Day Five....

Day Five.  

Today we were not naked. And we were not afraid.  Just alone.  Except for the mosquitoes.  The generator doesn't work.  Our solar charger broke.  We lost our wifi signal.  The gas station is out of gas.  No ice at the store.  A pretty hot day made working on the villa repair list extra tiring.  We need two new windows, a new roof and replacement gutters but without parts we could not do much more than paint and clean.  A short hike to a secluded bay sounded like a good way to cool off so we packed our gear and headed to a beach. 

The hike was a familiar one but because of the storm damage to trees the aggressive growth of low plant life encroached eerily on the footpath.  Fewer hikers over the last two months meant lots more weeds.  Thorny Catch an' Keep grabbed at our legs.  Fallen prickly cactus and pieces of Monkey No Climb littered our trail.  National Park Service volunteers had cleared the fallen trees but the growing grasses lining the trail were now six feet high and thick.  Thankfully there are no snakes on the island but I would not have been surprised to see a lion jump out at us from the surrounding thicket.  We plodded onward sweating from the humidity and swatting at bugs gnawing on our necks.  To our right wild pineapples sprouted.  To our left a tree branch tied with a red ribbon with the words "killer tree" and a skull with crossbones warned us to think about turning back.  We ducked under another fallen tree and climbed down a rocky trail to the isolated beach. 

This had been a thin white sandy beach with coconut palm trees providing shade. We mournfully stepped over those same palm trees now lying on their sides sad and lifeless and scanned the now rocky beach for signs of life.  We were alone. 

Plunging into the sparkling water we snorkeled over the traumatized reef.  A couple of territorial lion fish hid under a ledge terrorizing and eating our harmless baby reef fish.  Lion fish quills are beautiful but poisonous so we kept our distance, noted our location relative to the beach and made a mental note to report these two criminals to the National Park Ranger office.  They will send out divers to spear the fish and keep them from doing any further damage to our fragile reef ecosystem.   A school of needlenose fish threaded past us.  A large barracuda appeared beside us like Batman, then disappeared just as suddenly.  Surfacing beside us for its obligatory three gulps of air, a big sea turtle said a big hello then retreated to the safety of its sea fans below.   Some parts of the reef looked just fine. 

On our walk back along the water's edge we dodged boulders from a recent rock slide.  We detoured around two massive boats deposited on the rocks completely out of the water by the hurricane's huge storm surge.  We recognized one of the boats as the sailboat we had enjoyed our first St. John cruise on nearly ten years ago.  An octopus startled us in the shallows siphoning and squirting water as he charged us, angry that we had interrupted his search for food.  He grabbed a rock and tried to disguise himself without success so charged us again.  He grabbed another rock.  A terrified crab scurried out of the water at our feet, claws extended and ready to pinch should we interfere with his escape from the hungry octopus.  A small lemon shark swam over to investigate all the commotion.  We laughed at this collection of silly sea predators behaving badly at our feet and visible to us from the safety of dry land. 

A tropical rain shower blew in quickly, thunder echoing between the green hillsides, its droplets stinging our skin and pushing us back along the trail.  We crossed a small stream that had not been there before the rain started.  A bashful egret took wing while a brave heron just stared at us stoically.  Two frigates soared high above us.  A mile later we arrived at our jeep and looking back where we had been we were graced with a full rainbow. 

God blesses this place. 

Day Four....

Day Four.

Today we hunted and gathered.  After a breakfast of Juice Plus Complete nutrition drink and some dried fruit Toni had gathered from back home we hunted our entire neighborhood this morning and saw upclose the damages a storm like this can do.  Most homes have significant damage; some are blown away.  We were fortunate.  We repaired the damage to our deck by replacing some missing floor panels with salvage pieces we had to saw with a tree branch pruner, then we shored up a broken corner with long galvanized screws and a special drill bit we had to hunt down at the St. John hardware store.  That is part of a routine here.  Start a project but realize you need to charge a tool battery or go find a part or a tropical rain shower bursts on you and that requires you to interrupt the repair.  So you improvise, or change and work on a different project. Things take more time to get done.  Everywhere we look there is something that needs attention but it gets done in segments. 

Without refrigeration we shop daily for food and ice if we can get it.  Ice even in a cooler will only last a day.  We eat a meal or two at local food places and since most are near hot spots we use that time to pirate their free wifi and get some internet stuff done.  Gas and material shortages are still a concern.  Every day we use a generator and our solar panels to recharge our devices.  Communications with insurance people and property manager team members and people back home are slow and erratic but we know they are doing their best under the circumstances.  Three people who helped me today each lost their homes but they continue to help us and others while dealing with their own personal chaos.  We are so grateful for them. 

After reading the book Sapiens by Yuval Harari, I compare the lives of our ancestors who were hunters and gatherers way back when to what we are experiencing.  They spent most of their day hunting for food and water and gathering those things they needed and then did it again the next day.  So are we, but life is much easier now.  Or is it?  Back home I work a 50 to 60 hour work week.  Our ancestors spent maybe only 35 hours a week hunting and gathering.  So I have little time to create and enjoy art and music; they had an abundance of time to watch the stars, dance, tell stories and be with family.  I stress about patient care decisions, money, and business challenges.  They worried about being eaten by a lion but that didn't happen often.  Instead of being scattered hundreds of miles away, their protective families and communities were close and supportive.  And since their food was fresh and organic they likely had a lot better nutrition than we do and consequently less disease. 

This week I have not checked the news or watched TV.  I have not worked for money.  I have not engaged in stressful business dealings.  My interactions with our community have been kinder and more meaningful.  Instead each day I absorb the peace of a sunrise and a sunset and soak in the sound of a tropical rain tapping on my roof.  My interactions with our small community have been kinder and more meaningful.  I have read books, written stories and watched the night sky.  Last night in the darkness of the island with no lights we were entertained by a stupendous meteor shower performing over our deck.  There will be another one tonight. 

Scanning the clear blue horizon with a even clearer mind I ponder frivolous ideas like why the first voyagers bravely paddled to this island, whether invading pirates of days gone by could sail into Rendezvous Bay below me to reach me with their cannonfire, and how a hermit crab under my stairs got there, six hundred feet from the ocean.  In a quiet bay today I snorkeled upon a large spotted eagle ray and a school of cuttlefish.  As they circled curiously under me over and over again I wondered what they must be thinking about me.  About my species.  And how we spend our brief time here. 

Day Three....

Day Three.

Today we played.  The cloud cover finally evaporated enough to let the sun work its magic.  A rainbow welcomed us from our sleep.  New vegetation glowed green as the jungle here reclaimed its dominance.  Our iguanas warmed up enough to crawl out of their trees.  Donkeys paraded around their newest kin and she nibbled happily on the low leaves. Waterfalls burst from the rocks as the recent flooding worked its way down the hillsides. The bays glowed an iridescent array of blues and greens and beckoned us from our home high above it all to come play.  So we did. 

Let the island come to you, I advise our friends and family when they visit.  It will call you.  With its history it will call you.  With its people it will call you.  With its beauty it will call you.  The phrase "island soon come" encourages patience while you wait for the call and promises a spiritual connection when you do.

We head to one of the top ten beaches in the world to say hello again to Trunk Bay, afraid to see firsthand the damage to it from the storms. There were only eight people on the beach including me and Toni and we tentatively explore the destruction.  I hold my breath as we follow the familiar path to the white sands and with relief we see the beautiful colors of the water erupt before us.  A fish jumps. Two frigates glide overhead while a couple of pelicans speed past.  The mesmerizing panoramic vistas of distant islands are unchanged but looking down the beach the damage to the vegetation is obvious.  Palm trees down.  Sand shifted.  Seagrapes ruined by the storm surge.  But these will come back and are already showing signs of rebirth.  I exhale.  Grin.  And run to jump in.  

The warm cerulean water is renewing.  Its healing powers massage my soul.  Its waves buoy my spirit.  Relieved to see the clear bottom below, I swim out and see more signs of life.  A sea fan waves.  A school of fish plays along the stressed reef, still covered with a thin layer of sediment but improving with each passing month.  As I soak it all in, I reflect on the beauty of the paradise that has been here for millennia and am reminded that we are just passing through, caretakers of this playground and guardians of its spirit.  

With our love the island of Saint John will call us again. 

For you.  For all of us.  Island soon come.  

Day Two....

Day Two.

Today we worked. 

The sun did rise again over St. John.  But not for long.  Apathetic rain clouds roll in letting only enough light through to reveal the work in store for us.  Along the distant hillside brave, industrious crews are thirty feet up, already busy erecting new power poles and replacing downed power lines but they are still a long way from our neighborhood.  I open two solar panels and connect them to a charger to help us recharge cell phones and a laptop as well as a portable lantern which will be our only source of light tonight.  Our phones show a strong cell signal but only at the far end of our deck so communications have to be done outside. Please don't rain!

Our gutters were blown off our house and are scattered in pieces all over our property.  Because we rely on rainwater landing on our roof to be collected by our gutter system and stored in a cistern under our house, we have a water problem.  Lifting a heavy floor plate allows an opening just big enough for me to squirm into this dark cavern which is only half full.  Toni laughingly hands me three buckets which I lower into this abyss and retrieve enough water for us to take a cold shower.  And for her to wash her hair.  We spend much of the day salvaging gutter pieces into a makeshift network which will collect enough water for our needs for now.  Please rain!

We realize much of the debris is from our neighbor's home which was demolished by what probably was a tornado.  A friend tells us there were many tornado cells within the hurricane and witnesses watched helplessly as the twisters shared in the random destruction.  Under the curious eyes of our iguanas, piece by piece we collect the debris, trudge it up the steep hillside covered with loose rocks to our growing pile of junk and deposit it there.  Twisted metal panels, splintered boards, parts of our neighbor's roof.  A sofa cushion we don't recognize.  Not sure who will help us carry it off, or when, or to where.  It is a Caribbean CrossFit Class but it feels good to do something.  

A team of disaster assistance island volunteers surprises us with some basic supplies.  Like gifts for the Magi, they parade down our stone staircase bearing six gallon jugs of water, cleaning supplies, joyful smiles and more news about the storms and the status of the community.  They are energized by our arrival and our spirits are boosted by their optimism.  A generator gets delivered but it doesn't work which is okay because it is a noise and environmental pollutant.  There is talk of Kenny Chesney generosity, Bloomberg philanthropy, Musk's Tesla batteries, and how this will happen again so we need better energy solutions.

The St. Johnians are patient and kind and focused on the challenges ahead.  A St. John Strong stranger smiles and says "One Love."  A beat up car drives by; its license plate reads "GR8FUL".  Another goes by with a bumper sticker "Positive Is How I Live."  We offer to help others but they say they are doing okay for now.  Another reason we love this place. 

On our way into town we dodge a few chickens trying to cross the road, pick up a hitchhiker named "Jamaikee", then devour one of the best dinners we've eaten in recent memory at one of the few restaurants open.  Happy to be contributing to the economic recovery, we share a bottle of wine, then retreat to our home.  I kill another scorpion with my dive knife, this time cutting him in half, and watch his top half crawl away like a zombie before I scoot into the safety of our bed.  Like vengeful vultures, two mosquitoes glare hungrily at us from outside our net.  Watching. Always watching. But we are too tired to wonder whether they are Zika carriers.  

It is dark.  Our aching bodies tell us to rest a while and finally our busy minds give in to sleep. 

Day One....

Day One. 

Today we listened.  

Conversations about the future of the island economy were expressed by strangers on our flight.  We heard FEMA representatives and fellow homeowners describing their challenges.  We listened to islander stories of what the storm felt like that day two months ago.  Water shooting in through barricaded windows like a fire hose trying to put out a flame.  Ears popping as the sounds of a freight train engulfed their homes with tornadic winds clocked at 287 miles per hour.  Sustained winds over 187 mph for five hours. Tears welling up as each told a story of what their paradise looked like as they crept out from their hiding places.  Homes destroyed.  Jobs lost.  Stories of neighbor helping neighbor long before the National Guard and Red Cross arrived with much needed rations of Vienna sausages, MREs, Pringles and Skittles.  It has been two months. Things are much better we are told.  The island will recover.  

Arriving just before sunset we witness the devastation. Too many boats to count rendered helpless by the storm now rest on waterfronts where some of our favorite restaurants that three months ago welcomed us with food and fellowship are now barricaded shut.  They will open again soon but the quiet among fellow passengers trying to take it all in was deafening.  Pictures do not capture it.  So we listen. 

The ride to our home showcases the damage.  Blue FEMA tarps secure exposed rooftops and dot the landscape where thick tropical trees once hid the hillside homes.  National Guard troops in full gear head to the ferry to catch the last one back to camp as the sun disappears.  Despite the lack of electricity there are no stars tonight.  Our neighborhood does not look familiar and our property is a mess.  Debris still fights the tortured greenery trying to make a comeback.  The hole in our roof is covered now thanks to the heroic efforts of generous friends who despite losing their homes in the storm found their way to our home and secured it.  Too sick to our stomachs to eat, we unpack our survival gear and down some concentrated nutrition.  No running water.  No power.  Our dark bedroom welcomes our new flashlights.  We unpack a mosquito net and figure out how to secure it around our bed then open the windows to lessen the heat and humidity.  We cry.  When a scorpion tries to share the toilet with me,  I kill him with my dive knife.  A startled gecko nervously escapes into one of our suitcases.  We cry some more.  

We climb into bed and embrace the warm breezes that stir our covers but the unfriendly whine of generators compete with the soothing sounds of the surf and keep us tossing and turning all night.  A single gunshot echoes from down the hill.  A thunderstorm breaks the heat.  Dogs bark.  What will the light of day torment us with tomorrow?  We say our prayers, grateful for the safety of our island friends and that our home weathered the storms, and finally fall asleep.  

We love this place.  The sun will rise again soon and we will hear it when it does.  






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