8th of November 1997, Saturday
Saint Kitts, West Indies
It’s early evening – a clean ocean breeze, clear, and wonderful. An excellent day has come to pass. It began as a lazy morning with a beautiful lady, the love of my life, Maureen Gail, my eternal sweetheart. We enjoyed a simple breakfast, light jazz and fun on the computer. Never for more than a brief few minutes were we able to take our eyes off the ocean and the simple stretch of beach that ends in the rock outcroppings of Timothy hill. By 9am we were out there, experiencing the warm sand and the power of the waves.
Our morning routine with the sand and sea was even more enjoyable than we had expected. The surf was high during the night, busy doing its work of clearing and smoothing the beach. Not a soul was in sight in any direction as we hiked south in wet sand sinking to our ankles. Magical white froth and turquoise water assaulted the scurrying crabs and low flying birds. Salt was heavy in the air, as it always is when there’s a surge in the ocean driving confused water higher up the shore.
Maureen was in a philosophical mood observing that it was more than paradise, this place was both mysterious and enchanting. An off-world place. Somewhere outside of our reality.
I swam. She sat at water’s edge, being very still so as not to disturb the skittish crabs peeking out from their freshly dug burrows. Running sideways they come, to munch some new little delicacy cast onto the golden seashore and pushed up to the bottom of the rising sand hills covered with sea grape, a saltwater resistant bush that actually can grow into a tree.
Several times a day I mentally pinch myself and run an internal authenticity check. Yes, we live here, at Leeward Cove, on Frigate Bay, on the island of St Kitts, in the middle of the eastern Caribbean, throughout the winter.
We returned from the beach laughing and teasing each other like young children. A cool shower, some dry shorts and a white short sleeved button-up-the-front cotton shirt, and back to the computer with Michael Allen Harrison playing piano from a CD. Maureen made an early lunch full of summer tastes and soda. We decided to explore the north end of the island and after a short nap were off.
The twisting drive up the eastern side of the island provides continuous and breathtaking views of the Atlantic. Driving on the left with the wheel on the left and the driver constantly trying to look right does not a sane condition make. Wisdom and the seemingly uncontrollable want for long lustful looks at the sea kept me pulling over, across the road, parking next to sugar cane fields, staring out at waves boiling over reefs and crashing up the beach as far as the eye could see.
Rounding the north end of the island the green on green mountains rise sharply into clouds of their own making. Switchbacks provide glimpses of jungle ravines cluttered with banana plants and splotches of red and purple flowers. Cane fields follow the slopes higher than one would think possible, curve and run back down towards coconut palms crowding lava-produced black sand beaches. Little villages dot the perimeter of St Kitts, strewn with charming children the color of the sand. They call out to one another and wave happily as we motor by.
A narrow dirt road turn-off with a simple sign that reads Rawlins Plantation bids us enter. The drive up the sugar cane field service road is bumpy and long. At times the sun is completely blocked out by beautiful old trees of considerable variety that join overhead giving the effect of our moving through a living tunnel of green. Another turn and a large, actually a huge, manicured lawn appears. Trees of many varieties are spread through this park-like environment with accents of tropical color everywhere.
Two more turns and we arrive at a grassy knoll with a small sign that announces, “car park,” above which looms two stone structures of immense size. The first is clearly, or at least once was, a sugar cane chimney made of local rock rising a good sixty feet straight up. The other is considerably more massive but not so tall. This second structure was the foundation of a gigantic windmill, which once captured the trade winds and converted them into the power to drive huge gears and wheels and run a cane-crushing mill.
Doing as the sign bid, we park and step out of the air-conditioned Mitsubishi Lancer to rediscover the warmth of the day. Climbing up the sloped lawn we pass the quiet elegance of grass tennis courts. Hand laid miniature mosaics comprise the moderately sized swimming pool, standing as silent witness of a time when labor was plentiful and craftsmanship was a worthwhile life endeavor.
A uniformed black woman of indiscriminate age and patient smile greets us and offers green wood chairs with marlin-spike hand-woven rope seats on a veranda next to the bar. Two other guests sit peacefully enjoying a late lunch in the open dining room behind us. No one else is in view.
Looking out from the veranda is a dramatic vista of sharp emerald mountains to our left, (almost due south). The west and north reveal carefully manicured lawns and gardens even larger than we first supposed. Everywhere the sea forms a backdrop to this vision of patrician yards, forming a semi-circle here at the northwest corner of the island. Looking north by northwest and looming close-by in the blue Caribbean is the island of St Estacia with the Dutch Island of Saba behind and slightly to the right. Off in the north some distance away, is the French Island of St Barts followed by the half French, half Dutch Island of St Martin, or St Maarten, depending on whether you’re given to the French or Dutch spelling. The Dutch side of St Maarten is Caribbean renowned as a freeport where you can find almost anything, and at a reasonable price, (reasonable for the Caribbean which is not necessarily reasonable for anyone else). Most importantly, everything is duty free.
Sodas and tropical drinks are gently served by the woman who greeted us. It is like stepping back in time. An enchanting past we’ve read about, but never seriously expected to come upon. Dream-like, almost unreal, the panorama stuns us into quiet contemplation. The heat of the day is upon us. The sun is high, west of center. Maureen stretches her slender uncovered legs out over a narrow enameled wooden seat that runs the length of the veranda rail. No longer facing the Atlanta and the constant trade winds of the eastern Caribbean, we sit under large slow moving ceiling fans that are a part of virtually every construction in the Leeward Islands.
Adjusting to the closeness of Caribbean midday heat requires calm. Movements slow down, a sensitivity and appreciation of even a light breeze follows. We sit and stare. Another place lost from reality. A timeless plantation dating back almost 300 years; the view has likely been much the same over all that time.
The Rawlins Plantation and Estate has ten guest quarters. You may experience this quiet solitude for US$400 per night with a minimum stay of four nights. A simple half page, one color flyer states under the heading “Activities,” --- “None Planned.” However, it does advise that if one is so inclined they can arrange to hike the trail to the volcanic crater that rises behind the main house. Snorkeling, scuba, beach walks, deep-sea fishing, and other water sports are all fairly close by.
Wandering through a part of the main house we discover fresh flowers floating in bowls of water at every turn, art covered walls, and everywhere views to an outside of incredible beauty. We reluctantly leave this slice of paradise slowly walking back to regain our cars air-conditioned environment. We return the way we came, gaining new perspectives on familiar vistas.
Arriving at Leeward Cove we decide to enjoy the beach once more before dinner. Two minutes to change into beach wear and we’re out there, watching waves crash the shore sending a constant film of salted water swirling up the beach round our legs. A ten-minute hike to our special place where the sand terminates against the decaying remains of a volcanic flow and the swirling sea has temporarily constructed a smooth sloping private bathing area. Here the sea is calm and not so aggressive. On another day it might not be thus. The wind far out at sea determines the drive and direction of the waves, and today it makes for shelter here behind the jutting rock.
Maureen resumes her early morning vigil over feeding crabs and her husband’s splashing antics at oceans edge. Occasionally she allows him to coaxes her into the ceaseless surf, but only occasionally. Today she pities him, alone to his waist waving at her to come in. Okay, but just to my waist she motions. Gingerly and so womanly, she moves into the warm froth. Maureen represents everything good and wonderful. I am in love, as I have been all my adult life and before.
After a few minutes in the surf she returns to our towels, scaring inquisitive crabs. With her back to the sea, she lies on her side and talks softly to her multi-legged friends. A different woman than the fifteen-year-old girl I met so many years ago at a football game. One who was scared of insects and terrified of spiders and crabs and almost anything with more than four legs. Yes, different, but the same. The same slender legs, the same commitment to do what she believes in. A lot of life has passed since first we fell in love. Eight children and now grandchildren galore mark the passage of time and stand as testimony of what our life’s been about. I’m very proud of our family and its size and I’m the first to mention this in new social settings. Maureen is mostly embarrassed when people first hear of how many children we’ve raised. She says my motive in telling people about our family size is a combination of shock value and unrighteous pride. She’s likely correct on both points.
Nature calls and somehow it seems perverse to pee in the sea. Trudging to shore I reach beach the water has not recently explored and walk up into a dry sandy creek bed cut through a ten-foot-high sand dune. Out of sight I bid nature’s call, pass water and quickly look around to see if I should be embarrassed. Emerging minutes later from my moment of privacy I find Maureen with her back to me anxiously staring out into the surf and then back down the beach looking for something. She’s obviously relived when she discovers me close by. At times the undertow can be incredibly strong and two Canadian visitors drowned here a few years ago.
Shaking our towels we saunter playfully at water’s edge, moving gradually northward back to Leeward Cove. We’ve spent a bit too much time in the sun today. Our face and shoulders reveal this fact. An outside shower just behind a sea grape covered sand dune after passing through the gateway gazebo, cools heated skin. A few more steps and we’re inside.
Our condo is one of only a few that face straight out onto the beach, a nearby reef, and the open ocean. We purchased this little bit of heaven prior to construction and were pleased to be able to have some things built to our specifications. It consists of three airy bedrooms, (one in a loft), a largish modern kitchen, two bathrooms, and a moderately big living room. The ceilings are vaulted and everything is painted white. An expansive red tiled terrace faces the ocean and is covered with beige deck furniture. This is our winter home.
I’m at my computer writing when Maureen brings me a plate of small cut fruits and vegetables and some fresh made chicken spread with crackers. A heavily iced soda completes the entrée. We are in love and nothing could be more wonderful.
It seems a strange statement to me when people say, “we made love.” I’ve always considered it somehow wrong. Not the physical intimacy, which is one of life’s blessings, but to say one is making love when referring primarily to sexual things, seems inaccurate at best. Isn’t one making love with every loving action? And certainly, acts of love do not require sexual intimacy. Something else about our phraseology in this particular regard bothers me. Why do people say they’ve fallen out of love? Love is an action verb, you’re either doing it or you’re not. What people must mean when they say they’re falling out of love is that they’ve decided not to love.
I suppose that using terms like falling in or falling out of love conveys a sense of helplessness in either action. And this in turn may help excuse our behavior if somehow inappropriate, but in effect what’s really being said is that we’re either highly physically attracted or our ardor has waned. So, love really isn’t the issue then, only sex? Okay, enough already, I’m moving way ahead of myself. One of my self-evident weaknesses is a growing tendency towards philosophical debate and rationale. Now I wonder, are debate and rationale the same? See…there I go again; Maureen says I’m incorrigible. Furthermore, she is convinced I do not really know what I am thinking until I read what I write. Duh. She’s likely right again.
Before retiring for the night, we sit at peace with one another and read out loud scriptures of ancient derivation that speak of a place far away in strange settings, in an uneasy land.