The few days we had in St. Marten before our son’s arrival gave me time to scout out places and activities that would make his two-week break from college memorable. All of our previous visits to the island had been purpose driven: provisioning, marketing Bruce’s art, purchasing boat gear or waiting out foul weather. Never before had we viewed the island with tourist eyes, and doing so was a mind-opening experience. My mental list of not-to-miss experiences grew to include touching base on the best of the 37 stunning beaches and eating at our favorite barbeque spot, but at the top was a visit to the Sunset Beach Bar. The description of it in the glossy Destination St. Marten magazine begins with, “Superlatives are inadequate to describe the the islands unique must-see, must-do bar for vacationers looking for the hottest place to party.” Well, I thought, that ought to do it.


The bar clings to a coral outcropping, sandwiched between a sugar-sand beach and one end of the runway for the Princess Juliana International Airport. A tight two-lane road divides the two worlds, lined with high curbs, chainlink fencing and some head-scratching warning signs. Anyone who visits for the first time has to wonder which government office sanctioned the permits that allow a tourist hot-spot to crouch just feet from the end of a busy airport.

The day Kess was to arrive, we excitedly picked up a rental car and set out to fill the hours until his plane landed. Since the Sunset Bar is practically IN the airport and my curiosity was a-glow, it was our first stop. A heavy squall had just dropped a sky full of water, leaving the thin road awash and sending customers to seek shelter. We parked and ambled toward the bar, stopping every few feet to check out the overly decorated, loudly embellished, eclectic structure. Green Heinekin umbrellas perched over wooden tables that spilled away from a tin-roofed, open bar. Signs and T-shirts, license plates and paraphernalia hung everywhere.

A few small planes appeared from the clouds, shooting toward the runway, buzzing like mosquitoes as they landed. Speakers beside the bar blared -- not music, but voices transmitted from the control tower and cockpits as the crafts were guided in. We grabbed cold drinks from the bar and ambled further down the short piece of beach. The warning signs posted all along the road and fence show a hieroglyphic-looking person who appears to be water-skiing behind the plane. In big letters they warn: Jet blast of departing and arriving aircraft can cause severe physical harm resulting in extreme bodily harm/or death. Death?!

Just then, people started running toward us from the bookend bars on the beach. Startled, we looked up to see a BIG plane in the sky growing ever larger and headed right at us. We stood our ground holding our breath as a 747 jetliner passed over us less than 75 feet from our heads. As the plane cleared the fence and tires met the tarmac, everyone on the beach was hit by a thick gust of hot fueled wind. All around us people were jumping up and down, waving and yelling as if they personally had helped set the plane on the ground. The warning signs finally made some sense but considering that no one was even blown away, they seemed to be a bit of overkill.


At 4:10, a full-size jet bearing our son came in for a dramatic, crowd-pleasing landing. As everyone hopped around applauding, we ran to the car for a one-mile drive to the terminal. Once there and inside, we took turns parading around with a “chauffeur sign” that read, “Kess Smith, Yacht Woodwind.” After an hour of waiting we started to wonder if everyone was off the plane. When the second hour passed, we figured they had. Kess, who had been detained by immigration because he didn’t know where our boat was anchored, finally appeared from the obscured security area. His luggage was still on vacation in New York but he was with us, ready to have some fun.

The next day we toured the island in a counter-clockwise route. By late afternoon, in the heat of the day, we were back to the airport and the Sunset Beach Bar. Elated vacationers, escapees from snow and ice, soaked up the sun. The crowd stretched from the Sunset side of the beach to the grand Maho Resort, some filling the race boat beach bar called “Miss St. Marten.” Like eager dance partners, each plane appeared as a speck in the sky, pulling people to their feet and causing them to run, jump and gyrate.

A giant blue Corsairfly.com plane rumbled away from the terminal and began to inch its way toward us. The crowd thickened in the middle of the beach and along the road, the bravest touching the fence. The plane halted, apparently waiting permission to continue, giving the fence-sitters time to build camaraderie and courage. Among them, to my dismay, were Bruce and Kess. Smartly, or so I thought, I stepped away from the road, down onto the beach.


The plane rumbled along until it sat, rear end to the crowd, ready for take-off, its four exhaust nozzles screaming at the people. The deafening noise came first, then the furnace of high-speed heat as BIG BLUE began to move away. The people on the fence, their clothes flying behind them, clung to links for dear life. Just as I poised my camera to record their foolishness, the force hit me and with it came the top layer of sand from the beach before me. I attempted to flee the needle piercing pain but was shot down the beach toward the crashing surf. Just as I was about to get very wet, the desert like maelstrom disintegrated. Gone. I looked up to see the fence warriors high-fiving each other with giant grins, new members of a secret fraternity. Dazed, I checked to see if the camera was in my hand before hunting for the sandals that were no longer on my feet.

The Sunset Beach Bar had more to offer: crab races on the beach; surfside BBQ; three giant screens; live reggae and steel drum music … every day! But we had luggage to claim, a bridge to beat and sand to shake. As we drove away I looked at the warning signs and counted my lucky stars. I counted them again when I saw a different sign beside the bar that read, WARNING…IF YOU COME SEE THE SUNSET, YOU MAY NOT SEE THE SUN RISE.

Jan