Mountain Man and City Girl

 (This entire 17-part story can be found in the “travel” category.)

The US Virgin Islands can be a culture shock to folks from the United States, which I soon learned the islanders call “continentals”.  The race demographics of people are 89% black, 1% Asian, and the remaining 10% are whites comprised of a mixture of old Dutch, Europeans, and “continentals”, like myself.

Stepping off the airport runway and into the terminal, which was the approximate size of a basketball court, I got my first taste of island life.  Everyone was smiling, laid back, and willing to help.  Oh yes, and more than willing to offer some service that would part you from some of your American dollars.

I hopped on a bus, one of those 20-seat rattle traps, and headed into Charlotte Amalie, the capitol of St. Thomas.  I absorbed everything I saw on the ride.  I pulled out the list of contacts I had compiled and plotted my first day.  Once in the capitol, I departed the bus and searched out the non-tourist hotel I had been told about.  I walked through the busy downtown market, where all types of locals were hawking their wares.

I located the hotel, booked two nights, stashed my gear, and wandered back to downtown and the harbor district.  My best bet to get the feel of the island was to talk with local vendors, many of whom were transplanted continentals in their 20’s and 30’s.  Most had come here, like me, for an extended working visit, and then decided to stay.  My looks - 38 years old, bearded, jeans and tee shirt - made it easy for me to quickly be labeled a non-tourist.  It would open doors.

I spent the day walking around looking in the duty free shops that were crowded with cruise ship patrons, getting a feel for the local flavor, and talking to as many locals as I could - black or white.  My first impressions were that the island was very colorful, drivers traveled on the left side of the road rather the right, the cars tended to be small, and traffic was congested.  In Charlotte Amalie, you could make better progress walking.

I was also struck by the devastation caused by Hurricane Hugo.  It seemed like every fourth house was missing all or part of its roof.  Many windows were boarded up, or at least covered in cloth.  There were telephone poles laying every where, with broken lines still attached.  Trees were uprooted and toppled over, or missing their tops.  It was eerie.  I felt for these people, though they bravely seemed to take it in stride.

As a steel drum band played on the square in front of the post office, I sat on the lawn and reflected on my week long trip than brought me from New Jersey to St. Thomas.  It had been filled with ups and downs, but here I was at the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.  The Virgin Island license plates constantly reminded me that I was in “American Paradise”.

The next morning, I was up early and ready to go.  This was the day my job hunt would begin.  My first stop was Frenchman’s Reef, a large destination resort located on the edge of town.  I hoped to land a job as a waiter, something I have the knack to make a lot of money at.  I hitchhiked over there, taking less than an hour.  At first glimpse, I was disheartened.  The resort was wrecked, with half its windows and doors blown out.  I proceeded into the lobby, where I was given an employment application and told that they would certainly hire me at Christmastime, over two months away.  That wouldn’t do.

I left, and stuck out my thumb to head to my second choice for a job.  I was immediately picked up by a young thirty-ish French guy in a small pickup truck.  We talked and he asked what I was doing here.  “I came to live here for the winter and be a waiter,” I stated.  “I might take a part time carpentry job, too.”

“What if I offered you a full time construction job with good pay?” he asked.  “How much would you need to make per hour to forget being a waiter?”  That was an interesting proposition.  Since I had my heart set on being a waiter, I named at outrageous figure.  “Can you start tomorrow?” he replied.  I was stunned, “Sure”.

He took me to meet the boss and company owner, Willie, we shook hands on the deal, and I bid them farewell until tomorrow morning.  Here I was, two hours into my job search, and I was all set.  Yes!!!  Maybe this really is American Paradise.

- Mountain Man

 (This entire 17-part story can be found in the “travel” category.)

I finished out the damp evening by going over to the bridge, just 50 yards away, and climbing up to the concrete ledge where my backpack and duffel bag were stashed.  I didn’t sleep much, but at age 38 I didn’t tolerate laying on hard surfaces as well as I did at 25.

At first light I gathered my stuff, including the soaking wet sleeping bag, and headed in the general direction of the hiring office for shipmates.  I stopped and hung out in a park as I killed time until the office opened at 9am.  I met a person in the park and we swapped pleasantries.  Soon I was relating my attempt to find a ride to the US Virgin Islands.

“Why don’t you fly?” he said.  “I just did it and it only cost $79″.  That didn’t really interest me.  Besides, I don’t like heights and hadn’t flown in 20 years.

Finally, at 9 o’clock the office opened.  I told the woman, a real sourpuss, that I wanted to work my way to St. Thomas.  She wasn’t very encouraging, saying it would be a week before there were any openings.  She handed me an application and I left.  I opened the 8-page form outside as I walked, frowned, and dropped it in the nearest trash can.

I spent the rest of the morning and half of the afternoon hanging out in marinas looking for a ride.  The 75-foot yachts, 150-footers, the 200-footers, I tried them all.  No dice.  The designer clothes crowd wouldn’t budge.

By 4 o’clock, I was frustrated.  Then I thought of my friend in the park.  Maybe I should fly?  Heck, I had gotten from North Carolina to here on less than $20.  My only expenses were calamine lotion, cotton balls, a couple beers, and two quarts of chocolate milk.  And I did have $1,200 hidden in my socks.

I kept rationalizing until I won myself over.  I called the airport and found a $79 flight at 6:00am directly to St. Thomas.  I booked it.  By 7pm, I had hitchhiked to the airport, where I spent the night sleeping on the floor with folks who had missed their connections and were waiting for the next flight.  I came at night because I didn’t want to risk thumbing at 4am and missing my flight.

At 5:45, they loaded us into one of those little puddle-jumper planes.  It was small and intimate and only about 30 people.  And hopefully less scary than one of those jumbo jets.  Soon we were airborne, and in an hour and a half we were preparing to land in St. Thomas.

I was ready to explode from anticipation.  I was about to live out one of my 10 goals.  Cross another off the list.  As we dropped down toward our runway, I could see the palm trees, the towns, the harbors, the blue-green Caribbean waters, the hotels, the shops, the natives, the culture.  Touch down.  I took a deep breath.  I was in the American Paradise!

- Mountain Man

 (This entire 17-part story can be found in the “travel” category.)

I awoke in the pre-dawn hours to the biting of little gnats.  They were annoying, and getting me at a time when my chigger bites from North Carolina were just starting to clear up.  My only refuge was to snuggle down into my sleeping bag and pull the top closed.  The only trouble was that it was too warm to do that.  In minutes I was a sweat ball.  I hadn’t set up my tent - which was orange - because I didn’t want to attract attention to myself.

Within a half hour, I’d had enough.  I got out of my sleeping ball, rolled it up, and headed back to the highway.  It would be light soon so I’d surely get a ride.  It was a Sunday, but sometimes the decreased traffic this early in the day was an advantage.  It only took a few minutes before I was in a car and speeding down I-95 toward Miami.

By noon, I was in Miami at the marina district.  I had several good rides that morning, meeting interesting people.  A young 20-something guy had spent time in the US Virgin Islands, and he supplied me with contact names in St.Thomas.  He even suggested a non-tourist hotel that would be the perfect place to stay while I found more permanent accommodations.  But first I had to get there.

Now to find a ride to the Virgin Islands.  I began that quest by finding a place to stash my backpack and duffel bag.  Under a bridge, next to an upscale marina on the Intracoastal Waterway, I saw a ledge.  No one would ever spot my possessions up there.  I climbed up the concrete support pillar and packed my stuff outta sight. 

I enjoyed my freedom of movement again.  No 60 pounds of stuff to carry.  I normally carry only a backpack, but the prospect of construction work in St. Thomas after the devastation caused by Hurricane Hugo had caused me to double my load by carrying carpentry tools.  I expected to be there at least half a year, so I didn’t skimp on supplies, either.

I spent the afternoon going from marina to marina, dock to dock.  I find that if you just act like you belong there and have a smile on your face, nobody questions you.  The large yachts, I discovered, were in town for a boat show that just began.  None of them were heading to the Caribbean until the following Sunday.  That wouldn’t do.

I tried the docks that housed the working boats.  I found a few that were taking supplies to the Virgin Islands, but none were leaving until at least Wednesday.  I’m too impatient to wait that long.  Also, it was now October.  I was anxious to get to St. Thomas.

I did get a suggestion to try the place that finds crew jobs for guys.  They’d be open first thing Monday morning, so that became my plan.  So I headed back to the bridge to check on my stuff.  It was all there, safe and secure.  I decided to head toward the marina bar district, where plenty of ship captains would no doubt be out partying.  I talked to several boating people in bars, but no luck. 

Time to get some sleep.  I returned to the bridge, got my sleeping bag, then snuck into a real fancy marina complex.  Staying out of sight, I laid out my sleeping bag behind a row of meticulously pruned shrubs on the perfectly manicured lawn.  I was soon fast asleep.  It wouldn’t last.

I was startled awake.  A pop-up irrigation sprinkler came on about 4am.  Problem was, it was directly under my sleeping bag.  What to do?  I pulled my bag back enough to expose the sprinkler head, then pushed it back down with my hand.  It kept watering, but only gushing a small geyser from the ground.  I had to hold it 10 minutes or so before it finally finished its cycle and shut off.  My bag was drenched.  My shirt and head were soaked, my spirit dampened. 

- Mountain Man

 (This entire 17-part story can be found in the “travel” category.)

The fourth day of our waterborne journey would end in a much different manner than expected.  After entering Florida near Fernandina Beach, the captain again became anxious over the one diesel engine’s performance.  The oil pressure was running low and the engine sounded different than the previous day.  The captain was worried about putting too much stress on the healthy engine as it picked up the additional load.

Again traveling at a slower speed, we proceeded south.  We had seen a few alligators at the mouth of some creeks on our trip, but today I hoped to spot a bigger prize.  Manatees are beautiful creatures that almost seem a cross between an elephant seal and a mermaid.  I sat up front at the ship’s bow to try to increase my chances of seeing one.

We passed Jacksonville, where the Intercoastal Waterway crosses the St. John River.  About 10 miles before reaching St. Augustine, the captain put the first mate at the helm and he headed below deck to the engine room.  He returned with bad news.  “We’ll have to pull in at St. Augustine to have that engine checked.  I don’t want to push it any farther,” he proclaimed. 

A little while later we limped into the city docks.  The captain would search out a mechanic to get a prognosis.  “We’ll know in an hour how serious it is,” he said.  I decided to explore this charming, ancient town, so I disembarked.  I wasn’t disappointed.  The architecture was magnificent.  I went into a museum and learned all about St. Augustine’s illustrious past.  The entire downtown, in fact, was like a museum.

An hour later I was back at the ship.  “Bad news,” the captain said with resignation in his voice.  “We’re going to be here at least two days.  You’re welcome to stay here with us and wait it out, if you’d like.”

It took me about 10 seconds to decide.  “No thanks, I think I’ll be moving along.”  I packed up my belongings and bid them farewell with my usual parting, “Thanks for everything.  I’ll never forget you guys.  Have a nice life!” 

I walked through downtown, then stuck out my thumb to hitchhike the few miles to I-95.  From there, it would be about 300 miles to Miami Beach.  A few hours later, I was about 100 miles down the road when I got dropped off at an exit ramp.  It was after 5 o’clock, so it would be dark in an hour.  I noticed an abandoned gas station and decided it would be a good place to spend the night.

Spreading out my sleeping bag on the hard, concrete behind the gas station, I gazed at the sky.  What was in store for me now?  On the boat trip, I had been thinking a lot about whether the boat owner would permit me to sail all the way to St. Thomas.  I figured it was 50-50.  Now that was all a mute point.

As dusk turned to dark, the stars began to appear.  The celestial heavens always make me feel more grounded, and usually bring a clarity to my thoughts.  I would get to Miami, then work the docks until I got a ride to St. Thomas, US Virgin Islands.  My goal clear, I dropped off to sleep in anticipation of more adventure, new horizons!

- Mountain Man

(This entire 17-part story can be found in the “travel” category.) 

We shoved off from Isle of Palms by 8:30 the next morning.  But something was wrong.  One of the diesel engines, which had given them problems earlier in their trip before I joined them, was acting up.  “I don’t know how far we can go before that engine goes down,” the captain said, obviously distressed.  “We’ll just have to take it slow.”

We headed south, but traveling at half the speed of yesterday, the going was slow.  We shared the captain’s concern, but there was little the first mate and I could do.  We tried to be extra nice to him, but being underfoot in his pilot house annoyed him.  “Go up top and relax,” he told us.  “There’s nothing you can do.”  We got the hint and grabbed the binoculars and a few Heinekens and exited his territory.

The waters were always calm except when we crossed a large bay.  The mouth of the Cape Fear River near Wilmington, NC and the St. Helena Sound near Beaufort, SC were particularly choppy and windy.  During these times, the first mate and I got off the roof and retreated to the sanctuary of the pilot house.  Since many of the navigational buoys had been displaced by Hurricane Hugo, we acted as spotters for the captain.  We had to help determine if a buoy’s location was genuine, or it had blown there in the storm.

That night we docked at a marina in Hilton Head, SC.  Frustrated by the underperforming diesel engine, the captain was ready for some relief.  We inquired at the marine store as to a good restaurant, then had them call us a taxi cab.  Four hours and a lot of beers and good food later, we stumbled back onto our boat.  At least temporarily, the captain had forgotten about the mechanical troubles. 

The morning found us soon past Savannah, Georgia.  The engine was no worse, so the captain ran a little faster than yesterday.  “We’ll get the engines worked on in Miami before we head to the Caribbean,” he said.  My ride had only been guaranteed to Miami.  There, the owner would board for the cruise to St. Thomas.  The captain was undecided whether to ask if I could come along.  He didn’t want to alienate the owner, especially since he was owed a lot of money for piloting the ship from Connecticut.

One of the first towns we passed in Georgia was Isle of Hope.  Through the binoculars, it looked like a picture postcard version of a small southern town on the water.  It was drawing me, calling out.  I couldn’t answer.  I often follow my whims when such an opportunity knocks, but not this time, not here.  What was I gonna do, jump off the boat? 

That night found us stopping at a marina at St. Simons Island, stopping short of crossing the sometimes treacherous St. Andrews Sound.  Following the previous night’s routine, we showered, then hailed a taxi cab.  More beer and fine food awaited.  Life was good.

We tackled the Sound first thing in the morning, through the fog of a hangover.  After crossing the Sound, we found Cumberland Island National Seashore on our left.  For the next 20 miles, the binoculars took center stage.  I combed the island, hoping to spot the fabled wild horses.  They didn’t disappoint.  A group of six or eight wild horses were tearing down the beach.  Their grace and elegance blended smoothly with their flat out speed, which pulled their manes straight back like a flag in the wind.  If only I could be one of them, if only for an hour.

- Mountain Man

 (This entire 17-part story can be found in the “travel” category.)

Returning to the boat with my gear, I climbed aboard.  It turned out that the big guy was the captain, hired to take the yacht from Connecticut to St. Thomas.  The little guy was the first mate.  The two of them hired out to move yachts for millionaires, and each knew exactly what his duties were on the ship.  They worked well together.

The boat was a 68-foot wooden Hatteras yacht, if memory serves me correct.  It had two diesel engines each over 1,000 cubic inches.  There were five bedrooms, three bathrooms, and a huge living room.  It was luxury exemplified.  The pilot house had two humongous captain’s chairs, each affording a fantastic view of the waters ahead.

The captain gave me my choice of the three unoccupied bedrooms, and I chose the one in the front of the boat.  It had it’s own bathroom, as well.  The “fore cabin”, I believe these lifelong sailors called this suite.  I “stowed” my gear (I’m getting the hang of this nautical lingo, huh?), then came up on deck to drink a few beers with them and get acquainted. 

I didn’t sleep well that night.  The chigger bites were driving me crazy.  By morning, I had streaks of dried blood all over my lower legs.  I just couldn’t stop scratching.  Jeepers! 

The captain had delegated one chore for me each day - I was to wash the windshield of the pilot room.  I climbed up with windex and a roll of paper towels and in 10 minutes or so the salt water stains were gone.  Before we “shoved off”, the captain assigned another task for the first mate and me to tackle - go buy beer.  “Get whatever you want,” he said.  With visions of Heineken dancing in my head, we walked up the street and stocked up.

We headed south down the Intercoastal Waterway atop the steady rumble of the ship’s engines.  We exited North Carolina in an hour or so, entering South Carolina.  The calm waters made for great sailing.  I sat up on the roof deck with the first mate, binoculars at our side to spot wildlife and interesting small port towns.  The day passed quickly as we cruised the calm waters.

One 30-mile stretch that was particularly beautiful was through Francis Marion State Forest.  The hanging Spanish moss from cypress trees projecting “knees” above the waterline had an eerie charm, a feeling of “Gone with the Wind” southern ambiance.

Our uplifted feelings soon vanished when we approached Isle of Palms.  Hurricane Hugo had cut a swath through the area, leaving hundreds of acres of trees nothing but twisted stumps and piles of brush.  We rounded one turn in the IW and witnessed the fury of the hurricane.  There was a pile of boats - at least 75 or 100 - that rose 60-feet in the air.  A lot of people’s broken dreams were in that pile of debris.

We found a marina at Isle of Palms to dock for the night.  In the ship’s store, the marina owners told tales of the powerful hurricane.  It had only came through two weeks prior, so the expressionless looks on their faces needed no explanation.  They were still in shock.

As we talked, I ambled over to the first aid aisle.  Calamine lotion and cottonballs were on my mind.  My arms and lower legs were a mess.  Leaving the store, I showered and covered myself in calamine.  The captain and first mate got a big kick of me and my misery as we walked into a nearby restaurant, my pink-caked arms hanging from my side.

- Mountain Man

 (This entire 17-part story can be found in the “travel” category.  We’d love to hear your comments.)

When I was 21 years old, I wrote out a list of 10 things I wanted to accomplish in my life.  To date, I’ve completed seven.  I’m not sure I’ll ever do the other three, but that can be attributed to age and physical ability.  Things I could easily do in my 20’s and 30’s, and even early 40’s, are perhaps beyond my grasp as I approach 57 years old.

One of my seven goals became reality in 1989, when I fulfilled my wish to live in the Caribbean.  I did so by living in St. Thomas in the US Virgin Islands.  I chose USVI over other Caribbean locales for a couple reasons.  First, they used American currency.  And second, I would be able to find work there without acquiring a work visa or any such government nonsense.  And lastly, they spoke English and were one of the closest island nations location-wise to the mainland United States.

A week before my scheduled departure from Cape May, New Jersey, Hurricane Hugo devastated the Virgin Islands.  My friends quickly concluded that this would force me to alter my plans.  You can’t be a waiter at a resort since most were out of business until repairs were made, they figured.  Au contraire!  I turned lemons into lemonade.  I decided to bring my basic carpenter tools along, as this would afford me additional work opportunities. 

I left Cape May a few days after the mid-September hurricane, driving my truck to Maple Hill, North Carolina.  I own 10 acres of land there, so my plan was to park my truck in my field and hoof it to St. Thomas.  With my truck secure, I made my way to Wrightsville Beach, NC. 

Once there, I headed for the Intercoastal Waterway to find a suitable marina where I could find a boat ride south.  This time of year, at least 90% of the yacht traffic was heading toward the warm, sunny winters in Florida and the Caribbean.  I just needed to wrangle a ride aboard one of these floating palaces.

I found a marina that fit the bill.  It had plenty of dock space for large boats, it had gas pumps, and it was right near a bridge so I could also solicit rides on the other side of the channel with a short walk.

I stashed my backpack and duffel bag of tools in a corner of the marina grounds were I felt reasonably sure no one would find them.  Then I started working the docks, asking large boat owners, “Do you know anyone headed south that might give me a ride?”  I didn’t want to put anyone on the spot by asking them directly for a ride, so I always asked if they knew someone who might give me a ride.

I spent all day asking around, crossing the bridge everytime I saw a large boat dock on that side.  No luck.  Near dusk, I decided to retreat from the relentless sun for awhile and rest.  I laid under a boat set up on blocks, enjoying the cool shade.  After a half hour, I began to itch.  Soon, my arms and lower legs were aflame.  Chiggers!  Those little boogers were tearing up my skin.  I had to get outta there ASAP.

Now dark had set in.  Despite my fervent scratching, I noticed a large boat tie up at the dock on the other side of the waterway.  Two fellows emerged and went into the restaurant.   Could this be it?

I hung around near the restaurant entrance for an hour before they finally exited.  “Do you know anyone headed south that might give me a ride?”, I asked.  The larger guy answered, “Sure, come aboard”.  I explained that my belongings were on the other side of the channel.  “Well, go get them and come on back.  We sail in the morning.”  My Virgin Island odyssey had begun.

- Mountain Man

Back in the early 1990s, I was traveling back to the East Coast after living in Missoula, Montana for a while.  As I headed through the rolling plains of eastern Montana in my truck, I enjoyed splendid views of pronghorn antelope and mule deer grazing in the fields.  There were also prairie dogs and a wide variety of songbirds, hawks, and ground birds.

I travel using US routes and state highways, as opposed to interstates, when possible.  It’s more scenic, it’s a two lane road instead of four so it’s easy to pull off to the side of the road, and passing through small towns gives a Rockwellian picture of Americana.

After traveling all day, I was in Wyoming on a very desolate highway.  The only people I saw were the occasional rancher in a pickup truck.  At dusk, I was in awe of the herds of pronghorn getting their last feeding before dark.  The magnificant sunset cast purple hues and long shadows on the mountains to the west.

I was so overwhelmed by the mystical beauty of this area that I decided to just pull off the road to sleep under the stars.  I found a rancher’s access road to a field, backed in off the highway, and sat watching the day’s last light. 

The pronghorn were still grazing.  They travel like a gazelle rather than a deer.  They spring along, sort of a “boing, boing, boing” hop.  It seems so effortless, yet each spring covers 15 or 20 feet.

At dark, I pulled out my sleeping bag and laid it beside my truck and climbed in.  After a half hour or so watching the stars, I fell fast asleep.

I woke up at first light, opening my eyes but not moving.  A feeling struck me, maybe you’ve had the same feeling before.  Someone was watching me!

I laid still, not moving a muscle.  Was some macho cowboy about to do me harm?  Was it the highway patrol or some sheriff?

But then I swore I heard breathing.  Heavy breathing.  What the heck was it?  Enough was enough.  I quickly sat upright to face my intruder.

It was a pronghorn antelope sniffing at the foot of my sleeping bag.  Our eyes locked, our faces just five feet apart.  My sense of relief and admiration played second fiddle to the pronghorn’s reaction.  He took off like a shot.  Boing, boing, boing.  Gracefully but with a sense of urgency he put a lot of distance between us.

His image stayed with me all day.  It still does.  I’ll always remember my close encounter with the ballerina of the high plains.

- Mountain Man