11 November 1997, Tuesday
I rise late. It’s almost 7am. The loft bedroom we had built in our beachfront condo in St Kitts, West Indies, is ten feet above what the architect planned as the master bedroom. The master bedroom was transformed into my office. We ordered in from off island a circular metal and wood staircase that drops from the loft bedroom straight down into the office. We were fortunate to get all the extra construction done from the original builder before the condo was yet complete. Occasionally it’s a bit difficult to negotiate the space-saving stairs when sleepwalking from the bedroom down to the master bath. Centered in the office east wall are sliding glass doors of unusually high quality bordered on both sides by wood shuttered vertical windows. All the glass is hurricane proof triple pane. The doors open onto a red-tiled veranda about 30 feet wide bordered with strong wood railings of intricate design painted white.
Standing in the bedroom loft I squint against the morning sun that illuminates the open porch and streams unstopped through glass doors facing the ocean. The sun is strong and over brightens the office below. Nude, I stagger down and around the circular staircase that delivers me onto the large cool tiles that comprise the office floor. A long languid stretch, and two glasses of water later, I step out onto the deck and unabashedly flop down in a lounge chair facing the rising sun. I close my eyes and feel the already hot star beaming almost horizontally on my face. Somewhere buzzing in the back of my consciousness is a reminder that I’m completely undressed, outside, and in full view of anyone returning to Leeward Cove through the beach access gazebo about a hundred feet to my right.
My normal tendency is towards modesty, yet I lie there, lazy, soaking in the morning brilliance, effectively stifling my mind’s attempt to warn me of such insolent behavior. Unable to quiet my thoughts for any length of time, a few minutes later I return inside wondering if my lack of daytime propriety warns of a changing personality. After all, what on earth would my children think?
Eventually I find some swim shorts and sit down at the computer and try to access the Internet. No luck. Caribsurf is, as of yet, the only real Internet service provider in the Caribbean. They are thoroughly oversubscribed given the dearth of equipment they have allocated to this increasingly critical service. Usually, I’m only assured of getting online between 6 and 8 in the morning and after 11 at night, but today it’s no go.
Maureen’s up and must have been effected by the same strange influence that I was. She’s doing the laundry stark naked. This is not a familiar sight, it leaves me feeling a little wicked, a little aroused, and perhaps a little worried about the island’s effect on us.
Island life, particularly where we live here at the edge of a mostly private seashore, seems to promote a feeling of relaxed freedom. And. regardless of a law to the contrary, that independence seems to increasingly be focused on sunbathers’ desire to be free from the restrictions of clothing. Bare sun worshipers are not necessarily exhibitionists, particularly considering a crowd on our beach at this time of year is anything over about five people spread across an entire mile of beachfront. However, nude sunbathing is not something we are used to seeing, and not something we’ve ever done. We’re the religious, family oriented, modest type. Okay, so there were a couple of times on the bow of our boat in a remote bay several days cruise from the nearest anything, way up the Inside Passage on the way to Alaska. And, there was a high mountain stream once when we were much, much, younger, but I’m off the point and that’s another story entirely.
CNN, the BBC, and every other news station brought to us via satellite, all seem to be attempting to create news of Sadam’s claim he’ll shoot down the next U-2 type flight that dares cross Iraqi air space. Days of the same thing with no real developments, presented by rabid reporters acting like the world is about to come to an end, are getting to be a bit much. We head for the beach.
An old Ford tractor, the first I’ve seen on our beach, is about vintage 1940’s. It is stopped in the sand, right in front of our gazebo with an open trailer almost full of sea grass. Five men, two of them Rastafarians, hold pitch forks ready to scoop more of the finally chopped verdant seaweed off the sand and into the trailer. Each of them seems to be frozen in mid-motion. No one moves. They’re all starring north down the beach as we walk out and around them and head off south on the first leg of our daily walk. Glancing back over my shoulder I spot the object of their attention. A topless woman around mid twenties standing at waters edge gazing out to sea.
Distracted I plod on towards where the beach abruptly stops at the remains of an ancient lava flow. A molting crab, half in, and half out, of his freshly dug hole decides the best course of action is to freeze at my lumbering approach. Trapped in my own world of thought I come all to close to stepping directly on him. Almost too late he jerks undecidedly and remains in virtually the same place. His reflex catches my eye, probably saving his life, and spares me the humiliation of squashing a six-legged creature a bit wider than my size eleven bare foot. Surprised and a bit unraveled I commence jumping about from one foot to another like some kind of kook practicing an Indian dance. Both the crab and I are pretty shaken by the event. With my heart beating rapidly I look up and around to discover Maureen lost in thought standing in the surf, facing out to sea not fifty feet away, no one else is within half a mile. Good. Saved from further embarrassment, I saunter over towards her as if nothing happened.
As is our routine, after touching the porous black rock, an old lava flow at beach end, we turn and start back. I usually walk a mile or so on past our initial starting point before returning. Sometimes Maureen joins me, sometimes not. The sound of the waves, the warm breeze, and my steady pace in slightly sinking sand carries me off in thought. My mind drifts to yesterday’s chance meeting with Michael King, the managing director, (in the States we’d call him the president), of TDC.
As any one on the islands of St Kitts, Nevis, or Anguilla will instantly tell you, TDC is short for “Those Damn Crooks.” Even Michael King refers to TDC this way laughing affably whenever he tells the story of how three Nevisians returning home after being off island for many years formed the original Trade & Development Company. In those days everyone said TDC stood for “Three Damn Crooks,” for the original three partners. Eventually one of the partners died leaving TDC to stand for “Two Damn Crooks.” And now, since our neighbor, Jacque Cramer retired, TDC stands for simply “Those Damn Crooks,” referring to the company at large, or “That damn crook” meaning Michael King himself.
TDC can best be described as a big fish in the small pond of Caribbean enterprise. They own everything from the local Coca-Cola bottling business to a large construction company. They own a masonry firm, well-drilling outfit, the Ocean Terrace Hotel, Fisherman’s Wharf, the main car dealership, auto rentals, an insurance company, a home mortgage and finance company, a furniture store, office supply house, an equipment company, and on it goes. TDC pays around 25% of the total tax base of this three-island nation.
As it happened, Maureen and I were both overheated and wet with perspiration as we walked out from the second floor of TDC’s office furniture facility yesterday about 2pm in the afternoon. We’d just come from one floor down and around the corner at TDC’s office supply center. I was not a happy camper, and it showed. The King, as he is universally known, called us and bid we join him for a cup of coffee. (Now how could anyone think something hot in this heat I wonder?) I decline while struggling to be friendlier. He virtually insists and we quickly find ourselves inside the TDC air-conditioned Board Room where a woman of professional conduct asks us what we’d like to drink. Maureen asks for a Coke, and I ask her to double that. Michael King quips loudly to his secretary: “that’s Coca Cola they’re asking for Jamie, not the white stuff.
King insists I tell him what was bothering me. He’s the kind of fellow you simply cannot refuse, nor do I really want to. He is lanky but imposing, about six foot five, well mannered and always friendly. Probably in his early sixties he’s in good shape, well read, both fun and intellectually stimulating to be around. He is thoroughly used to being in charge, a trait I can easily identify with. I’ve liked this guy since I first met him. Michael King and his charming wife Joyce, (whom he calls the Queen on account of how everyone calls him the King), Jacque Cramer, (a retired Damn Crook) and his wife Josie, and Maureen and I, all live in Leeward Cove, the only gated community in the islands. Each Monday night we join together at a Leeward Cove party at poolside to swap stories and generally hangout.
I briefly share my story of seemingly never-ending frustration. Getting used to island life requires a lot of flexibility. The office furniture I ordered through TDC and paid for a year ago has still not arrived. Well, actually I understand it did arrive, but it was not what I ordered so it was sent back while I was in the States. I never actually saw it. The last three times I’ve come to St Kitts my computers, fax, phones, printer, etc., either resided on the floor or sat on top of outdoor deck furniture brought in from the veranda. This time the attractive Kim Mallilieu, formerly Ms. Kim Cramer, (daughter of Jacque and Josie), provided me with a small desk and collapsible table to work from. This helped a lot but my files were still piled all over the floor. So…. rather than wait for furniture no one can seem to determine when will arrive, I called Kim and ordered a four-drawer file cabinet which they had in stock. I assumed it would fit neatly out of sight in a closet.
The file cabinet I’d bought for temporary use was shortly delivered. It was legal width rather than letter sized width. All of the hanging files and hanging notebooks I’d brought from the States were not wide enough to hang inside. I tried to get TDC to exchange the cabinet but the only size file cabinets they sell on island are legal width. Kim was sympathetic, but hey, that’s the way it is on the island. She recommended I buy legal sized hanging files from TDC’s office supply store and reorganize my files accordingly.
Maureen and I made the fifth trip to town in as many days endeavoring to straighten out situations that would only require a simple phone call back home. When Michael King spotted us we’d just come from the office supply store where we discovered they only stock letter sized hanging files in a country that only stocks legal sized file cabinets. Go figure. Oh well, I now have someplace out of the way to pile my files. I’m stacking them in the oversized drawers and trying to fit the over-size cabinet in a closet. I guess I’ll work on a piling system, instead of a filing system.
Interrupted from my reverie, as I continue walking down the beach, I realize I’m just about to run head long into a pinkish-orange bikini. A dishwater blond, athletic figure, with too much sun in the face, offers a half smile that infers a question mark and more than a little suspicion. I can hear her thinking, “Not very clever of you fellow, in all this beach with no one anywhere in sight you just accidentally almost walk right into me?”
Flustered, I mumble hello and re-commence my mental meandering accompanied with the study of one foot in front of the other. After all, I’d better watch where I’m stepping --- the crab thing of twenty minutes earlier and all.
It suddenly occurs to me that I’m supposedly walking the beach with my wife. I turn around to discover her 100 yards back; she waives happily and motions for me to not wait for her. She either did not see my second embarrassing act of the day or wrote it off to an obvious lack of grace.
Another mile in quiet contemplation and I come to realize I’m well past my normal turning point at the beach house that services Jack Tar’s resort well back of the beach, located on a small lake. These sunbathers are the ones willing to walk the quarter mile path to seaside, instead of laying out at their swimming pools or hanging out at Jack Tar’s private lake. Now already past Half Moon Bay, I turn and head back, no one is in sight. Rounding the point that marks the extreme northern edge of Jack Tar’s beach I come upon a striking dark-haired woman removing her bikini, completely. It’s impossible that she was here minutes ago in my passing. She stretches provocatively; half turns and observes my open stare. She smiles, places hands on hips with hands turned out and elbows forward, folds up her long legs smoothly under her in one fluid motion, and gracefully drops to her beach towel while watching me and maintaining eye contact. Wow! It’s impossible to think a man could be so graceful! It’s also a shame she didn’t look away. There’s something about a nude woman holding eye contact that makes you feel really stupid if you let your eyes drop.
Somehow, I’d missed the fact that my wife was sitting in the sand not thirty feet directly in front of this alluring lady. I walk to Maureen and squat down to talk, barely able to control the urge to turn and stare. Maureen has a silly grin on her face. Busted!
No longer lost in thought and now very much aware of the local scenery I help Maureen to her feet, she takes three steps into the surf, gets hit by an unexpected wave and falls into the water laughing. Her laughter is so infectious and fun. Turning towards the dark-haired naked sea sprite, she is laughing and smiling directly at us. She’s certainly not bashful. Splashing around, Maureen finally gets to her feet, and we walk back home together, hand-in-hand, newly aware of our surroundings and feeling happy and glad to be alive. All thoughts of the filing cabinet issues and similar distractions are gone. Man do I love this place!