A Slice of Paradise

          The next morning I appeared at the appropriate gate for my boarding call and shortly we were on our way.  Fortunately it was a flight with a meal as I had spent my last dime on the ticket.   No matter how many times I fly, I’m always a little nervous when the plane takes off and this occasion was mixed with the nervous excitement of literally going into the unknown with no money and no job, which is something we are all told never to do.  I might have allowed myself to panic but the beauty of flying over the ocean wouldn’t let me.  We flew quite high and the panorama reminded me of a Jobim song called “A Ranch in the Clouds” complete with huge formations that seemed to roll endlessly on taking my thoughts with them.   Even though we descended gradually, all of a sudden we were coming upon the small island airport and a definite tense feeling filled the air.  We could not see the runway at all but out my window it seemed like the plane was going right into the ocean and a knot quickly formed in the pit of my stomach. The mountain to my left got higher and higher while the ocean was now at surfing level as I clutched the armrest with a vengeance. Just when I was sure we were going to hit the water the plane touched down on solid ground and emergency-landing procedures went into effect (I later found out that this was quite normal for this airport).  I gripped my armrest so tightly that it should have snapped off but before I knew it the plane was slowly taxiing and as it turned I could see a huge mountain just at the end of the runway.  We stopped, I breathed a sigh of relief and then something unexpected happened.  As I walked through the open door a strong breeze of the freshest air I can remember hit me in the face and I beheld an almost endless line of coconut palm trees on the shore of a crescent shaped beach whose sand was whiter than I had ever seen.  I felt instantly like I was home, really home.

           St. Thomas, a rare gem of an island was now beneath my feet for the first time and I knew everything was right.  Of course having no money doesn’t buy a cab ride but as I began walking from the airport with my backpack and guitar a guy driving an open jeep with no roof or doors offered me a ride.  He was on his way to go surfing on the other side of the island and had just dropped a friend off.  As we were leaving I could plainly see the beach I had previously viewed from the open door of the plane and in the middle of it was a thatched roof hotel called the Island Beachcomber.  I don’t know why, but it just seemed so appropriate that I began to wonder if I had set the whole scene up in my dreams and that my own personal reality had taken over for at least this part of the universe.

           My new friend Paul began telling me how relaxed the pace of life was in general but he strongly suggested that I go immediately to the smaller island of St. John and said things there were even more relaxed. I asked why he didn’t live there and he simply said, “No surf.” On our right we were passing what looked like a city of shanties many of which were built with palm fronds and cardboard boxes. This area known as Frenchtown was inhabited by the “Frenchies” who had lived on the island for hundreds of years.  They not only were expert fishermen but also had huge farms on the Northside of the island and they were virtually independent of everyone else.  Even their language, a French/English “patois” was unique and when they wanted, only they could understand it.