Sleepwalking in Paradise

I have a fantasy of living on a tiny enchanted island in the Caribbean, a place in the sun where time is measured only by brilliant sunsets and far away galaxies circling in the night sky.

A few years ago my dream came true… if only for an instant.

But first ‒ once upon a time ‒ we had lived in Hawaii on the isles of Oahu and Maui. Those were joyful days, but Hawaii is so ‘American’ what with all the hurried tourists in their garish outfits, speeding rental cars, McDonalds, tee shirt shops, and relentless consumerism. Luckily, on Maui, we lived ‘upcountry’ beyond the little sleepy town of Makawao. On our cozy lanai, three-thousand feet above the fray, we looked down upon the glistening ocean stretching to eternity.

But our time in Hawaii was short lived. Pele had spoken; and we sadly moved back to Santa Fe to be with our ailing son. Paradise lost…

Then, in 2011, fate presented us with the opportunity of a lifetime: a cruise on a five-masted, powered sailing ship called the Wind Surf – the largest sailing ship in the Caribbean. (Go to: WindstarCruises.com) My mother and my second step father Jack were scheduled for the cruise but, unfortunately, Col. Jack became seriously ill, requiring a stay at Presbyterian Hospital in Dallas. Mom called and offered the week long cruise to Jayebird and me!

With much gratitude we accepted.

This unusual turn of events was a dream come true. I never desired to go on a ‘regular’ cruise with thousands of other passengers, wandering around in a huge, crammed, floating hotel; but the idea of a smaller sailing ship sounded like heaven. The Wind Surf carries only 310 passengers with an international crew of 191 and is capable of maneuvering into smaller bays and ports, making for an intimate adventure at sea.

Jaye and I boarded our ship on the Dutch side of Sint Maarten/Saint-Martin in the French West Indies. Soon we were at sea sailing due west to the British Virgin Islands. We had a lavish, candlelit dinner as we watched the lights of Saint-Martin disappear over the moon-kissed horizon. Life on the elegant Wind Surf was a “world of gracious indulgence.” All of the well-heeled passengers were successful gentle-people from around the world. I’m sure that my wife and I were the poorest (although well dressed) travelers aboard ‒ feeling like stowaways ‒ but in a few days we were sharing tables and making friends with the wealthy movers and shakers.

We had three ports of call in the magnificent British Virgin Islands (Jaye and I had visited the American Virgin Islands many years before). Then we headed southeast to the lush island of St. Kitts. Most of the sailing was at night; and every evening we watched the awe inspiring sunsets as the majestic music of Vangelis from the movie 1492 seemingly emanated from the ether.

On sleepless nights ‒ in the wee hours, cruising at 14 knots ‒ I would stroll the abandoned decks alone, sipping wine and gazing at the stars and twinkling lights from distant islands. I would visit the officers on the bridge, work out in the gym on the top deck, or simply contemplate sailing back in the days of swashbuckling pirates. The dark ocean seemed to beckon as the wind through the 164 foot high masts sang to me like tempting sirens. Once, while watching the waters churn and rumble beneath the stern I, for some unknown reason, seriously contemplated jumping overboard into the void; perhaps desiring to be a part of this magic moment forever.

After a lovely day on St. Kitts we set sail for Îles des Saintes, a small archipelago of the French Antilles just south of Guadeloupe. Jaye and I had researched our destination ‒ the tiny island of Terre-de-Haut ‒ and felt that this place could possibly be the highlight of the whole trip.

We were to be proven correct.

The Wind Surf slipped into the snug little bay under the cover of darkness while all passengers aboard slumbered as in a gently rocking cradle, our sweet dreams about to become a reality.

Jaye and I awoke after sunrise and peered out our two large port holes. To our delight, we were gazing on one of the most heavenly views that one can imagine. Our ship was surrounded by sleek yachts, sail boats, and one tall ship reminiscent of a proud and venerable man-o-war; and not a single conventional cruise ship to spoil the view.

We had our regular sumptuous breakfast on the top deck with incredible views of the whole bay. During the night we had entered a channel between two towering islets, and now we could make out homes and stately manors adorning the hills. Smaller crafts were moving about in the shimmering turquoise waters, and horns and sea gulls sounded as sailors and fishermen went about their morning chores. Toward the north was a huge green hill with an ancient fortress atop, standing sentinel over the little harbor and the picturesque village of Bourg des Saintes — the most beautiful sight that I had ever seen!

On this day, Jaye and I decided to go our own ways, so after breakfast I grabbed a bag and took a taxi boat to the pier. I was welcomed to the village by the fragrance of sweet bougainvillea in the salty warm air. For a moment I thought of renting a slick little scooter to propel me around the hilly island, but then reconsidered. No. Today I would be on foot at a leisurely pace so as to take in every morsel of Terre-de-Haut.

I strolled down Rue de l’Anse Mire past funky, colorful shops and restaurants, and then headed up the steep road to Fort Napoléon, the closet thing Terre-de-Haut has to a traditional tourist site. Most of the other people on the narrow road were riding scooters, and this was to be the only instant that I envied them. Finally I made it to the top. The 360 degree view was incredible! At this height one can see all eight islands that make up the archipelago of Îles des Saintes.

After a while I ventured into the fort and was greeted by a beautiful dark-haired French woman who seemed to expect me to speak fluent French. “Bonjour, mademoiselle. Comment alles-vous?” was about all that I could muster. She opened up a barrage of machine gunfire in French and ended by saying: “Merci.” I then toured the old fort, without an attractive guide. Darn…

The place felt downright creepy. I thought that I was hearing soft whispers in my ear, but attributed it to the cool cross-breezes, not a soul nearby. It wasn’t until later that I read in an English language pamphlet that the gray stone fortress was indeed haunted. It seems that a heartbroken girl had thrown herself off the steep cliff and into the ocean; her ghost taking up permanent residence in the fort, waiting for her lost lover.

Perhaps I had an attractive guide after all?

A lovely botanical garden called Jardin Exotique du Fort Napoléon surrounded the whole fort, affording terrific views from the many gun emplacements. As I looked down at the blue harbor I could see the Wind Surf, imagining that my wife was reading and sunning herself on one of the decks. Many years ago the ship would have been a sitting duck under a cannonade from the imposing fortress high above the bay.

Soon I was headed back down the road to town chatting with a friendly French family from Paris. They strolled back to the harbor ‒ “Au revoir!” ‒ and I struck off onto another quaint street which would lead me to the other side of the island and Baie de Marigot. The houses were simply charming with lush vegetation and flowers everywhere I looked. Curious locals waved to me, as if tourists rarely passed here. I dallied on…

I was sleepwalking in paradise, as in a wonderful dream, and had to pinch myself to make sure it was all real. I was now enjoying the countryside around Marigot, following the winding asphalt lane. Iguanas occasionally scampered in front of me while an avian choir serenaded me the whole way. Palm trees swayed here and there among brightly painted French Colonial houses as goats trimmed the verdant grass. Breathing the sweet, fresh air was intoxicating me with pleasure. The place was like a sensuous woman seducing me with her many charms; and I had fallen hopelessly in love with her, and ready to let the ship sail without me.

I finally made it to a secret beach called Anse de Pompierre in a sheltered bay, an islet a half mile out into the aqua-to-deep-blue water. Warm tropical breezes blew through the palms as two lovers kissed under a grass-topped palapa. There were only a few swimmers on the beach; some of the tanned women were topless. I stripped down to my swim suit and ran into the tepid water, cooling down from my walk. I recognized a small group from the ship, but paid no attention to them. For two hours I drank sodas and read, wondering if I had died and gone to heaven; and if there is a heaven, it could not be any more heavenly than this!

Soon I got dressed and hit the road once again, passing a country style French restaurant, wafting mouth watering aromas into my olfactory senses. I took a left turn and headed back to town up and over the hill. There, down a side path, was a charming little ‘pirate shack’ complete with skull and crossbones. Hallelujah! An outdoor island cantina under the shade of big coconut trees. This was a no-brainer! The jolly proprietor and his wife welcomed me. I bought my first beer and fish, but after that, my money was no good. I was their only customer, and was treated like a king. André, spoke decent English, his wife spoke none. They had been teachers near the Belgian border in France and had decided to pack up and move to paradise; and here they were, realizing their dreams.

I was headed back to Bourg now, and school had just let out. Beautiful little children in cute uniforms laughed and skipped by me on their way home. I passed the exquisite Bourg des Saintes Church overlooking the harbor. I took a peek inside and bowed my head for a moment, thanking the power of the universe for such a fantastic day. After a while,I spotted Jaye entering a little boutique, and surprised her. We ended the day together in each others’ arms, wondering if we would ever return to this magical place; or would this Shangri-La remain only a sweet memory.

That night we set sail to St. Barts, and after a day of more play and adventures, back to Saint-Martin for yet another glorious day in the sun.

When we finally landed in Albuquerque, it was snowing – hard. We took off for Pagosa, but the weather was mean and nasty, so we decided to spend the night in Santa Fe.

Sadly, I looked out the window and watched the heavy snow, remembering that we had been in a tropical paradise only a few heartbeats before. I closed my eyes and sighed. I felt as though I had lost a secret lover – the beautiful and seductive Îles des Saintes.