God is a playful God

God is a playful god. He really is. God LOVES to play.

He loves Rascal Flats' version of Life is a Highway and to drive fast on the freeway to it with the top down. He loves pasta with a cream sauce. He invented Mexican food, the chimichanga, the margarita, the mild salsa. God loves fresh air and to run sales on air compressors and purses on the same weekend, causing couples to discuss which store they go to first for Saturday shopping. He loves it when I pretend I'm a pirate, or when we drink scotch together-he loves that.

So, when there is a concern about a reservation blowing up on this trip I'm on, He knows it taps red buttons all over my control room board. He decides to, well, play. The picture above is the view from the place we are staying in on the island of St. Lucia. We will spend another week at this place we were here two years ago. The small cove a thousand feet below is the actual resort. That was suppose to be where we stayed. Until Dad decided to turn down the new George Strait song He was listening to and play with his little boy.

He and I have an agreement. I will fight to listen and trust him if he promises to never stop teaching, holding, standing with, and never--ever leaving me. We are doing pretty good. But this one is just a smile producer. I would like to think if I was a dad and could do this, I would have thought of it. Being God, He has that advantage. Instead of the really really nice villa we were thinking blew up and the reservation got so messed up we were going to be in a tent on the beach selling my underwear for canned rations, He found this shack of a view--a little higher on the hill. It consists of two buildings, terraces, its own pool, and that crap of a view.

Yep, you need to be careful when God decides to play. The smile it could produce sometimes causing cramping around the cheeks.

"I mean to take you in Ned, dead or alive. What'll it be?"

It’s funny when you put an old man on a horse. When you put an old man who use to ride, who could ride a horse, saddle a horse, and you take him down to a tropical island and give him--a horse. Today, Shan (without a w) finally came through with the horses we were supposed to ride Monday. Shan turned it over to Nick, who turned it over to Joseph who turned it over to---------------. A Rastafarian shrouded, barefoot man with at least six ‘I’s and two ‘Y’s in his name. I called him ‘Boss.’

There were five of us, two Americans, two from England, and Boss. Boss rode with his hair in a rasti head knitted cap of green and black and red stripes, a pair of Miami Heat shorts and barefoot.  The horses were not large, except one, a quarter horse named G-Man. The woman from England got him. The two from England were concerned about their rides, the man never wanting to do anything other than walk. He had never ridden a horse before today. He was a nice fellow. Quite content to walk the ninety minutes and talk about the Olympic Games. The Americans, well, we watch movies like True Grit, A Fist Full of Dollars, Silverado, Broken Trail, and a handful of others. The Americans were not east coasters either, nope. We were from the southwest where deer and antelope roam. Where you ride your pony around barrels or dare them to buck you off, or-and I say this with all seriousness, like you’re in front of the Light Brigade! Sure, I picked a British regiment and sure, all but two of the six hundred in that famous poem during the Boar War died. It’s a damn metaphor. Stay with me here.

My pony was named—Silver.

Yep. You can see it coming, can't you?

Boss takes us out and down two beaches, devoid of all life. No one on these beaches except us. You could land a plane and take off again on these things. The idea was to allow us to run. First, he turned to the proper Brit who was sitting properly with her arms out and back straight. Just like she would have on a fox hunt. Boss looked at the man who waived off the run and then he turned to the woman who properly began to cantor—just like a fox hunt, riding up and down in the saddle—arms out---proper.

Then it was my turn.

Every American boy I grew up with wanted to be a cowboy. Some did. Some pretended. Some adopted parts of that role, wove it into their lives and memory and tucked it away for, well­-days like today.

The reins were too short to tuck into my teeth-I tried, allowing me to reach for my pretend six-shooter in one hand and shotgun in the other as I rode towards the fictional bandits headed by Robert Duvall and his cronies. When Boss looked at me and waved his arm for me to go, I could feel Silver, aware of someone on his back who maybe had some brass and wanted to run. I am also sure my new friend thought he might get lucky and toss his rider. somewhere on this abandoned beach. Sorry, that is the dream of every trail horse.

With some heeled encouragement and a light spur of the reins and my best, guttural ‘Yeeaah’ Silver shot like a rocket out of the gate at Del Monte. The last words Boss said that I could hear before the two hundred yard, on the beach, in the surf run was finished was a weak ‘not so fast’.

He never heard my “High-O Silver, away!!!” Yep, you know I had to.

We got to the old fort, passed the houses on the beach, the burned out bar, and the apartment complex with no power. We looked out from the ramparts over the throat of the harbor of St. Johns and then turned the horses for home. You could take your hands off the reins and they would find their way back. Two hours of an hour and a half scheduled ride.  Island Time again. We dismounted and took some pictures, thanked and tipped Boss and then headed back to our prospective lodgings.  Before I left, I walked back to Silver, who was eating grass along the curb. He lifted his head and I scratched the bridge of his nose. Our brown eyes looked at each other, still measuring each. I thought for just a minute the horse, if he could, might have said.

“You, you still have some brass.” It made me smile.

I whispered in his ear, so no one but my horse could hear, “High-O Silver, away.”

St. Johns and Island Time

We went into the capital city of St. Johns yesterday. Not to be mistaken for the island of St. John, this one is where they park the cruise ships. Our taxi, spelled on the island- ROGER, took us there. He told us that’s how we are to spell the word while here and I am not a person to argue.

St. Johns is just like a port town. It lives for the tourist. No tourist, shops are shut and boarded up. Not a lot of natives on the island need a Rolex watch or a $28 bottle of fifteen year old Glenlivet. 

It was sad, really because our ROGER dropped us off right at the throat of the dock where the cruise ship was disgorging its load of passengers. We didn’t want to be associated with the ship, we didn’t want to be one of them, but in fact, we were. We moved away and into the streets as soon as we could, finding a small area of crooked doors, curry smells, some water-like substance running in the gutters, and mangoes spread out on dirty towels on the sidewalk hoping a passing tourist would offer a few cents for one.

Bob Marley was blaring everywhere. I was thinking the locals figured that’s what the tourists wanted to hear, when in fact, most of the tourists couldn’t tell you who Bob was.

Hemingway's Grill, one would hope, somehow would beg the question that the great writer spent time on this island and I think he did. Just not at this restaurant since it was founded in 1986 according to the sign. But it offered a great overview of the intersection where the two worlds-island and everyone else, met. A grilled cheese and tomato sandwich and a view of the street with all its sounds, smells, Marley, and of course the Kino Palace Casino were on full display.

The Kino Palace is not a palace. Not sure it was even a casino. I realize if it was airlifted and placed in downtown Phoenix, it would be entered only with a tactical team in Kevlar and safeties off.  Here, its where you go to play Kino, drink some rum, smoke something and enjoy the day.

In the Caribbean, there is definitely island time. For example, as I write this, I am sitting on our second floor patio. Across from me is another building with its second floor stairwell, a circular stucco structure, facing me. I can see it from the bottom to the landing on the second floor-solid stucco. The man started two days ago to paint it. He started on one side and worked his way around from the bottom to as high as he could reach. It wasn’t high enough and, with about two feet to go on the bottom, he ran out of paint in the tray.

That was two days ago.

Island time---no problem.

Rain

Today's message will be a little short. Apparently, while I was first mating the Zorro yesterday, I got SUNBURNED ON THE BOTTOM OF MY FEET!! Hmm Should make walking fun today!

It rains during the night here. Convenient for the tourist industry, unless you have tourists from Arizona who, with the threat of rain or a down pour like to skip through the water puddles naked. Just before dawn, it came in and washed the grounds free of the sins of the day before.

I'm not a bird fan unless you count a bird that can carry away small dogs or loud obnoxious children, but the birds here are on the edge of coolness. Small guys with flaming red feathers, yellow breasts, feathers that stick up straight out of the top of their heads. Birds that say 'CAW'. Birds that can say that are birds from the movies that you hear as you cut your path through the jungle on the way to the lost palace.

If you want to come to the Caribbean, I can recommend this place. You have to be ready to relax. A lot of us say we can do that, but it is not our nature. Drinking rum punches helps. Walking on the beach helps. Writing from a quiet patio with a cup of joe helps. But it is a focused effort.

Maybe skipping in a water puddle......

Sailing with Cap'n!

There is only one way to see a Caribbean island, in particular, Antigua. That is with Cap'n Nash aboard is twenty-two foot boat-Zorro.


Open sea, the boat bending to the wind so you are sitting in your seat actually standing on the seat across from you due the list of the boat. Wind, spray, chop of the waves, all added up to wanting to scream out something with the word 'arg' in the middle of the sentence. This was the only way to do this land justice.

As we cruised the coast, large catamarans passed us with loud music and people dancing on their deck. Like it was a mission to go from here to there, where ever there was. Ours, well, after the first cove, I could feel myself relax and after some snorkeling and more coves, I could feel myself composing a letter in my head to my boss, telling him I fell and broke my back in three places and would not be back to work---ever.

Cap'n Nash, or 'Cap'n' to his new close friends, even allowed me to steer. The man had to set anchor and this little boy got to take the helm. "Aye aye Cap'n," I said with a very good English accent and a tip o' me cap with just the index and thumb fingers. I even had a twitch developing in one eye like it needed to be covered with a patch.  I did so well, he let me moor it coming back. Standing at the tiller, mist and spray in my eyes, my hat turned backwards, awaiting orders from Cap'n standing on the bow, fearful of doing something that would put him in the water and absolutely no ability to turn and get him. Fearful images of the boat sailing off until it hit something solid to stop it, like the gulf coast of Texas.

It was a grand day. Sailing like I'm sure some ancient ancestor of mine did when they went across  Saguaro Lake. 

The tranquility of rum

 

There is something about rum that causes religion to make sense. A rum punch for example, is or should be the drink one gets before they enter the Christian heaven. Christians can drink, so that applies. Rum is the base, the foundation-the catalyst of what is all that is holy and just. If there is a way to get the world leaders, who piss each other off, to sit on a beach chair under a cabana shade, with a fresh rum punch from the Coconut Grove in Antigua, within fifteen minutes there would be hand-shakes. Within thirty minutes, there would be back slapping and laughter. After forty five minutes, the two parties would be singing songs from each other’s country and making fun of their own country’s policy on endangered species.

 But…..

If you were to drink rum straight, without the flavor of a ‘punch’ whatever the hell that includes, what would that look like?  I talked about Kenny Chesney’s song yesterday. I didn’t talk a lot because I still needed to do some critical research about rum, of course. What would the difference be between rum punch and it being served neat? I set about doing the research and discovered that world peace could be obtained via this liquor.

While sitting on my beach chair, trying to write/edit two books, I came to the conclusion that life without this drink is life without, well-peace, tranquility, freedom, did I say peace? The trick is the little spice crap they sprinkle on it. It could be black tar heroin- this spice, a combination of nutmeg, cinnamon and something else,  but if black tar heroin tastes like this, they need to legalize it!

Now, about the horses.

You might remember I mentioned Shan, my new found friend, we met on the beach wearing a used red t-shirt and a flotation device, was going to bring horses today. I met him on the beach and gave him $50 for a deposit for the $120 horseback ride—today. Sure, I met him on the beach and sure, he looked like someone holding a cardboard sign on the corner of the freeway and the Camelback off ramp, but there was something.

Okay, so those of you making bets the horses weren’t going to show up, might still not be able to collect. Shan’s boss, Nick, showed and said they had the wrong date. We rescheduled for Thursday. So, we have to postpone the collection on bets until later this week, unless you had pretty tight bets holding to tight accounts of who shows or doesn’t show.

Okay, so tomorrow’s mission is to sail with Cap’n Nash and see the world from under. I’m banking this white boy will have first and second degree burns on his white body, totally justifying medicinal island recipes.

That just means more rum. I’m working not only its political benefits but medicinal benefits as well!!!

 Gosh I love sacrificing myself for God and Country!!! 

Kenny Chesney may be right

We left Miami with a send off by the Russian cab driver. As least I thought he was Russian, or maybe from Georgia, or Slovenia or someplace that sounded, well, Russian. Actually, he was from Brazil. I was close. As we dodged in an out of traffic, my hand firmly gripping the overhead hand rail and noticing the turn signal, a unique instrument often used for signaling lane changes to warn other drivers you are thinking about moving into their occupied space, had cobwebs on it, he talked about his migration to the United States and about his dead father, which he started to get choked up over. I have no problem with that and would love to have spent time at a bar talking about Dad-dom but at the present time, I really wanted him to focus on the fact he was twenty-five miles over the speed limit, looking at me in the rear view mirror while talking, and answering the phone, of course speaking in Russian.

Sunday, yesterday, was a walk to the store. It was about a half mile away and in a building that made Costco embarrassed. Walking there, and then starting the walk back, carrying bags of groceries like we just hit the UNICEF station at the Syrian border. We would have made it back too even if it wasn't for Cap'n Nash pulling up next to us and wanting to take us back to our compound. Cap'n Nash might be his real name. It might be the name he goes by here so he can entice customers to go sailing with him. It might be his alias he is using because he speaks English with almost no accent and I am sure he is on a witness protection program out of Chicago. Nice man, fresh start, who cares if he worked for the mob as "Johnny Two-fingers Milligan."

Today the sun is out. That picture above, that is one beach of many beaches in Antigua, a poor country based almost exclusively on tourism. Too bad. Someone, could come down here and make a killing shipping 'organically grown tropical fruit' to restaurants in the US. The stuff is falling from the trees here.

I met Evelyn yesterday and Jenny today. Evelyn is about fifty, maybe a hundred and fifty. Its hard to tell. She has one semi-functioning tooth in front on the bottom. She was walking the beach with her jewelry. I will buy something from her. She needs me to buy something from her. A five dollar anything could feed her for a while. Jenny is a grandmother of eight. She was set up with a rope line outside of the Coconut Grove Bar (more about that religious place later) with colorful shirts and dresses hanging from it, along with the same jewelry Evelyn was selling. She is a grandmother of eight and when I told her I had four with two more on the way and we haven't unleashed our son and daughter in law yet in to the baby making world, her eyebrows went up. She was impressed. Family is huge down here.

This afternoon we wait for Shan (proper spelling of the name in the islands). Shan is the guy we gave $50 cash to and are banking on him showing up with horses for an hour and a half trail ride this afternoon. Even if he doesn't show, all I can say is "Well done Shan, well done."

So it begins

In the summertime, people travel. Unless you're coming from a cold climate, like London, when you travel in the winter time and you migrate your very white body to the Caribbean, once owned and operated by your monarch and now, they just kinda pay homage to them. If you're an American, you travel in the summer because that's when you have the coupon for.

If you want, you can read along for the next two weeks as I walk you through our migration to the islands once owned by the Caribs, who were a delightful people who fancied cannibalism.

I will tell you about such characters as Shawn, the guy who can sell ice to Eskimos who lined up horse back riding---after he gets his $50 cash up front. Did I tell you his office is the beach? Sure, take bets as to whether the horses show up or not.

Then there is Cap'n Nash. You would swear by his non-accent, he was a pediatrician from Detroit. He runs a sailboat and lined up a 'three hour tour.' Did I say his office was on the beach as well. Its okay, he had a business card.

Then there is the Russian.

Or the Haitian.

Both cab drivers in Miami who make the trip from the airport to the hotel on South Beach every bit as much of a pucker factor as Thunder Mountain Railroad ride at Disneyland.

So, hang in there if you are truly bored, grab a diet beverage, sit back and I will walk through the trip as best as I can tell it.