island’s main north shore thoroughfare.

  Fifteen minutes later, the Princess had circled around the back side of Mary’s Point and picked up the shoreline on the opposite side of its bulge. A mile-long trek along the water led her to the curving beach that lined Waterlemon Bay. There, she veered inland on a dirt path leading up a steep, rocky incline.

  The rising sun broke through the clouds to illuminate the muddy trail’s sharp twists and turns. Damp jungle moved in around the Princess as she climbed toward the summit, steadying her footing by wedging her spear into the thick roots that crisscrossed the ground.

  What had started off as a cool, wet morning quickly transitioned into a daytime’s steam. Halfway to the trail’s summit, she had to remove the raincoat to keep from overheating.

  It took some effort, but she finally cleared the crest. As a playful breeze brushed against her face, she had the sense that this morning’s excursion would be different from her previous outings.

  Having caught her breath, the Princess resumed her hike, continuing across the hilltop until she reached a fork in the trail. Brow furrowed, the Princess stared at a brown metal post with white markings planted next to the path. The post’s block letters were similar to the ones she had encountered a couple days earlier on the sign near the donkeys at Turtle Point.

  Her eyes honed in on a white-painted arrow pointed east.

  Temptation tugged at her for only a moment before she made her decision. She licked her upper lip resolutely and began her descent on the Brown Bay Trail.

  The Princess skipped lightly down the hill, instantly disappearing into the swampy forest. The sun did i
ts best to infiltrate the netting of leaves and vegetation above her head, but she soon found herself immersed in the jungle’s dark shadows.

  As the path sank to sea level, its route curved along a bog of mangroves grown up in a brackish salt pond. The Princess left the trail, veering off into a thick patch of grasses. She pushed her way deep into the marsh and stood there in silence, her body moving in perfect time with the swaying reeds, as she absorbed every detail of her surroundings.

  Once she was satisfied that she had not been followed, she waded closer to the shore, her progress as indiscernible as that of the island’s tiny biting insects.

  The roaring punch of the ocean greeted her at Brown Bay’s pebbly beach. The sky glowed with a full morning’s heat, flushing her cheeks as it warmed her skin.

  The Princess walked along the rocky shoreline, using her spear to navigate over several slick boulders, until she happened upon the rough remains of a low rock wall tumbling out of the woods. Curiously, she peered into the dense brush, searching for a larger structure that might explain the wall’s existence.

  The tree limbs spread low, hugging the ground, impeding her progress. Her body bent into a crawling position, trying to find an opening through the network of roping vines that barricaded every ingress.

  After fighting about twenty yards inland through the overgrowth, she came across the ruins of a small settlement, hidden in the trees.

  Holding her multipronged spear at the ready, the Princess carefully circled the ruins. The buildings were ancient, abandoned, and looked as if they had been built by a people who had inhabited the island long ago. In the middle of the settlement, a small courtyard formed a pen that likely had been used to hold livestock. Off to one side, the stone ring of a drinking well encircled a dark gaping hole.

  A rickety two-story structure in the center of the area appeared to have been the main living quarters. The building had long since been taken over by the forest’s jungling arms; moss covered most of the stone surfaces. One of the structure’s disintegrating side walls provided a precarious staircase to its upper level, with pseudo-steps formed out of loose stones that had not yet fallen away from the wall.