Part III
Paradise
There was a little port, a long time ago, where I found some life. This place was a pearl of an island in the necklace of gems that encircles the Caribbean. The sands were pure white, without a dark drift or occlusion of construction to ruin perfect crescents. The people there were sunny and colorful, just as the daylight and tumble-down sort of town in which they lived.
The ship was at anchor, perhaps a mile from the coast, so we hired boats to wing us in to shore. The rides were insanely fast, bumpy and exhilarating. Spray from the bow soaked everything in the boats, and the coxswains (pronounced cox’ns) were absolutely nuts, chasing each others’ wakes and thoroughly tumbling me and the rest of the passengers about like dice in a cup. But it was amazing fun.
Pulling up to the tiny slip that had been reserved for us was as smooth and effortless as the ride in had been bruising and jolted. I remember climbing up to the pier a little unsteadily, blinded by the bright sun. Only an hour ago I had been finishing up nearly an entire day of work in that dark dungeon of combat, so the light was stabbing the beginnings of a headache into my skull already.
Not to be discouraged by a little rough ride and mild blindness, I stumbled off down to shore, trying to lose my sea-legs and figure out what should be first on my agenda. The hardest thing about a liberty call is to decide whether to eat, explore, expend (money) or just expire. All I wanted to do was find a quiet shanty and collapse in the shade for a short nap. Maybe until noon the next day would suffice. But that was just not going to be acceptable. The time ashore was short, maybe two whole days at best, so I had to make the very best of it and in short order. So food had to come first. If you can’t rest, you need energy, so I headed for the nearest fare.
Now in foreign ports, there are three principles to consider. First, there’s always the five star extravaganza to be found in resort hotels. I’m convinced there are no more places in the world that do not have these in some form or other, and it was certainly the case here. Five star means clean, bright, full and expensive. Very good food and very pricey. Some ports, like Thailand’s little secrets, can provide a monstrous spread for a minuscule price, but that’s Thailand, a whole different story I’ll tell you someday.
Second, there’s local. Local food is the best. Find it, eat it, hate it if you will, but to avoid native food is the greatest insult one can deliver to one’s self. Never mind insulting the natives. They just want your money (though are certainly pleased beyond compare to hear praise of their own cooking) or your attention, or just to know you. They don’t mind your quest for familiar food, especially when food-queasy stomachs cause social disasters. But the flame-broiled thingummy on a stick is to die for (and if it kills you, you died well, at least, and probably on a full stomach).
Third, there’s the fear factor. Don’t go for local in the dirtiest corner of the back alley. There are limits to everything, and risking the inclusion of pre-dead food that is only reported to be freshly killed is somewhat unhealthy, and you just can’t know, so if there aren’t any customers, it’s probably for a reason.
So I remember a great meal (and a little worry that I might have got too close to the third principle. And there is a cure, usually, which is beer. Now in liberty ports, even the girls drink the beer. This is an international law and is immune to gross-out and unladylike labels. Not only that, but the water is automatically under principle three and not even suitable for teeth breeshing.
Food problem solved, and still unsteady from the ship we headed off into the noon sun. Or was it that last beer? Exploration was the next thing to approach. I (and my partners, who had finally met up and eaten, having come late from the ride to shore) went off to see the sites.
This fine little town, sort of run-down in a loving sort of way, was as colorful as a basket of Easter eggs. Houses were painted, roof to doorjambs in the gaudiest colors you could imagine. Pink coral was built right up against blue that was bluer than the sky. Red and purple buildings clashed with faded, minty green ones. It was a pure riot of colors. Everyone had a different color, and a camera would die of confusion before getting a good shot. We wandered past these houses and shops, stopping to gawk in front of the most garish ones, wishing we could have cool houses like these.
The streets were half paved and half dirt. The dirt appeared to be winning the battle for supremacy simultaneously attacking the sidewalks to secure even more territory. Drifts of dirt were everywhere, and we had to watch our step at every turning, because some of the dirt was also part of the houses’ drainage systems. Dump the water out the front door, into the dirt, which keeps down the dust and also the trespassers. We steered wide of the mud puddles and simply wandered.
Wandering in a Caribbean port is a rather scientific sort of thing. First, it’s terribly hot. Maybe not as hot as, say the desert in Arizona, or in the middle of the ocean on the ship, but it’s hot. We needed to stop for drinks nearly every half-hour. Exploration required a good memory of where we’d been, too, because the map of the town was good for finding the edges and the beaches, and that was about it. Directions were in Spanish, which put our odds of getting back pretty much dependent on our memories. It was custom for one of us to become the chairman of the committee for remembering how to get back. Lastly, in the science of wandering the port town was the goal. This was the hardest thing to determine, for someone always voted for another round of that fantastic native brew, others wanted the local historic sites (they have these, just like five-star hotels in every port, though you might not ever realize the historicity), others wanted that mysterious beach that was the legend of every port (and we searched every port to find it. I saw it once, but that’s also another story, like Thailand, which you’ll hear of another time).
In all, it was settled that we would find the quietest beach with a restaurant, a bar, a souvenir shop and beach-furniture all at once. It’s not too far-fetched a quest for all this in one package, for the liberty port is always just as you imagined it, and even more like you remember it..
We certainly did find the place. A little lagoon, far enough off the beaten track to avoid the rest of the fleet of sailors who had come ashore, was lined with palm trees and guarded by the clearest, bluest water imaginable. There was a break, a line of rock at the seaward end of the little cove that was our beach, which kept the waves from the open sea from roughing up the water. We could swim in perfect, smooth, sparkling water without fear of being knocked about This is vital when crossing one-handed from one end of the beach to the other, holding food or drinks above our heads along the way. But that was later on.
We settled down, with a swarm of well-dressed waiters (it turned out this was a five-star beachaurantbar) guiding us to pristine, white lawn chairs and low tables. Our orders duly submitted, our cold drafts in our hands, we all leaned back in unison, to rest sore legs (I think it was five miles from the slips to the beach) and feet.
And we all jumped right back up again, screaming in agony. You see, we’d done a very smart and very foolish thing both at the same time. A hot day means no shirt. And we had shucked our tops as soon as we were clear of the mobs in town (rules from the ship said keep clothes on unless at the beach). So the girls and guys (girls kept their swimsuit tops, because it wasn’t that kind of resort island) had spent the better part of two hours roasting in the midday sun. Sunscreen only works to a limited degree, specifically limited to whether you remember to put it on. So our backs were burnt to match the colors of some of the brightest buildings in town, and hurt to even look at. We all entertained ourselves by making white prints on our pink skin for awhile, but eventually someone came up with the bright idea that the water was cool and would provide relief. So in we went.
About the time I was sighing with relief, the cool water lapping up against my chin, the food came down. The service apparently had dealt with this sort of thing before, and had all our orders on big plates, cups filled with napkins and cutlery, and they called for us to come and get it. Bemoaning our predicament, we struggled our weary way from the water and to the waiters. Food won out over comfort.
But the masters of our paradise lagoon would have none of us coming up to the tables. They handed us the plates, the cups, more beer for those who had free hands, and pointed across the water to the rocky break. Ah, heaven. There, only a short swim away, was a natural table, smooth and just waiting for us to set up camp. And the one-armed, slow pilgrimage to cool watery dining was underway. It turned out that, though we couldn’t see it from where we were at the start, there was also a low-lying floating platform near the break, just right for climbing on, or setting the more stable items we carried. And there at the break, the bottom was just the right depth for nearly floating, tip-toed on the soft sand, that we could eat with heads just above water. I’ll never forget that dinner. What a fantastic way to dine. Friends, cool water soothing burnt skin, great eating and all the clumsy silliness of trying to keep afloat and keep the food dry at the same time. We laughed and carried on for the rest of the afternoon, shopping and sightseeing and even time itself forgotten.
When the food was done and the sun was setting (we ate long and lavishly, like monarchs in ancient eastern feasts on these liberty trips), there was nothing left to do but lay about, floating, playing at water acrobatics, and drinking away the night. When the sun was gone, the lights at the bar went on, and the whole scene was suddenly spectacular. The lighting was all colored globes and hot yellow spotlights splashing the water and rocks with color. Music started up (they all know the American routine in every port, especially these secret hideaways). Jimmy Buffett and all the classic island songs blared out from crackly, half-ancient speakers, and everyone became famous singers at once.
We stood up on that float, which was fairly challenging, since we had to share the space aboard with a pyramid of dishes, bottles and cans, and none of it, nor us, too steady in any case, and sang our hymns of the tropics to the rest of paradise. We sang of Mekong, the stars, our left-behind loves (and new ones, for some), our great country, our beloved homes, our dogs and our starry night. There were enough songs that even the actually good singers grew hoarse and eventually sounded just as horrible as the rest of us. It was incredible, the whole day.
Round midnight, we finally trucked our debris back up to the waiters, who smiled knowingly, took all our money and helped us find our things and gingerly patted us on our backs as we headed up to the road back to town. Nary a word was shared between us and the staff, as neither party knew the others’ language (at least admittedly, of course, since most places a ship can visit actually house people who can speak better English than us visitors who are native speakers). We worked our way back to town, unsteady now as we had been on that float. I don’t think a single moment of the day had been steady, now that I consider it, but it worried none of us at the time.
We found our hotel, just a two-story piece of construction, just a few minutes down the road. There, we managed to barter two rooms in exchange for tokens and ball caps, and a few other odds and ends of Americana (the money was all back at the beach, remember). We sent the girls to one, the guys to the other, and everyone found their spot for the night (strangely all face down), and died that peaceful death of having done all there is to do, with no worries, no deadlines, and no strength left to deal with them anyway.
Those trips to shore were the absolutely essential part of a sailor on the water. This, too, has been a mandatory tradition since the first crews set out in search of what the sea offered. Port calls mean absolute freedom, release from the lines, the heave, the watch, all those things that command our very souls at sea. When the ship leaves port, all bills are paid, but when the ship pulls into port, all pains are relieved. Some say they’ll return to those tiny paradise places one day, to retire, or just to visit. I don’t think I will, for I wouldn’t like to find out that they weren’t paradise places but simply moments in time, made fine, made wondrous because they were simply just what was needed for bleary-eyed feeble sailors who had been too long at sea.
Some men were made for the sea, but the land is their home. Not all men will know the life that is the sea, but not all will know the absolute that is land because of the sea.
Out.
Part I can be found here: https://coldcoffeeandflannel.wordpress.com/2008/04/06/from-the-sea-1/
Part II can be found here: https://coldcoffeeandflannel.wordpress.com/2008/04/08/from-the-sea-2/
Cold Coffee and Flannel 