The alarm chirped at 5:55, long before sunrise, but this insomniac had already been stirring for hours.  So we arose fast, snarfed food, and began this Sabbatical’s most ambitious day of travel. Taxi Calvin to downtown.  Friendship Rose schooner to Tobago Cays.  Water taxi to Petit Martinique.  Ferry to Grenada.  Taxi to our next home. 

Taxi Calvin was uncustomarily late.  But after our requisite (and passionate) dispute (that he “won”) a few days earlier, this was a predictable rebuff.  Yet he got us to port, whereupon we and our large luggage boarded the stunning old schooner and enjoyed the generous continental breakfast that was awaiting. 

• The Promises of Sail:  Get Bliss or Seasick

The trip exceeded expectations of beauty, service, and comfort—for the first half-hour or so.  Then the dark clouds began to roll in.  It rained.  Hard and long.  Stinging and cold.  Captain Lewis had all sails up and engines on and tried every maneuver, but the clouds followed us like pesky dogs. 

Elegant white pillows filled like wet sponges.  The deck turned into a skating rink. Crew donned raingear while the rest of us had none.  (Note to posh boat:  Keep cheapo ponchos for your customers, please.) 

The mammoth vessel had space to burn, but only two places to try stay dry:  Under a little canopy on deck; or in the cabin below.  I avoid cabins in choppy seas—in that way that I avoid puking when possible.  But my family descended into the dry but perilous purgatory. 

For a while, that is.   Then, naturally, they came up and started belly-aching.  My sick 5-year-old, CurlyGirl, collapsed on my lap as I sat under a corner of the canopy on the hard, drenched deck.

And there she stayed for, oh, an eternity or two.  My squished body went from uncomfortable to miserable.  But she fell into a shaky sleep, after much moaning and whining, and a few hours later woke up giggling about a few “little burps.”  In no time, she was ambling her way back to stability—and I was happily munching more ibuprofen. 

That was a big, messy bullet to dodge, as our 11-hour travel day was mostly on boats.  In the worst-case-scenario fearbook, she could have been green and groaning all day. 

• A Day of Island Hopping

Thanks to motor-sailing in uncooperative but heavy winds, (so loud, so unromantic), we made it “on time” to the Tobago Keys—a surreal preserve of tiny, beachy islands plopped atop a shallow reef and loved to near-death by 100s of yachts.  A dinghy took us to a tiny secluded islet.  A place where you can stand on a strip of sand, face out, and see nothing but uninhabited cays. 

The trip was off to a so-so start, but that moment provided the payoff.  This was the edge of the earth.  A place where simply standing makes your spine tingle.  A snorkel revealed dozens of endangered hawksbill turtles; even CurlyGirl saw several and felt the enchantment.  Then we were rushed back to the boat for lunch, as we’d soon be picked up by a water taxi right here, in the middle of nowhere. 

• Island Time Knows 2 Speeds

The thing about “island time” is that it’s very digital.  Usually it’s on “LOW”—slow and sluggish; don’t even try to rush things or people and powers conspire to gradually assimilate you.  But when someone in charge of your destiny gets a bug up their butt, and there are a lot of bugs in the tropics, they get ants in the pants and make you dance. 

So it was when our dinghy driver asked us if we wanted to snorkel some more, a mere rhetorical question.  Because then, he abruptly shifted to “HIGH” and started barking at us to get our stuff and get back to the Friendship Rose.  Speedi (the taxi driver) had arrived.  Very early.  But he too was on “HIGH.” 

Indeed, there floating about 12 feet off the stern of the FR was a sorry tub painted pink, and one sunglassed race-driver with a hand on the ample motor.  Back on the Rose, I pulled aside Captain Matt (an acquaintance from long ago that we did NOT know would be on the boat, but that’s another story), “Isn’t Speedi early?”

Matt confided, “Yes, and that’s unusual.  He must want a little something to eat.”  And sure enough, Speedi boarded after us, shook our hands, and got a bonus lunc,.  As we gobbled (a yummy chicken dish with Calypso sauce) and gabbed, “island time” hit the “HIGH” button again, and the crew started throwing our luggage down to Speedi’s boat.  Everyone started hollering commands about needing to set off before the dinghy got to the boat with the rest of the remaining, and staying, passengers. 

Captain Matt did some quick Q&A and PR work on our behalf with Speedi, some of which went something like this…

M:  Speedi, do you have a tarp if it rains?  These people have electronics gear.

S:  You doan need to worry yo’seff about no rain!

M:  I’m not worried, Speedi.  They asked me so I’m asking you.

S:  (Quick glance at sky)…I doan tink it gwine rain.  If it rain, we figga some-tin out. 

M:  Well, we have some large garbage sacks…

S:  Yeah-yeah-yeah.  Give me sum dem big socks, mon. 

Speedi moved full-speed at distributing our stuff and our persons for weight and mind control.  My “seat” assignment was beside clingy CurlyGirl, and on the edge of the boat—ensuring that I would endure nonstop ocean spray plus the sensation that I was about to fall off. 

• High Seas Ahead

Our new, now-rosy friends on the Friendship Rose waved with one hand (while the other clutched drinks)—just like in the movies—while Speedi hit the motor and we lurched into the seas.  When I enquired about the gnarly conditions, he shouted, “Yeah, it does be pretty choppy out dere today, but I does have some life preservers.”  I’m sure he did, though I couldn’t say where. 

But away we went, into the rocking and roiling blue abyss. 

To be fair, we took air only five or ten times.  The kids loved it, sometimes.  I found it frightful and delightful, and kept reminding myself that since I signed up for this at great cost, surely I could soak it all in and keep fear, if not seawater, at bay.  That worked mostly, though less so when AllBoy would thrust his arms in the air as if we were riding a roller-coaster.  “Boy Overboard!” was not on this itinerary! 

Speedi spent most of the time selling us, his captive audience, on taking a full day trip with him to study all the sights we were buzzing by—bellowing in harmony with his big motor. 

• The World’s Tiniest Port?

Finally, we slowed, and started entering the world’s smallest port, Union Island.  Speedi babbled about this taking “maybe 3, maybe 5” minutes, which I know means add a zero to both numbers and start to pray.  I asked if this was the customs stop where we’d have to pay a fee.  He replied, “Yes!  $68 EC”—different from what others had quoted—but added, “Maybe since you wid me I git you outa dat money today.”  My eyes rolled, both from the rough ride and his expected comment.

Frozen-in-time (or was it ice and rum?) yachties watched us drift in, while the little boys fishing on the dock stopped to stare.  Speedy tied up loosely to a slivery dock, left all our stuff, and commanded, “Follow me.”  Island time was still on “HIGH.”  We scampered for several blocks on a muddy road—past dead shops, tiny bars, a neglected “Yacht Club,” and shanties. 

Once inside the world’s smallest airport, it was clear that we would undergo some sort of customs thing here, as there was an 8” x 10” yellowed, ripped piece of paper on a door that said “Customs In Here.”  But that’s another story, too, this surreal customs encounter. 

At any rate, and by that I mean at least 30-50 minutes (and only a few “Please dear Gods…”) later, we emerged—having gradually been granted permission to leave the north end of the Caribbean and enter the south end.  An invisible line in the sand and surf that says:  Good-bye, St. Vincent Grenadines; Hello, Grenada Grenadines. 

Best of all, they waived the fee.  Speedi gave himself the credit, but it didn’t hurt that the kind lady was smitten by our rare, blonde, little CurlyGirl. 

• Riding the Waves

Speedi pushed us back into his giant floating bathtub, and off we returned to the wild blue yonder for more thrills and chills, as waves and swells grew to several feet and Speedi zipped around them like an Olympic bobsledder, or else over them like an Olympic ski-jumper.

As with the first leg, the middle of the voyage was the worst—once protection from islands and reefs disappeared.  We watched our luggage take a sea bath.  Sunglasses became salt-glasses.  And we passed some surreal sights:  Abandoned homes built on remote, unreachable precipices; bedroom-size islands with one palapa and a chaise lounge; peninsulas piled high with precious conch shells, some ancient gray, some fresh pink. 

Who ARE these people!?!  I kept wondering.  What do they “do” for a living?  Or are they on a secret, perma-BreakAway?  Before I could figure all that out, Speedi mercifully slowed toward a dock on Petit Martinique, population 1,000 (as if!).  Thanks to Island Time on “HIGH,” we had arrived an hour and 15 minutes early.  Go figure. 

PM (as its called down here) had not a lot of “there” there.  So AllBoy went exploring a dirty beach with 1000s of forgotten conch chunks.  CurlyGirl needed a bathroom, which set off an lengthy expedition.  And I rested on wet baggage and watched this little world go by—a few loud fishermen coming in, a curious boy not in school, and some Bible-toting ladies sauntering off to do the Lord’s Work. 

• Ferrying the Final Leg

Finally, the impressive Osprey Express tooted its arrival and came slamming into the dock, looking out of place on this Gilliganesque island.  At most, 5 or 10 of us boarded.  My children chose the air-conditioned indoor area. Partner and I took choice seats on the deck. 

One more stop before Grenada:  Carriacou.  This time, 100 enthused folks piled on, including a rowdy cricket team celebrating victory (or loss), a dozen international tourists, and one large motorcycle.  The ride was fast and smooth, with myriad, mysterious flying fish soaring, veering, and skipping over our wake like so many waverunners. 

Speaking of, two rambunctious waverunners DID soon find us, and join the flying fish in riding the waves.  The world being a small place, they occasionally rode right up to the deck and had conversations with friends on board.  They all but passed along beers. 

The emerald, craggy west coast of Grenada provided entertainment.  And by the time the sun was setting, we pulled into the handsome port of St. George’s. 

Taxis fought over us, almost literally, and the one who won was yelling, “STOOPID!  STOOPID!” to the loser (who was yelling more and shouting much naughtier phrases) until we drove out of sight.  (He kept his language G-rated on account of our children.)  As usual, this driver sold us nonstop on his island tour while repeatedly pushing biz cards into my palm. 

Then we checked into our little resort, a lovely and refreshingly sleepy place.  Land felt good, but that wavy sensation took hours to subside. 

After a day like that, the buzz wears off slowly.  So unpacking clothes and gear and taking an enthusiastic swim in the cool saltwater infinity pool were good ways to wind down.  Overpriced Sauvignon Blanc was room-serviced to our villa.  The restaurant took its sweet, “LOW” Island Time to feed us supper.  And we toasted our adventurous day. 

We did it.  We’re drained, but still in one piece. 

Grenada looks grand.  And we have about 27 days to make ourselves at home. 

After 18 dreamy days, it’s time to depart this Paradise. Happily, the BreakAway is not over; we set sail for Grenada at 7 am. But like most packing days, this one brings waves of emotion that crash loudly like the Friendship Bay surf outside our door. It’s doubtful we’ll be back. And these precious days with the kids float away so fast. 

But today the overriding undercurrent is gratitude.  To the fates that brought us here, the Caribbeans who keep it real, and the experiences that lived up to my oft-unrealistic visions.  Bequia has been so generous with both rich encounters and easy living.  She’s blessed us with a long list of experiences to be thankful for…

• Kindness and generosity.  It would take pages to tell the tales of the beaming Caribbeans who would go out of their way to make sure you don’t worry, are happy.  (Example?  As I write this, cabdriver Kenny just stopped by to drop off a beach mat we forgot in his car.) Many here have an inner bliss that shines like the sun.  It’s a heartwarming thing. 
• Tradition.  Culture and lore thrives here, in many ways. Music, whether live, radio, or spontaneous.  On the seas:  Fishing, sailing, boat building, and even mini-boat building. Arts and crafts, from carving to painting to calabash bowls.  Even whaling happens, and you get the sense that the community anticipates that pageantry like Americans get all stoked for the Super Bowl. 
• Purity.  It’s the name on one of the dollar busses.  And it’s all around.  The locals still rule.  Roads are few and far between.  Houses only dot some hillsides.  And nature—as in greenery, fishing stock, sparse beaches, cool breezes, and odd critters—surrounds you.  And holds you.  And inspires you.  Skin color is rarely pure here; it comes in countless colors, which makes the people pure too.  Here, race rarely matters. 
• Safety.  Unlike many islands, this one has some money.  Not much poverty or too many people.  And plenty of pride.  So ramshackle shanties, abandoned cars, and derelicts (both boats and folks) are uncommon.  That makes adventuring much more pleasant—especially with kids.  Getting a laid-back groove on need not make you an easy target. 
• Media drought.  When scheming this trip, I sincerely proposed the family go somewhere remote and try a virtually media-free Sabbatical.  That plan fell flat.  Yet Bequia comes close.  Most homes don’t do TV, magazines, newspapers, or computers.  Teens don’t shut the world out with ear-buds.  Few folks are seen fondling their personal digitalia.  Heck, the best chef on the island bragged about being in Bon Appetit in 2005 and how it still brings in guests because it’s online.   “But I never see it,” he chuckles, “I have no computer.”  Another day, one Rasta guy was intrigued with my Nikon, asked questions, and then said, “Take my picture.”  He seemed spellbound as he stared at himself on the small, digital screen.  Why such media scarcity?  Many can’t afford it, most likely.  But you also get the sense that they’d rather engage in live entertainment.  They prefer to BE HERE NOW. 
• Street talk.  It’s like island smoke!  There are cell phones here now.  But most word travels by mouth, and possibly faster than phones.  So if you’ve business to conduct, your odds for success go way up if you show up.  Go downtown and it appears that some folks are involved with five conversations at once—as cars and acquaintances pass by. 
• Car talk.  You can tell how two people get along by how they react when meeting in their cars (which can happen a dozen times a day for some).  In descending order of affection:  Stop and chat (right in the road); Honk and wave; Honk OR wave; Nod; Ignore; Honk long and frown and furrow brows; Get in way or brush by close and fast; refuse to move if on tight road; roll up your dark-tinted window when you pass by. 
• Street preaching.  We’re not in stoic, passive-aggressive Minnesota anymore.  At least once a day, I’d see somebody just standing on a corner (or in a bar or ???) yelling, preaching, ranting.  It’s creepy at first, but then downright refreshing.  Let it go! 
• Living in the open.  Doors and windows?  Plenty, but typically sans screens. So you can see inside houses.  And what do you see?  Someone looking back at you!  Life is open here.  People sit around on porches, palms, curbs, and benches—and watch the world go by. 
• Bar ubiquity.  Little bars are hidden all over the place—sometimes called “step-up” or “step-down” bars.  Most folks who congregate there drink nothing, yet these neighborhood hangouts are often busy, even when they’re closed. 
• Vendor mania.  You can buy fruits, vegetables, jewelry, art, and carved boats just about anywhere people gather.  Rental chairs, kayaks, and other essentials also abound.  Some things, like fresh fish, require much more work to score, but you surely can—and anyone you ask will want to help.  The best part?  Never once did a seller harass or get pushy. 
• Clandestine vendors.  It helps to know the language and have open ears.  But among other things, I was quietly offered (when dude saw my big camera) to be taken to a visiting celebrity,

“Hey, Paparazzi, I can’t say who tis, but I kin take you to da superstar on de iulunn—just give me half of what you make.” 

• One had wine, “Good red, good white; check it—you look like wine-drinking man.”  One just smiled, caressed his dreads, and asked, “Hybrid?”  “No thanks,” I replied, “I need no alternative transpo on this island.” 
• Coldness and stinkeye.  Sometimes service was slow, locals were ornery, and a few were just plain belligerent.  But I’m grateful because it reminds me no place is perfect—and there was more bark than bite.  This is their home, after all, and I’m just another passing thrill-seeker. 
• Scolding and shaming.  This can be that kind of culture, for sure.  And often, it’s not pretty.  But much of it is in fun.  Some of it is earnest and enlightening.  And pretty soon, you learn to hold your own or, if need be, just take the medicine and forget about it.  Heck, maybe we could use more directness in our sometimes happy-slacky culture back home. 
• Music.  So sweet.  So omnipresent.  In the states, wherever you go, you hear the same damn songs over and over again.  Here, I’d never heard the vast majority of stuff.  They like it local, like it real:  Bob Marley, reggae, toasting, soca, steel-pan, early country, and intoxicating island riddims in as many colors as the Caribbean sea all around us. 
• Eatery fare.  It can be redundant, but it’s typically healthy and good.  We’re talkin’:  BBQ, grilled fish, soups (calaloo!), rice, beans, simple vegetables, small salads, roti (curry roll-ups), and of course, wings and fries. 
• The local diet.  Hang out where people buy food, and see that most people instinctively eat well.   Few are schlepping packaged goods home.  No wonder most folks are svelte and muscular.  And as for cigarettes?  The rare trail of smoke usually leads to vacationing youth, Yachties, or Euro-party-monsters. 
• Fresh, fresh, fresh.  Fresh food is abundant, brought over from verdant St. Vincent.  People don’t walk around sucking a Gatorade; they walk around munching messy mangos, plumrose, and passion fruit.  In a small store one day, four people were enthusiastically eating something I’d never seen.  I had to ask, “Whassat?  Looks good.  Want my children to try dat!”  They replied, “Golden apple.  Just in season now.  Take dese last 2 home and share.  They refused my money.  (And yes, they were yummy.) 
• The dialect.  English?  Me tink no.  On St. John, USVI, I can understand about half of the nativespeak—or they’ll meet me halfway.  Here, not so much.  This patois still runs thicker than nutmeg jam.  And they’ve had less exposure to “culture” like movies and TV.  What’s more, there are many generations of Scottish influence here; they speak with a Scot brogue atop the patois.  Misunderstandings happened.  And on some occasions, communication was reduced to gestures and pointing.
• Freedom.  Here, it’s not a military rationale, bumper sticker, or baseball anthem.  It’s just free.  Police show up rarely, and aren’t carrying much attitude or heat.  Traffic signs resemble rusty art.  Cars park anywhere.  People wander, smoke, eat, fish, swim, drink, and gather as they wish.  And if a party goes late and loud, so what?  Common sense rules, yet rules are rarely posted.  As the leader of this April’s whale hunt proudly told me,

“This is one of the last places on earth were you can not only feel free, be you can live free.  If only for that, I hope you come back.” 

I hope so too. 

Thanks, Mister Whaler.  And thanks, little Bequia.

(to see the complete collection of my photos from Bequia click here)

When you gotta get to town, you need Faith.

Story goes that just about anyone can enter this line of work, decide their own route (there are only a few), and make up their own hours. Most driver-owners customize their vehicle’s interior with an assortment of lights, signs, accessories and sparkly upholstery. They also determine their own bus nickname, of course, which offers a glimpse into the driver’s personality or view of the world.  

Here are a few of the buses plying the rutted streets of Bequia these days…

 What if someone needs to get out and we’re all in the way?  What else?  We all climb out, the helper handles the fold-up seats (in the aisle), we maybe bid “good evening” to the departing, and then shimmy back in again.  Always in the middle of the street; there are no official stops. 

When I asked, “Wha he yellin’ about?”  The driver replied, “Oh, he just need more sex.”  Everyone laughed.  So I retorted, “I don’t tink dat be any way to get it!”  And everyone laughed harder. 

They’re a driving risk, to say the least. But even worse, they’re noisy. One recent, early morning, a nearby sheep was having a ba-a-a-a-a-a-d dream.  He would NOT shut up.  It wasn’t til the sun came up that I could see him—tied up in the yard next door.  No way did the shepherd own that property. But who cares?  It’s free sheep chow. 

Please keep your goats out of my gardens; they’re eating my flowers,”

So why all the fuss over grow-your-own meat?  It’s cheap, for starters.  After all, every time one has a baby, you can slaughter the parent and still break even.  But mostly, they just love their mutton.  It’s a delicacy around here.

Barack Obama became president of the USA, and the whole world, and Bequia today. There was a Big Party of Americans at a fancy new beach bar with a Big TV, but we missed it (long story). Instead, we ended up in a few neighborhood spots with small TVs, and smaller, but no less enthusiastic crowds. Here are just a few memories…

• In the bookstore, where there are maybe 3 American magazines (most likely dated November), Obama was on virtually every cover.
• On the streets, spontaneous cheering was erupting wherever people gather.
• In the Sailor’s Bar, the owner’s daughter came home from school and watched with wide-eyed curiosity.

• In Coco’s Place, a handful of salty Yachties were mostly speechless, but leapt often to their feet, wiped many a tear, and became instant soul-mates.

Thanks to Jesper (breakaway kid) for this great photo.)

• Coco himself seemed emotionally entranced by the event.

• An elderly couple, probably expats, sauntered down the street grinning. She held a big bunch of red, white & blue balloons.
• A young, dressed-up native woman stood on a corner yelling about “Obama!”. When we stopped near her, she stuck her head in our car, said “Where you from?” And gave us big love.
• “Obama” was the one word clearly heard all day long and the morning after, no matter how unrecognizable the patios or how thick the Creole.

The future is upon us. The hard work has begun. I’m far away from my homeland, but proud to be an American.

Insects and infections. Noisy nights and strange neighbors. Hyper dogs and bored offspring who don’t yet understand “Island Time.”  Not nasty enough? Okay:  Rude dude choking his chicken in the bushes below our balcony; hostile neighbor kid piling dry plywood on my blazing BBQ grill. There are worse stories, but let’s keep this PG-13. 

Somebody asked me if a Sabbatical like this brings constant Paradise–or is the BreakAway road pocked with potholes?  Of course there are plenty.  And while complaining rarely helps, here—by request—is a short, requisite rant about…

11 Predictable Problems in Paradise

• Surfing the interNOT.  We chose our places to stay based on purported internet access.  But so far, all 3 destinations have had disappointing, if not maddening, connectivity.  Makes this project (and communication in general) a major head-banging challenge.
• Feeding the bugs.  At times, my children appear to have chicken pox.  And nights are often punctuated with slaps and curses and rabid scratching. But it’s just the mosquitoes, no-see-ums (sand fleas), and more.  Even free-basing deet doesn’t help. 
• Feeling faraway.  I rarely mind not “being there.”  But helplessness drifts in like stormy seas when a close family member is in surgery, the house is exploding with its second messy plumbing disaster, and imperfections persist that Paradise can’t fix. 
• Going without.  Living with less is part of the Mission—and good for the kids.  But frustration quickly elevates when one is unable to get essentials like a guitar pick or sandals.  2 deliveries of necessities to St. John didn’t make it before we left.  And one can waste hours “in search of” on islands. 
• Ride the rip-offs.  The St. John gas attendant, for example, will fill your Jeep to $23 and not have $2 when you give him $25.  Or the dollar bus driver will take your money twice (she paid the fare; he didn’t see/know it so paid the  man again).  Encounters like this happen on a daily basis.  Make it a game (and carry small bills). Or simply say, “Happy New Year!” and consider yourself the richer.  
• Pre-negotiate most everything.  It took some “hold-ups” by porters, taxis, and vegetable vendors to remind me of this mantra.  First ask, “What’s this cost?”  And when a restaurant hands you a menu without prices, ask for another or just leave. 
• Paying the price.  These islands are expensive, naturally.  But they’ve proven to be manyfold worse than expected—200%+++ markup on everything.  Our travel budget included hefty per diems that have been, to paraphrase President Bush, woefully misunderestimated. 
• Doing island time.  The Slow Movement is cool, but getting blown off is a bummer.  In a recent 12-hour period, a playdate didn’t show.  A fishing guide didn’t show.  And neither did the caretaker/cleaner.  As a part-time adult, I can accept it.  But the kids were genuinely hurt. 
• Managing eating disorders.  I’ve become a grocery sherpa for the kids.  Restaurants serve warm wine and cold meals.  Buffets become an inebriated feeding frenzy.  A simple “club sandwich” arrives as something unrecognizable.  OMG:  I miss my kitchen?
• Being held hostage.  Transit brings risks.  Some movers view customers as sub-human cargo.  At one airport, they took our water at security and then put us in a balmy waiting area for a few hours.  There was no snack shop, no vending machine, and no drinking fountain.  Thirsty?  Tough. 
• Bad (or rude) service.  Disinterest in tourists is a science in some places.  But so can be rudeness (especially on the American islands), where macho machine-gun banter can be the cover charge for getting attention.  When my Jeep broke down in the middle of the road, right by a service station, getting “help” from the attendant (!) went like this.  

ME:  So sorry, but you want help me move dis broke Jeep outa da way?  

HIM:  (long pause)…Don’t want to.  

ME:  Ha!  Okay.  You just take da wheel and I poosh.  

HIM:  You not strong enough to poosh!  

ME:  Yassuh!  Assa good one!  Allright allright:  I just leave Jeep hee-ya; not my sah-vees station; I doan give a sh*#!  

HIM:  No no no—can’t do dat.  (pause, stare)  You tryin’ put me to work!  

ME:  Yah well, I can see you very bizzee in dat dere chair.  

HIM:  And I can see you ain’t go noplace wid dat brokedown Jeep.  

ME:  Okay.  Dat sound real good den.  How ‘bout I just sit right hee-yah wid you all day den.  

HIM:  (stands up abruptly, but we’re both smirking by now)…Put dat ugly ting in neutral me-son; I show you how to poosh a Jeep.  

ME:  And I owe you a cold beer, me-frenn. 

But who ever said travel was easy?  Or settling into a new place with strange food, currency, customs, and characters?  Gosh, if it were easy and cheap and risk-free, people would be doing it all the time.  Money aside, I’m reminded often why a guy can only tap the moxie to do this every seven years or so. 

And while I’m happy to rant, may I also state that—as is true anywhere, people are mostly kind and honest, and will go out of their way to help a stranger.  That’s even more true on islands like these, because it has to be. 

No, Paradise isn’t perfect.  But it can come pretty close—with enough patience, persistence, and (to quote the Rastas), positivity. 

And suddenly, you’re feeling like a local…

“Bequia is like St. John was about 40 years ago,” sailors and Caribbeanheads told me.  Upon first impression, I’m thinking they should have said 55.  Or more.  But our ferry pulled up, and we disembarked, aiming to find out.