Visitors to Saint James love to tell war stories about their annual journeys to the island. Even if they've had a perfect trip, which seldom happens, they will want to tell people about that. It is their way of separating themselves from those unwilling to bear the same burdens, and also from the Islanders themselves, who, since they are smart, seldom ever leave.
The all-time champion at this, of course, was Christopher Columbus, the first Euro-tourist to reach The Bahamas. Imagine going to the trouble of promoting the crazy idea of sailing around the world, convincing a King and Queen to bankroll the trip, and promising hulls full of gold upon his return. All of this simply to make people think he really was going to the Indies. As if.
He took ten weeks to land on San Salvador, a short plane ride away from our island.
That said, let me use a small travel glitch to illustrate why we celebrate being here. The airline lost the luggage containing all of our clothes. Let us, for the purposes of this conversation, call the airline Jet Boo. After two days, the nice Bahamian lady, Stacey, in Nassau, emailed us that she had sent the bags over to the nearby island, not our island, on Bahamas Air, an approximation of an airline that is more dependent on whimsy than its wings.
On my way to catch the water taxi to catch the taxi to the airport, I happened to see Simone, setting up for lunch on the porch of The Lounge. Simone is a smallish girl with a huge smile that can brighten the island during one of the occasional power outages. "Why would you want to do that, " she said. "C'mon in and we'll make a few calls."
A couple of minutes later, she had arranged to have my bags brought to The Lounge that afternoon, freeing me up to get to the beach for a swim.
It has occurred to me that the universe might have arranged for the biggest Northeast storm in thirty years, the completely inadequate JetBoo management team, severely lost or misplaced pilots and attendants, and other things simply so that Simone would be on her porch at exactly the right moment to offer help. Perhaps the universe had begun conspiring many, many years before, just to have us meet at this particular point in time, space and our separate journeys.
These are the kinds of things that occur to you on the island, because things happen to you here, if you let them, that might not happen in many other places.
What else for instance? Like Valentino handing you a fresh loaf of wheat bread in Arthur's Bakery, feeling its oven-heat through the brown paper bag as you carry it home, slicing a piece, letting the butter, which has traveled over the seas from New Zealand to get here, melt and spread all by itself as if on its own beach made of whole wheat flower baked in Robert Arthur's oven.
Or, Chico arriving one evening with five lbs of small lobsters, about ten of them. You grill these for 10-12 minutes, then sprinkle lime juice over them, and devour 2-3 each for dinner. Then, you add some mayo, salt and pepper, more lime juice and have them for lunch the next day.
These are nice things to happen, but mostly you do not come here for the action in the usual sense. In order to have action here, you must pay great attention to the details of sounds, smells, colors, and textures in a way that you might not at the far away place you call home.
Most mornings, I contemplate the particular shade of yellow on the hull of the perfectly named Mr. P from the vantage point of my porch chair. The island is slowly waking up. Herman is walking to Government Dock to take up his place. The roosters, having crowed for hours, begin to settle down. A bonie splashes in the bay. A family boards Cocktail Hour for some bottom-fishing. Chico may just bring me part of that catch for dinner.
You want action? There it is.
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