Yesterday we were motoring out of the crowded anchorage of Soper’s Hole, Tortola. The Christmas winds were at work, shooting arcing blasts past boats, knocking them every which way. Carefully we picked our way through, taking care not to get hit by a skating sloop or a dancing catamaran. The boats were packed tight; some we passed with only feet to spare. Just as we were nearing the last few rows and open water we heard a loud shriek. “Aaaaaaaaa!“ Alarmed, our heads spun around, looking for the source, fearful of what we would find. The old nagging question, “WHAT NEXT?” filled our heads.

When our eyes met eight waving arms and four friendly, excited faces on a nearby boat, we knew what it was…NEIGHBORS! Not the kind we make in the Caribbean for a few days or weeks. These were the real deal from our home, so very far away, the town of Gig Harbor in Washington State. It was the Bujacich family, down for a week of tropical sun and sailing.




We knew they’d been in the area but we hadn't met up because we spent Christmas in the US Virgins and they'd been in the British islands. We were on our first day of a BVI cruise; they were on their last. Our paths crossed for all of a few minutes in an archipelago that holds dozens of islands, each dotted with an abundance of places to drop an anchor. The chance of us randomly finding each other was like locating a snowball in a blizzard or your lost child at the mall.

This SMALL WORLD phenomenon happens to us now and again. Last spring we dropped anchor off Virgin Gorda’s Baths after a sixty hour sail from Antigua. We were deep asleep until we heard a dinghy motoring nearby and a voice saying, “Gig Harbor? Gig Harbor?! That boat is from Gig Harbor!” Then louder, “HEY! GIG HARBOR!”

I jumped up and the minute I looked into the dinghy, the voice and I both screamed, “Aaaaaaaaa!” It was Sylvia, our former next door neighbor. She was down from Gig Harbor with her husband and friends for a week of sun, sailing, rum and lobster. Back home, Sylvia and Bruce had been members of the Bus-Moms-Club that walked our kids to and from the bus-stop. But that day, we were in one Caribbean spot at the same time, for all of a few minutes, but somehow we found each other.

Each SMALL WORLD encounter is astounding but the most amazing one happened years ago in St. Marten when we were anchored off uninhabited Green Key. Bruce and our young son were alone on the beach when a dinghy motored up. One of the three occupants pointed to Woodwind and asked Bruce, “Is that your boat? Where’re you from?” It turned out that she was the sister of our close friend from Gig Harbor. She was visiting St. Marten for one day on a cruise ship. To get to Green Key she had taken a long bus ride, walked down a long beach and hired the small boat. Phenomenon;miracle; act of God; fate; call it what you will but please, let it happen to us again…and soon.!

As if by magic, the Caribbean Christmas winds arrived along with Santa. His sleigh and reindeer were replaced by a baby blue, open-air Dune Buggy. Here on the island of St. John, in the US Virgin Islands, we thought he would come to visit with a cart of presents pulled by a pair of scruffy donkeys.





But Santa is a modern guy. He was so happy, we wondered if he had air-conditioning inside that suit.

...and to all a good night.

Christmases past in the states were always a wild slip and slide through endless seasonal tasks and each year, I secretly wished for a simpler celebration. I should have remembered the sage advice a friend gave me, “Be careful what you wish for,” because a few weeks ago, as Christmas present began to take shape, I found myself yearning for those crazy old times.

In our anchorage off the BVI’s tiny Jost Van Dyke, I merrily listened to Christmas tunes from a St. Croix radio station. I unfolded and decorated our nine inch boat tree. Our stockings, that list all the places we’ve spent Christmas for the past twenty years, were hung on a bulkhead with care. A dinghy darted past with Santa in it (but it turned out the fellow with the red hat was wearing the wrong kind of suit.)

On shore, little to nothing gave any indication that the holiday was upon us. No trees, no lights, no crowds of shoppers. No place to buy wrapping paper or a roll of ribbon. I even walked down to Corsairs Restaurant in search of the Pirate Santa I’d seen there last year only to find the place closed. Either we were in Scroogeville or the Grinch had been there first.

Then I saw the sign announcing the annual Christmas concert featuring the school children of Jost Van Dyke. The date, December 7th; the venue, the upstairs veranda of Foxy’s Tamarind Bar. Donations welcome; holiday food and refreshments during intermission. I gleefully rowed back to the boat and saved the date.

The day of the concert I arrived early as the children drifted in wearing starched white shirts, black pants or skirts and red ties or bow ties.


I took my seat next to proud parents who, like me, held cameras in their hands. A keyboard player warmed up;, a couple of men fiddled with lights as microphones were tested and adjusted. Finally, “We Wish You a Merry Christmas,” filled the air as the kids came singing, smiling, one-by-one up the stairs.






The program, 20 performances long, was a wonderful tribute to the true meaning of Christmas. Through songs, speeches, acting and reading, they spread the word of love and peace. If there was a dry eye in the audience, it certainly wasn’t mine. As a teacher and a parent I’ve been to dozens of Christmas programs but never did one touch me so well. Maybe it was the look in the eyes of children who have so little but appreciate so much; maybe it was the crazy state of our world or perhaps the hope we all cling to. Maybe it was Christmas.



Whatever it was, I hope it finds you this year and in all your Christmases future.

Jan

His name is Mario but everyone refers to him by the product he sells; hot dogs.

“Hey, Hot Dog Man,” a voice calls from a passing car. Wha’s up, mon?”

Hot Dog Man grins and without looking up from his work replies, “Yah, mon, is good, tanks!” Beside him, two green tourist benches fill with a never ending crowd of friends and customers, everyone happily knocking back a drink and a dog.

Mario has been in the same spot on Frontstreet in St. Marten’s Dutch town of Phillipsburg for at least seven years, his mobile cart wedged in a narrow alleyway between two storefronts. His neighbors are an endless string of jewelry shops, touristy t-shirt traps and a few real restaurants squeezed randomly into the mix. He started there selling woven palm frond hats he made on the
spot and although it was lucrative, supply and demand was tough.

Hot Dog Man has many friends. They collect around the cart sipping the $1 special, Heinekin Pilsners, talking politics and taking in the parade of passersby from the cruise ships who move up and down the street like an army of ants. Most of them are busy shoppers and stop only for a cold one to fend off the oppressive heat. But sometimes husbands send their wives on, grateful for a seat, a cold beer and a shopping reprieve.

Mario’s friendly demeanor holds up through all the crazy questions he’s asked every day; “Where’s the McDonalds?” “Excuse me, where’s the bathrooms?” “How do I get back to the ship?” He points and directs, explains and jokes. Pride for his island inspires his ambassadorial answers.

We discovered Hot Dog man last year while running between the grocery store and the dinghy, carting as much as we could carry. Our twenty-something son was with us and who’s to say if it was the Hot Dog sign or the $1 beer that caught our attention but for a few days, we were among Mario’s best customers. On our first visit he loaded up our lunch with the usual; mustard, mayo, relish, and sauerkraut before looking us each in the eye, asking, “Hot sauce?”

“Well, yeah. A little, please,” I said.

And when it was Kess’ turn, he added, “Mon, you wan lotta sauce, right?”

“Sure,” said Kess. “Hot sauce.” Mario handed the dog to Kess and knowingly watched him take the bite that would spark a forest fire in his mouth. “Man,” Kess gulped, “That’s HOT!” Mario smiled and handed him the fire-extinguisher, an ice cold Heinekin.

We dropped by that cart every chance we could, not because of the menu but to watch his face light up; to catch a handshake and the half hug he handed out.

There’s a lot to keep visitors busy on Front Street, for sure, but if a taste of this island is what you’re after, (and I don’t mean hot dogs,) be sure to take time for a cold one with the friendliest face in town.


posted by Jan

Our hometown in the states instituted a sign code requiring all placards, banners and business markers to follow a set of restrictive rules. In short, everything is marked with words sans character or art; rather bland and boring.

But not so in the Caribbean where pretty much every sign comes to life by a hand holding a paint brush or a very magical marker. Some are created with a sense of urgency like the hand scrawled security sign in Tortola declaring, “BAD BOYS KEEP AWAY.” If bad boys read, I wonder if they actually follow directions? Carved into a century plant in Anguilla at the edge of private property was the message, “NO TREES PASSING,” so we didn’t. I always give a wide berth to a sign in Antigua that reads, "THIS PLACE MIGHT NOT BURGLAR-PROOF, BUT YOU ARE NOT BULLET PROOF" and I heed the warning from another one beside it stating, "IF YOU HAVE NOTHING TO DO- PLEASE-DON’T DO IT HERE." No, sir-ee and, "MEN-DO NOT SIT ON DIS COOLER."

Most island signs sprout up when West Indians decide to make a business. Tacked to a building, a post, tree or displayed sandwich board style, your wants and needs are spelled out in detail like the one for Clippers Barber Shop where you can get a jerry curl, if you happen to know what it is. In Jost Van Dyke, Rudy’s Rendezvous Grocery lists everything imaginable on their sign but I can guarantee that you won’t find much of it in the store except for the "MAKERS HANGOVERS! CURES!"

Hand painted and drawn menu boards abound on every island displaying the day’s catch, house specialty, drink concoctions or something like Ducana that you’ve always wanted to try.




My favorite menu-boards are cut out in the shape of a fish, a bunch of bananas, queen conch or other easily identifiable form. Clever restaurateurs add graphics and color, clever sayings, eye-catching adornments.

The Pine Apple Inn at White Bay in Jost Van Dyke dared the elements of sand and sea by painstakingly making their road sign from old bottle caps.

I love a corner collection of artisan signs, clustered together at a highly visible spot like a bunch of teenagers. These over stimulating groupings, like the one in
Coral Bay, St. John, probably bring about as many accidents as business but they sure look great..

There are some West Indian signs that no matter how you twist them, just do not make sense. "YOU DIRTY RAS BISKIT," crookedly staked in a yard, mystified us for years and it took a while this year to puzzle out, "NO TRUSS- NO FUSS- NO BUSS."


For certain, the most famous of all Caribbean signs is the "MISTER CREDIT IS DEAD" or one of it’s many knockoffs. If you don’t like Mr. Credit "YOU CAN GO TO HELEN WAIT," or so the sign says!
Jan